This time, when the Commander moved toward me, it was a strike of lightning. He spun me around, pinning my arms behind my back.
“Is that a promise?” His voice was the whisper of a practiced sword leaving its sheath, soft and deadly. “Tell me, Sylvia of Mahair, how does a ‘nobody in Jasad’ learn to read Nizahl’s old tongue?”
What?
He jerked my arms, pointing me toward the scroll pinned to the table. First Decrees of Arin of Nizahl, Commander in Power and Heir. Horror washed over me in thick waves.
The entire decree was written in a language Nizahl had not spoken in two hundred years.
I had been so distracted by the maps, I had forgotten to pretend I couldn’t understand it.
“The Citadel records all new decrees in Nizahl’s original tongue. I suppose they taught you a dead language in Ganub il Kul,” he murmured in my ear. His sardonic chuckle sent chills running along my spine.
Arin released my arms. “If you have any ambitions in the art of deceit, I suggest you plan more carefully. There are few things more disappointing than a careless crook.”
The dismissal was unmistakable. I had used a lifetime’s allotment of carelessness already, and I would not spend any more by ignoring him. I fled from the room, pausing at the door. I glanced once more at the Commander. I emblazoned him as he was in that moment, standing over the map of the world. Its towering conqueror.
If Jasadi bones could speak, they’d warn Arin of Nizahl that nothing stays untouchable forever.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It took hurling a heavy bowl at Vaun’s oversize head during supper for Arin to allow the guards to take me to the surface.
“Clear your head,” he ordered from the top of his horse. He was going on yet another trip. Vaun and Ren mounted their horses. “We do not have the luxury of soothing your every tantrum.”
I managed not to throw rocks at his disappearing back, comforting myself with the warmth of the sun against my skin. I hadn’t been to the surface in ten days. Wes and Jeru accompanied me on the walk, kicking a pebble back and forth. It reminded me of Soraya and Dawoud during our afternoon strolls through the palace garden. I grimaced, batting aside the memory like a troublesome fly. In Mahair, I’d rarely dwelled on my life in Usr Jasad. I certainly hadn’t allowed the memories to encroach on my consciousness. That moving wall and the Jasadi weapons must be unsettling me more than I thought.
My continued silence disturbed the guards. “It gets easier once you improve,” Jeru said. “The beginning is always the worst.”
Even Wes was inclined to offer reassurance. “The midnight hunting drills our first year—” Wes started, prompting a groan from Jeru. “I cannot count the number of times I lost myself in these woods, half-naked and confused.”
“Holding a spear,” Jeru added. “I woke up late once and grabbed a mop instead. Our unit leader found me waving it at a sparrow.”
“Wait. Did you hear that?” Jeru stopped.
Wes’s forehead puckered in concentration. “It’s the river.”
Jeru swiveled. “No, I thought I heard… I will catch up.” He jogged into the trees before we could answer.
Wes and I resumed walking in a much less comfortable silence. We tended not to spend time together without Jeru’s stabilizing presence.
“Is Jeru’s family very wealthy?” I asked, apropos of nothing. The sudden interrogation technique seemed to work for the Heir.
Wes eyed me. “No.”
“He is a kind man,” I observed. “A liability in the Citadel.”
For a long moment, I thought Wes wouldn’t respond. I counted the prints our boots made in the mud. He answered at number forty-six. “His family comes from an impoverished village in Nizahl’s southern provinces. He qualified for exemption from conscription and—”
Much as I hated to interrupt and risk Wes clamping shut again, I couldn’t contain my shock. “There’s exemption from conscription in Nizahl?”
“His Highness the Heir made it law five years ago. Unless there is an active war, Nizahlans may submit for exemption should their circumstances fit the criteria His Highness set forth. The southern provinces are in famine. Jeru was needed to keep his family from starvation.”
“The Supreme allowed this law?” Skepticism colored the question. Supreme Rawain loved nothing more than soaking the earth in Jasadi blood and throwing adolescents into the army’s gaping maw. A law providing relief to commoners—the easiest population to recruit—deviated from his agenda.
“His Majesty hadn’t a choice,” Wes replied, and I would have wagered all of Nadia’s chairs that he sounded smug. “Nizahl’s laws limit the Supreme’s powers over the army. Once the Supreme appoints a Commander, those responsibilities transfer.” He shook his shoe loose from the clutches of a shrub. “The Commander happened upon Jeru hours before his execution.”
Execution? What in Dania’s sacred skirt could Jeru have done to merit losing his frizzy head? “Did he murder someone? Burn a village to the ground?”
“He stole a bag of oats.”
I opened my mouth, then clamped it shut.
“They leveled the charge against Jeru, though the real culprit was the stonemason’s twelve-year-old son. The child’s father had lost his arm in an accident, and his younger sister hadn’t eaten in three days. The child stole the oats. Jeru told the patrol he did. Fortunately, His Highness had an appointment with a dignitary from the village. The child recognized the royal crest on his horse and pleaded for Jeru. His liege pardoned Jeru and offered him a position in the academy.”
“What about his family?”
“His Highness set up a nimwa system for their village. It allotted every family a weekly amount of grains and milk. Jeru’s family live off his wages.”
Nimwa. The Nizahl dialect sounded gruffer leaving Wes’s tongue. It reminded me of another word. “Wes, what does suraira mean?”
His thick brows met in a U-shaped wrinkle. It seemed to surprise him any time I displayed evidence of intelligent thought. Whether this was a byproduct of my constant complaining or his own preconceived bias was unclear.
“Suraira is said to be a demon of mishap protecting Sirauk,” he said. “Some Nizahlans believe Suraira dwells beneath the bridge and emerges during a crossing to compel humans to their death.”
I rubbed my arms, stepping over the carcass of a partially eaten rabbit. “Compel?”
Wes sighed, likely wishing he’d chosen sleep over this conversation. “No one is certain what occurs in the crossing. Suraira crafts her victims an image of beauty, decadence, freedom from their woes and burdens. She lures them into willingly leaping off the bridge and into the abyss. Every kingdom has outlandish stories about crossing Sirauk; Suraira is merely one of Nizahl’s. How did you hear the name?”
Apparently, by being likened to a devious demon of mishap by his Heir.