My breath shuddered onto her forehead. What was she talking about? They put the cuffs on me at six years old. Before Soraya. How did she know about them?
“I asked her twice. If she was not going to use her arms to climb with me, then she didn’t need both of them to work.” The empty words came from somewhere far away, and oh, oh, I remembered, Mervat Rayan and her red face, her grating screams, the bone peeking out of her sleeve.
But no, Essiya was good. Wasn’t she? Essiya was kind and compassionate, nothing like the girl Hanim made. How could she do such a thing?
Soraya released me with a dry laugh. “You will remember what your grandparents did when your mind reflects on the correct mirror.”
She sighed, playing with the jewelry left out on the table. “I’m sorry it took so long to find you. You were extremely well warded after the Blood Summit, and no one searched very hard. We thought you were dead until a new recruit suggested we try searching for Hanim again. That time, the spell led us right to her grave. As soon as I saw it, I knew you were alive. I believed. We searched for you, even when the others called us fools. Your cuffs resisted the strongest tracking spells, and it took years before I found that ugly Omalian village.”
How many Jasadis did she slaughter in her pursuit of me? How much more of our people’s blood had her hands spilled?
My cuffs tightened. How many had mine spilled?
“You led the Commander to Mahair.”
“Oh, yes. We were so concerned he’d kill you first. But of course, Arin can’t turn away an opportunity.” She said his name with familiarity, an exasperated fondness. “Is he still angry, I wonder?”
Before she turns around, Essiya, Hanim said. Now!
I still had so many questions, but Soraya would not kill another Jasadi tonight.
“Who are you to decide which Jasadis should live or die?” I snarled. “You are no better than the Supreme.”
My magic pulsed lazily. I yanked at the thread, spreading my fingers wider against the thick glass.
Soraya’s head whipped toward me, but it was too late. The glass exploded, raining shards around us.
I hurled myself from the window.
The fall didn’t take long. A whistle of air, and I landed hard in a bed of flowers. The impact left me vibrating, limbs feeling drawn and quartered. My slippery hold on the knife’s hilt went slack. Blood trickled leisurely toward my throat from the shifted position.
Distantly, I became aware of the shrill screams ringing around me.
I fixed on Soraya. She sneered from my window, framed in broken glass. She turned, vanishing into the room.
She’ll escape. She’s going to escape.
I’d landed in the patch of poppies from this afternoon. To my distress, blood dripped onto the crushed petals. Black spots danced across my vision, mingling with the stars overhead. If I died, at least the Ivory Palace was an enchanting last sight.
A crowd formed around me. Why were they milling about? They needed to find Soraya!
At last, Arin shoved past them. Relief washed over me. Arin would find her. He wouldn’t let Soraya escape. At the sight of me, Arin went ashen and rounded on the crowd. “Get a medic!” he roared. Jeru and Wes ushered the onlookers away.
He dropped to his knees next to me. “Stay with me, Sylvia. Help is coming.”
“She’s escaping,” I whispered. Arin pushed my hair from my face, bending closer. I turned my face into his hand, temporarily trading thought for comfort.
“What?” His worry bothered me. Why should he be upset? The Mufsid rogue lurked nearby. A person he had hunted almost every other day of our trainings.
“She’s near. The Mufsids—Soraya. Go.”
My meaning was unmistakable. Arin reeled back, shaking his head. “No. No, I’ll help you myself,” he growled. He started yanking at his glove. Jeru and Wes balked behind him. I sent them an invisible signal to intervene, to stop him.
“Arin!” With the last vestige of my strength, I snatched his sleeve. The action sent more blood spurting down my front.
I mouthed it over and over. She’s escaping.
If he healed me in the vicinity of all these witnesses, we were finished. My secret exposed, and his plans ruined. But if he caught her, if I held on long enough for his return. If, if, if. It might be over.
A rough sound tore from Arin’s mouth, a look of singular devastation shattering his lovely features.
I relaxed. He had decided.
With a low oath, the Nizahl Heir leapt to his feet. “Keep her alive,” he snarled, with such blistering menace that Jeru and Wes shrank back.
He disappeared, several arms reached for me, and I gratefully relinquished my hold on consciousness.
ARIN
It was her.
The name Sylvia had uttered was different from the name that had been given to Arin ten years ago, but he knew.
She had tricked him once. It would not happen again.
The horse beneath Arin leapt. They sailed over a water trough, scattering a penned herd of sheep. She was weaving, trying to dissipate the traces of her magic. But he could feel it gliding over his skin like the thinnest blade. She would not escape him this time.
Arin leaned forward, spurring his horse to dangerous speeds. She would find somewhere noisy to hide. There were plenty of options to choose from. The upper towns of Lukub were celebrating the Alcalah alongside the Ivory Palace. Crowds in red and white were strewn in the streets. Performers twirled on raised platforms, bare feet moving lithely to the beat of the tubluh. Everywhere, chaos.
A horse appeared next to his. “Your Highness, I came to help,” Wes said. He was out of breath.
“Why are you here?” Alarm locked the muscles in Arin’s body. “Is she—”
“No, no. The Champion is alive. Jeru and Ren are with her and the medics. I cannot be of service to anyone there, so I left.”
Arin stared at Wes. He could feel the trail of Soraya’s magic fading. If he had any hope of catching her, he needed to move. To cut her off at the alleyway behind the festival and win the game she had started when he was sixteen.
If he went after Soraya, Sylvia would die.
It was a fact. Her wound was deep. She had likely broken several bones in her fall.
Arin needed Sylvia to capture the Mufsids and Urabi. Apprehending Soraya would satisfy his ego, but not his mission.
A reasonable voice reminded Arin he could simply torture the necessary information out of Soraya. She had been with the Mufsids for many years; with pain’s incentivizing persuasion, Arin could wring their location out of her. The Urabi’s, too, he suspected.
All he had to do was spur his horse forward.