Marek’s flinch nearly knocked Sefa awake. His expression shuttered, and a faraway sorrow lined his features. “It was.”
His gaze hardened and snapped to mine. “We won’t enter Nizahl. If you don’t find a way to persuade him to release us before the third trial, we will take our chances in the woods.”
“Understood.”
“So. You’re a Jasadi.”
His discomfort was evident. Too many tales existed about Jasadis, expertly planted by Nizahl over the years to destroy any lingering sympathy for the scorched kingdom. Most people remembered Jasad before the siege, had traded outside the fortress and sent invitations to their waleemas. But even those old enough to remember Jasad at the peak of its power had succumbed to the distrust and fear sown in the last ten years.
“Do I frighten you now?” I was only partly joking.
Marek chuckled, sweeping Sefa into his arms as he stood. “No more than usual. I never much believed in the idea of magic-madness.” He laid her down on the bed, brushing her curls from her forehead. “Sefa is quite angry, though. She wanted to know why you made her wash clothes by hand all these years.”
Something tight and uncomfortable loosened in my chest. I had not realized how worried I was about their potential reactions. This was the first time being Jasadi hadn’t cost me.
“Marek. What happened with Sefa’s stepfather?”
The muscles in his back tightened. “It is not my story to share.”
“I don’t want to ask her.” Not after that horrible emptiness had invaded Sefa at the mere mention of the man. “Please. Why are you both so afraid of returning to Nizahl?”
Marek stayed silent for long minutes. I was on the brink of accepting defeat when he said, in a voice filled with old fury, “Sefa’s father died when she was eleven. Her father was Lukubi, but her mother was Nizahlan. Her mother moved them from Lukub to Nizahl and married the High Counselor a year after Sefa’s father died. The High Counselor was powerful and well respected in the Citadel. He was not a good stepfather. He took… liberties with Sefa. Liberties a man does not take with a child.”
Nausea rolled in my belly. I stared at Sefa’s sleeping face and vividly imagined flaying the skin from a man I had never met. No wonder Sefa always startled so violently if one of the girls in the keep woke her up. Even many years and miles later, her instincts remembered.
“We escaped and swindled our way through the kingdoms. But we weren’t careful enough. After the attack in the market, I carried Sefa to Raya’s and held her hand while the healer’s apprentice put her back together. When she woke, I told her we either settled in Mahair or she continued without me. No scheme was worth risking Sefa’s life.”
I was barely listening, stuck on rotating through everything Sefa had ever told me. Searching for clues. Signs of the horror she’d experienced. She was the liveliest girl in the keep. If anyone needed an opinion, Sefa would arrive with a thousand. The farmers disliked her for releasing their chickens if she disapproved of the state of their coops. She had befriended me against my efforts, and that was not an easily accomplished feat.
Marek, guessing my thoughts, patted the spot near my hand to catch my attention. “She will talk about it with you in her own time. Leave her be.”
“I will.” Hypocrisy did not rank highly on my trailing list of flaws. I would not ask for secrets from Sefa when I had no interest in repaying the confidence.
“Go bathe,” Marek said. “You smell like the river.”
“You knocked me into it!”
“That’s no excuse.” Marek shooed me from the room. He smirked at my glower before slamming the door shut.
I caught a whiff of myself and cringed. Marek hadn’t been lying. When the hall fell dark and silent, I heated a few barrels of water and poured them into a wide wooden bath. Steam curled in white wisps from the stone floor. I lingered in the washroom late into the evening, trying not to dwell on Sefa’s face by the river and the High Counselor’s lies.
Checking the empty hall, I darted out, wincing at the slap of cold air. The Jasadis who stayed here before us had enchanted the walls to glow in the evening as a clever alternative to lanterns. The magic left over was faint, however, and did little to illuminate my path.
I rounded the corner and crashed into a firm body. A hand clamped over my mouth, shoving me into the wall. I clutched my towel. The waning light outlined Vaun’s sneer.
“If you reveal your magic to anybody again, I will decorate these halls with your blood and tears,” he growled. “The Heir will not be incriminated by you.”
I licked a long stripe over his palm. He yanked his hand away with a sound of disgust.
“Should the need arise, the Heir can say he didn’t know I was a Jasadi,” I snapped. I had plastered myself to the wall already, but Vaun stepped closer.
“His Highness will not be made to look like a fool, either. A reputation like his will not be tarnished by atrocities like you.” He leaned in, close enough for me to distinguish each bristly hair at the crown of his forehead. “And if you ever raise a knife to the Commander again—”
“You’ll… what?” I met his glare with a maniacal one of my own. “Scold me in secret again?”
Vaun spat at my feet. With another hateful glare, he turned the same corner I had come from. I glanced at my cuffs. Not a trace of heat or pressure.
“Helpful as always.”
If the Alcalah’s outcome depended on my magic, we were all doomed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
History has a twisted sense of humor.
The day Jasad’s fortress rose was remembered for all the wrong reasons. The newly appointed Qayida Hend had stood shoulder to shoulder with Malika Safa and Malik Mustafa. Behind them, a sea of Jasadis gathered on the hill that would become the courtyard of Usr Jasad. As one, they lifted their hands and poured their magic forth. Back then, magic was still as powerful in their veins as it was rich in the land. A conductor stood centered in the masses, guiding the flow of magic to the Qayida. They say on the day of the fortress’s rise, the Qayida’s entire body had burned silver and gold as she read the enchantment the Malik and Malika had toiled for years to produce.