And who are you? Hanim asked, disparaging. Do you think you can pluck yourself like a flower away from the garden that raised you, the roots that built you? The past is our sun, Essiya. Only by allowing it to shine can you bloom.
“Hello,” a deep voice said to my right, startling me back to my surroundings. The Lukub Champion smiled. He was an attractive man, his skin a few shades darker than Sefa’s, with a twinkle in his eyes that dazzled several servants into overpouring his drink. He was tall, likely close to Arin’s height, boasting a hard body familiar with years of labor. “Sylvia, is it?”
“Yes! Timur? Or was it Mehti? Forgive me, I have abstained from meals all day in preparation for the Banquet. I can hardly think,” I reached for his arm, swallowing down my shudder at the contact. It was easier to bear a touch I had initiated. As predicted, the wariness smoothed from around Timur’s eyes. I beamed, squeezing his arm once more before releasing it. “I loved your introduction! The red fire was just…” I gestured wildly, as though plucking the proper words from the storm of my appreciation proved too difficult.
Timur laughed. Good. The Champions would not be comfortable around the Nizahl Champion if they thought I was anything like my host Heir. I needed them relaxed.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet another Champion from the lower villages.”
The Orban Champion, Diya, glanced over. I had fixed her in my periphery as soon as she sat. About her, Arin had had little to offer. A fact that bothered him to no end, I was sure. Diya of Orban possessed no distinguishing talents. She was short and curvaceous, holding her drink like someone might try to poison it. Arin told me Sorn’s decision to choose her as his Champion had mystified Orban, and at first impression, I echoed their confusion.
“I believe the Orban Champion is also a lower villager in her kingdom,” I said magnanimously.
“Interesting that you should recall such a detail but forget Timur’s name,” Diya said without looking at me. She scowled at the servant who tried to pour red wine into her chalice. Her hair was shorn to her scalp on both sides, the long strands in the center smoothed to the nape of her neck. She pushed her fingers into the wavy brown locks, sweeping them to the left.
Timur tapped his spoon against my plate. “Ignore her. She intends to win the Alcalah through sheer unpleasantness.”
Sultana Vaida tapped her chalice, silencing the conversation. White lined her eyes, bright beneath her crown. Rubies sparkled on the tight bodice of her ivory gown. A cape of white flowers flowed behind her, the scent pungently sweet, on the cusp of cloying. Another two hours, and she would need to replace it. The Lukubi dignitaries gazed at their Sultana with a reverence I’d seen reserved for the Awaleen alone.
“Thousands of years ago, our Awaleen made the heartbreaking decision to save the kingdoms they had founded by purging the world of their magic. Baira, Kapastra, and Dania gathered at Sirauk to plan how they would stop their brother. The Awal of Jasad could not be imprisoned, nor could he be killed. The magic in his blood had eaten at his humanity, and what was left cared little for the wreckage he wrought. Our brave Awalas, fearing their magic might lead them down a similar path, resolved to lay themselves in the same trap that would contain Rovial. Rovial followed Dania to Sirauk, plotting to attack the Awala of Orban. But she had secret intentions. You see, the other sisters were lying in wait. Lukub’s beloved Baira approached from behind and encircled Rovial in her unbreakable embrace. Dania drew the runes on his forehead that would guarantee an eternal slumber. Kapastra of Omal raised her hands and activated the magic they had woven around the bridge. Scholars believe Rovial screamed so loudly, he brought the skies themselves crashing to earth. Clouds and thunder enveloped the siblings as they plunged from the bridge, sealing themselves in the waiting tombs below.”
Vaida raised her chalice. Around me, everyone lifted their glasses. Paying homage to the sordid little tale. Rovial’s magic, Rovial’s madness. Synonyms in their minds. The fate of Jasad began on that bridge, and I revolted at clicking a chalice in celebration of it.
My neck prickled. Arin was watching. I had a part to play, and dignity wasn’t included in my performance. I raised the chalice. My cuffs glinted under the red lamplight.
This is the freedom you seek, Hanim said. Not to taunt stupid Omalian Heirs or scream or be strong, but to be silent. Freedom is truth, and you have not the bravery to speak it.
“To our Champions. The Alcalah will make foes of you all, but you must remember: the Awaleen whom you honor in these trials were once family, and it was by working hand in hand that they saved us all.”
“To our Champions!” came the cries around the table. Timur clicked his chalice against mine. My smile strained like a branch beneath a knee, liable to snap at any moment.
“Your Sultana is an eloquent orator,” I said.
“Oh, you should hear her speeches during Sedain. She need but point her finger, and the crowd would follow her anywhere.”
Sedain was Lukub’s annual realignment of the mind, body, and blood. They fasted for three days. The first spent in scholarly study, the second in physical pursuits, and the last day in bloodletting. Leeches, thorns, or animal teeth would drain the “bad blood,” leaving them cleaner and clearer. The bad blood, of course, being any trace of magic. Ha! Vaida would probably prepare a broth of babies’ heads if it meant her kingdom could have the ultimate advantage over Nizahl—magic and readiness for war. One of which Jasad had lacked.
When they brought out steaming soups, buttered breads, and platters overflowing with roast duck and lamb, I forgot my ire and heaped my plate full.
The Omal Champion glutted himself on duck and gossip. To the regret of everyone seated within spraying distance, Mehti enjoyed doing both simultaneously. Heavyset and tan, the Omal Champion resembled the workers on Yuli’s farm.
I worried that perhaps Felix had instructed him to commit mischief toward me. As the meal progressed, it became readily apparent I needn’t have worried. The sum of Mehti’s intelligence could fit into Sefa’s thimble. The fourth time he slapped the rear of a passing servant, I could hold my tongue no longer. “Mehti, is it?” I asked. I made a show of glancing over at Vaida. “I would be careful if I were you. I heard the Sultana took the arm of the last man who touched one of her palace girls without permission.”
Mehti wiped his mouth on his sleeve, thick brows drawing together distrustfully. “True?” he asked Timur.
Timur was a model of sincerity. “Very true. She would have taken his head were he not a noble.”
The greasy duck wing in Mehti’s grip hit the plate. “She took the arm of a noble?”
I pressed my lips together, suppressing a snort. Even Diya paused her chewing to listen.
Timur snapped a carrot in half. “To the shoulder.”