The tips of his gloved fingers formed a steeple on the table’s surface.
“Martyrs don’t survive the Alcalah.”
“Can’t you tell the difference between a martyr and a mercenary?”
“I thought I had employed the latter. You have proven me wrong.”
I rubbed my temples, blocking out the incoming migraine and the tantalizing pillows in my periphery. “How? By doing everything possible to uphold my end of the bargain?”
When he didn’t respond, I continued, compelled to defend myself. “There is much you don’t know about me, but understand this: I will fight for my freedom until my last breath. You took it away, and you cannot fault how ardently I choose to take it back. Until you have felt hunted, less than human, rejected from the moment you were born for something you did not ask for and cannot control—until then, do not speak to me of martyrs and mercenaries.”
I braced myself for the spiel I’d heard on countless occasions. Everyone was so fond of remembering how magic forced the Awaleen into their tombs after Rovial devastated the kingdoms. They didn’t mention how it breathed life into the barren lands to begin with. They spoke of Jasad in hushed whispers, of the hoarded magic that corrupted the very leaves on the fig trees. Of magic-madness building in Jasadi veins like a disease, threatening our grasp on sanity. Forgetting that before Jasad, Nizahl’s powers were curbed, its function as an arbiter of peace strictly upheld. They had not enjoyed the unchecked powers Jasad’s destruction had allowed them.
The Nizahl Heir repeated none of it. He looked at me steadily and said, “Understood.”
Rory reacted to my visit with his flavor of effervescent glee. “You’re late.”
He chucked me under the chin, a wide smile winding over his face. “There are lavender bowls in need of sifting.”
I grinned at him like a fool. “When aren’t there?” I fetched an empty bowl and dropped onto the bench he’d had Marek carve into the wall for the elderly and expectant mothers, both of whom tended to frequent his shop. “How are you?”
The spectacles few knew he secretly wore slipped down the bridge of his nose. He flipped the page he was pretending to read. “Busy. I seem to have misplaced an apprentice.”
“Dozens would gladly take my place if invited, old man. I’m not sure if you have heard, but people are under the impression you’re an accomplished chemist.”
“I have an apprentice,” Rory said, finally meeting my eyes. “A loud, unpleasant, utterly deranged apprentice who I expected to run this shop after my death.”
After his death? I raked over him critically, searching for any signs of failing health. He was fine, aside from a weakness for dramatics. “When I finish the Alcalah, I’ll be able to buy the shop from you. You can sit on a chair outside and shout at people to your shriveled heart’s content.”
Rory put his book aside. “Do you truly believe you will live past the Alcalah? Past encountering the Supreme?” He glanced at the door. Wes and Jeru were patrolling outside the village, allowing me the privacy Arin promised.
I plucked out a sheaf of sage and shook it into the open bowl. “The Supreme will not recognize me.”
“The Supreme is a more dangerous man than you can conceive. Nothing is certain.”
The entire reason I’d originally wanted to visit Mahair was to escape these incessant doubts, not have them reinforced. “Even if he discovers my identity, he would not apprehend his own Champion. I will leave quickly and quietly, and the rest is on the Heir’s head.”
“The Commander would just let the Jasad Heir vanish into the wild? Think, Sylvia! If your existence is discovered, every Jasadi in hiding will rally behind your crown. You will give them a reason to rise and reunite. You are the greatest threat to his power. The Supreme wouldn’t hesitate to slay you before the convened courts, Champion or not.”
My hands shook. Rally behind me?
“What crown, Rory? Virtue of blood does not make me suitable to lead anyone.”
“Blood cannot lead a kingdom,” Rory said. His voice gentled. “Sacrifice can. A true ruler is one who puts their people before themselves. No matter the cost.”
“That isn’t me. It is not in my nature—”
“Of course it isn’t. Altruism is no one’s nature. It wouldn’t be half as remarkable otherwise.”
He took the sifted lavender. The sound of the pestle clacking against stone grounded me. I sorted the stalks into bundles, losing myself in the repetition.
“You look horrible,” Rory said.
The next person to comment on my appearance would earn a swift punch to the throat. “That seems to be the general sentiment, yes.”
“He cannot expect you to train as a Nizahl soldier would,” Rory started, working himself up for a grand fit. “A village apprentice does not have the skills—”
“I am not only a village apprentice,” I interjected. “The training isn’t a problem.”
“I cannot imagine the methods the Commander employs to train a Champion.” He scraped the pestle with force.
“His methods don’t leave me delirious or at death’s door. That is more than I can say for others.”
Rory halted. In all our revelations, I had never discussed the missing years between the Blood Summit and appearing at his doorstep. Perhaps living underground in the company of people who would dance on my grave had softened me to a kind face. I wanted him to know.
I picked up the next bundle of sage, keeping my gaze trained on it. “A former Jasadi, thrown from the kingdom in disgrace, found me in the woods after the Blood Summit. She knew who I was. Breaking open my magic became her singular obsession.”
“Breaking open your magic?”
Oh. I had forgotten Rory didn’t know about my cuffs. “My magic is… complicated. The waleema was the first time it expressed itself in over a decade.”
For once, Rory did not interrupt my tale. He folded his hands over the curved top of his cane. After weeks of guarding my every word, it felt freeing to talk without reservation.
“We lived in the woods, somewhere warded to keep away other Jasadis. She would acquire horrible spells to teach me how to fight. Enchant the water to boil and test how long I could touch the surface. Compel monsters to chase me through the woods. My magic didn’t budge, not once, in all the years I spent with her. She would be livid to have failed where the Nizahl Heir succeeded.”
Rory pushed himself to his feet. The sheer sorrow in his tone pierced through me. “She gave you those scars, didn’t she? On your back?”
I briefly wondered when Rory would have seen my back until I remembered the night he found me at his shop. I’d been drenched in Hanim’s blood, and he had given me a tunic to change into. He must have caught sight of my scars before he turned around.
I chuckled softly. “Hanim wanted her lessons to last.”
Rory’s head snapped to attention. “What did you say?”
“Am I speaking too quickly for you?” My smirk fled at Rory’s mounting horror. “What?”
“Tell me you don’t mean Hanim, Qayida of the Jasadi forces.”