The rest of the story remained the same throughout the kingdoms. Masons and architects worked side by side to build a tomb to contain the Awaleen. Chemists from Lukub perfected a draught to put the Awaleen to sleep, so the centuries might pass them in ease. The four kingdoms, determined to learn from the mistakes of their predecessors, appointed a man to create an independent army to balance the power of the kingdoms. This new kingdom would be known as Nizahl, and they would serve as arbiters for the conflicts between the four other kingdoms.
“The Awaleen were buried beneath Sirauk. Mama called it the Boundless Bridge, but my father said it was the Death Crossing, a bridge shrouded in so much mist and shadow that none who began the crossing ever finished.”
“My mother—” I stopped. Fairel waited, features open and innocently curious. I hadn’t spoken about my mother with anyone but Soraya. Whereas my grandparents had flinched at the mention of Niphran, my attendant had taken me to see my mother in Bakir Tower once a week. I believed she feared I would one day start to think of my mother the way the rest of our kingdom did. The Mad Heir of Jasad. The Wailing Widow. A tragedy to be tossed in a tower and forgotten. “My mother told me hundreds of people came to cross the bridge shortly after the entombment, thinking they could whisper their wants and secrets to the sleeping Awaleen. The bridge is so long, it took weeks before anyone realized none of them finished the crossing.” Their bodies simply vanished, devoured by the mist shrouding Sirauk.
Fairel shuddered. “How terrible. Then why do we celebrate the Awaleen with the Alcalah?”
Because it is the nature of humanity to celebrate the things that want to kill them.
We resumed our walk. I guided us off the main road, onto the street hosting Daron’s tavern and the visitors’ tents. I would never bring Fairel down this road under normal circumstances, but the Nizahl patrol would be eager to prove themselves to their Commander, and there was no glory in harassing drunkards leaving the tavern.
“The tournament is a remembrance. We thank the Awaleen for their sacrifice and honor them by sending our most worthy Champions to compete in the Alcalah.”
Fairel slapped a mosquito from her ear. She peered up at me. “Do you think I might become Champion someday?”
I skidded to a halt, gaping at her. “Most of the Champions die, Fairel.”
“They die brave. It is a worthy sacrifice,” she said. “Just like the Awaleen.”
I thought of the watch guard frog in my bucket and knelt to Fairel’s eye level. “There is no such thing as a worthy sacrifice. There are only those who die, and those willing to let them.”
The next morning, I went straight to Nadia’s duqan for extra chairs. I had forgotten to reserve two chairs for tomorrow, meaning Rory might find himself standing behind his booth for the entirety of the waleema.
Three women strode past me, massive clay pots balanced on their heads as they walked from door to door, freeing their hands to carry bundles of sweet-smelling mint. Shop owners swept the dust off their front steps and knocked spiders from their waterlogged awnings. The butcher’s sons knelt on the ground with a soapy bucket, scrubbing the bloodstains and shooing away the dogs. A group of children half the size of the knives they were wielding sliced the peels off chopped-up sugar cane stalks. No one’s gaze lingered on the bakery’s stone oven, cold from days of disuse.
Adel’s half-Jasadi children, who had never even visited Jasad, had evaded capture. In a day or two, the stone oven would probably light beneath the hands of a new owner. Adel and his family would become another shocking Jasadi story, more evidence of the lower villages’ lack of vigilance.
I spat the shell of a melon seed like it had done me a great personal offense and rolled my sleeves over my cuffs.
The bell over Nadia’s shop jangled. “Sylvia!” Fairel greeted. She scurried to fetch her mistress.
“We take care of our own before any of those donkeys from Gahre,” Nadia said as Fairel carried out two chairs. She refused to let me pay her, a frustrating sort of reverse-haggling the elders of Omal too often engaged in. Accepting her generosity without argument would also be grounds for offense, so I did not leave until I had persuaded her to come into Rory’s shop for three free bottles of ointment for her knees.
Fairel helped me carry the chairs. “Is it true, Sylvia? Have you met the Nizahl Heir? The Commander?”
I groaned. It had been less than five hours since I saw Fairel. Had news traveled so quickly? “Fay.”
She bit her lip. “Forgive me, I should hold my tongue, but it’s all so exciting, isn’t it? An Heir in our village, searching for his Champion! The girls say he’s odd-looking. Handsome, though. Very handsome. Have you ever seen hair colored so strangely? Like moonlight. What do you think?”
“I think you’re never too old for a spanking.” We rounded the corner, coming into view of the shop.
Fairel’s chair fell from her suddenly limp grip, hitting my foot. I cried out, hopping to the side. “Fairel! What has gotten into you?”
I followed the source of the girl’s stupefaction. Standing at the door of his shop, Rory held himself stiffly near the Nizahl Heir and his guard. The three men in the rear appeared to be suppressing smirks, which explained why Fairel was blanching. Her words had carried.
She dropped to her knees, shaking like an autumn leaf. The sight brought a sour taste to my mouth. “My lord, I didn’t intend any disrespect. Silly gossip—you’re very pleasing to behold, truly—they just meant your hair was odd. And your face is just lovely, honest, the best I’ve ever seen. Silver is an unusual color for Omal, you see—”
A lightness of spirit had not visited Vaun since we last met. He scowled at the girl. I scooted in front of her, matching his glare with my own.
“Your Highness. I see you have chosen to continue honoring our humble village with your company.”
“It is I who have the honor,” Arin said. To Fairel, he nodded. “You may rise.”
Fairel nearly toppled on the length of her skirt. I steadied her elbow, squeezing tight lest she find inspiration to dive for further prostrations. At the Commander’s steady gaze, she folded close to my side. My muscles clenched, resisting the urge to fling her off.
“Silver is an unusual color for any kingdom,” he said. “Thank you.”
When I could bear it no longer, I peeled Fairel off my person. “Go. Nadia is waiting for you.”
Fairel set off at a run. The Heir and I regarded each other. His hair was tied back at the nape, not a single lock astray. His soldiers had made no effort to blend into the populace, laced in the dark hues and overcoats of Nizahl. The street was unusually still. Despite their curiosity, the residents of Mahair possessed a healthy sense of caution. They pressed inside their shops and windows, climbing atop one another for a glimpse of the Heir and his guard.
“Mahair will certainly lack in excitement when you depart, my liege,” I said, gesturing at the windows. “Whenever that sad occasion may be.”
The Commander glanced at the shops, causing a scramble as people ducked away from the windows. “Then it is fortunate I intend to remain in Mahair until the end of the waleema.”