“Why are there people in those wells?” I whispered.
Twenty feet deep and smooth on every side, all but one of the narrow wells had an occupant. An elderly man, beard matted with filth, turned to glare as we passed. A pool of foul water sloshed around his ankles. The others were emaciated, slumped in a fetal curl. The wells were too narrow for them to lie down. If they weren’t already dead, they would be soon.
“Traitors,” Arin said. We passed the last well, and I forced myself away from the window. “Sultana Vaida had them dug after her mother’s murder. Traitors to Lukub are thrown in to starve and perish. Half her council died there.”
“Nobody stops her?”
Torture was limited only by imagination. The forms it took were more than anyone could count. But I had thought at least one rule, one unassailable edict, united the hands of cruelty. Torture should be private. Torture was meant for dungeons and stone cells. The quiet of Essam. For the trees that watched you bleed and the silent earth you soaked in your tears.
“You should see what Orban does to traitors.” Arin tapped his fingers against a knee. “Vaida prefers a more nuanced approach.”
I hated that I understood the Sultana. Few weapons tormented as thoroughly and bloodlessly as fear. Lukubis walked past these wells, listening to the prisoners’ mournful wails, and prayed they weren’t next. People from all over the kingdoms escaped to Lukub for its glamor and style. They climbed Baira’s Shoulders, the highest cliff in the kingdom, to gaze upon the beauty of a land founded by an Awala whose face could entrance an enemy to fall on their own sword.
Beauty dazzled. It drew the eye toward it… and away from the horrors hiding in its shadow.
“Malika Palia and Malik Niyar would have their soldiers lift thieves and traitors into the air.” Arin set his neat stack of parchment aside. “Once they were suspended over the crowd, each soldier found a creative way to execute their prisoner. One soldier would drown their prisoner on dry land. Another would split the earth with a wave of a hand, burying their charge alive. I believe one particularly creative soldier decided to split his prisoner in half and shower the crowd in viscera.”
My nails dug crescent moons into my palms. “Is magic a worse weapon than a well?”
“The well isn’t promoted afterward.”
The cuffs throbbed with my spiking magic. “Where was this compassion when your father pillaged our villages? When Nizahl soldiers destroyed centuries of custom and culture? When Lukub, Omal, and Orban helped strip our lands to bare parts? When Jasadis were raped, ripped apart, or sold?” Hot fury filled the carriage, blazing in the scant space between us. “Do not insult me by pretending invading Jasad was some mercy.”
“Our.” Arin cocked his head. “You said our lands. Our villages. Not ‘the Jasadis’.’”
I glowered, searching for his trick. I always said our. What else would I say?
The carriage’s momentum changed, sending me hurtling to the other end of the bench. Arin braced his elbow against the window, using his other arm to keep the parchment from scattering.
Jeru appeared in the window. “Apologies, my liege. We are on the palace grounds.”
Eager for distance, I opened the carriage door and leaned out, throwing an arm over the roof as we sped ahead. The wind whipped my braid into my chin.
As magnificent as the Awala responsible for its birth, the Ivory Palace shone brightly against the night sky. Pillars rose in cerise spirals between towering ivory walls. Behind the gate, a ruby obelisk pierced the sky. White flowers grew in the seams of the walls, their petals sharper than the wings of our carriage. I followed the path of the precious jewels welded into the looming white gates that formed an enormous Ruby Hound snarling down at our approaching carriage. The Hound glistened a dark, sinister red under the waxing moon. Unlike Arin, I cared little for the sophistication of symmetry or the hidden meanings behind design. The Ivory Palace cast aside subtlety in favor of a message no one could misread.
Something beautiful waited behind these walls, and it was as likely to caress you as it was to eat you alive.
I returned to my seat when we pulled to a stop at the gate’s head, letting the carriage door close. A pair of Lukubi guards approached Jeru and Wes. My heart thundered. I was going to enter Lukub as the Nizahl Champion. Sit among Heirs who had happily led their troops against Jasad, wetting their boots with Jasadi blood in exchange for Nizahl’s approval.
What freedom is worth this? I thought, wild. Can I cut into my own soul and sell away the Jasadi pieces?
The carriage door opened. “Your Highness,” the Lukubi guard said. “Sultana Vaida welcomes you and your Champion to the Ivory Palace.”
Arin answered. I wasn’t listening, focused on corralling my magic and my frantic breathing.
The gates parted with a groan.
“Loyalty rears its mutinous head,” Arin said softly. “Mervat Rayan.”
I looked into his wintry blue eyes, so like his father’s. The air held itself still around us. The Nizahl and Jasad Heir. I would leave this carriage to deliver the Supreme the most complete victory over me. Over Jasad.
One day, I would stand trial before the spirits of my dead. One day, the bodies I never buried would call upon me to answer for my sins.
One day, but not today.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I was ushered into my room without fanfare. Three women arrived to attend me. Or they tried. I told them—quite emphatically—I could bathe and undress myself.
Sefa groaned when I closed the door on the baffled attendants.
“Lukub does not value hospitality as highly as Omal,” I said, defensive. “The Sultana will not care.”
After months of the tunnels’ stark walls and dusty corridors, the chaotic rooms in the Ivory Palace shocked my nerves. Tapestries dyed in bright shades of red hung from the walls, their white tassels dangling over fox-fur rugs. Bundles of bukhoor mixed with resin hovered above the lanterns, saturating the air in a sweet, floral aroma. An ivory mask was propped in front of every candle. The light flickered behind its carved eyes.
“Lukubis may not care about hospitality, but they place great value on service,” Sefa said. “Servicing the body and the spirit. Finding harmony between the two.” She stepped over Marek, who had fallen asleep with a chunk of mushabak on his chest. The honey-soaked coil of fried dough shifted with the rise of his chest.
I squeezed the excess water from my drying hair. “Is it strange, visiting Lukub? You are a citizen here by blood.”