Rawain did not seem concerned with my silence or inability to lift my gaze from his chest. “Since you’re feeling better, I insist you join Arin and me for supper this evening.”
“We leave for Omal at dawn,” Arin said, speaking at last. “She should rest.”
“And rest she shall,” Supreme Rawain said. “After supper.”
My cuffs seized, tightening desperately against my magic’s assault. In a flash, Arin was between us. “I will have the guards bring her. We should go; King Murib is expecting us.”
I wanted to shove Arin aside and lunge. Rip out the throat spewing poison, crush the head that molded its crown on the scorched remains of my kingdom. How dare he come in here and speak to me? To praise my efforts for him?
Grief. Rage. Fear. A pit of darkness fed my magic, and it chose which hand to help—and which to ignore. It cared for Jasad and for the ones I loved, but it would happily watch me scream beneath a beast’s gaping maw or Hanim’s whip without once stirring.
No wonder my magic never helped me. It hated me as much as I hated myself.
“Then let us be on our way. I can’t tolerate another tour of his banal little weapons cellar,” the Supreme said. He lifted his chin in disdain. “Who would steal from Orbanian huts and hovels?”
Rawain’s voice moved to the door. I had both hands fisted in the quilt.
“Heal quickly, Sylvia. I look forward to acquainting myself with such a worthy Champion.”
As soon as the door closed behind them, I keeled off the bed. I doubled over, wrapping my arms around my middle. The hurricane of my magic roared. Charring me to ash like the rest of my kingdom.
Isn’t this what you wanted? Niphran’s gentle but stern voice replaced Hanim’s. You wanted to be forgotten. Unknown, unrecognizable. You have succeeded. You are nothing more than Sylvia, Nizahl’s Champion.
“Sylvia?” Sefa laid a tentative hand between my shoulder blades.
“Don’t touch me!” Every inch of my skin pulsed, as though it could shed itself for a new, better me beneath.
Several sets of footsteps approached. The guards’ murmuring washed over me. The physician—or maybe Jeru—reached for me, only to stop short at my shuddering recoil. “I said don’t touch me!”
“Leave her.” Marek.
“Now,” Sefa added.
The noise receded, and the door scraped shut behind them. I tore the wrappings around my hands, revealing perfectly healed palms. I hadn’t needed Arin’s touch to bring my magic to the surface this time.
Good. Rawain likes his property in faultless condition, Hanim sneered.
I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked.
At the root of all chaos is reason. It was a comfort Dawoud would share with me when I was especially afraid or angry. He was raised in Ahr il Uboor, a wilayah with a population of seven hundred and, according to him, more fanciful stories than sense.
But the error of my existence was a chaos my mind couldn’t reason. Four kingdoms living in harmony with Jasad for thousands of years had elected to invade and reduce us to rubble. We must have done something to deserve it. We must have earned the fate that befell us. Right?
I quaked in the corner and pressed my forehead to the wall.
For hundreds of years, Jasad has bled its glory from the lives it ruined.
Everyone talked about the fortress, Sylvia. It allowed Jasad to get away with doing whatever it wanted.
… it is time for the sun to rise over Jasad, Essiya.
Because if we did not deserve our fate, I could not bear the alternative much longer.
The next time the door opened, I stood in front of a row of gowns. My neck tingled as I adjusted the towel around my body.
“Which dress would the Supreme prefer for his Champion?” My voice sounded as empty as I felt. “I would not want to displease him.”
When the silence lengthened, I glanced over my shoulder. Arin had stalled a mere foot away, staring at my back. I clicked my mouth shut. I had forgotten to cover the evidence of Hanim’s favorite hobby. Until now, Rory and Raya were the only two with the misfortune of seeing my graveyard of scars.
“Who did this to you?”
I moved to face him. A glove to my shoulder kept me turned.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“These are old,” he murmured. “Layered.”
When his hand ghosted over my skin, I couldn’t stop a shiver. He traced the gnarled path of flesh along my back. Assessing the defective condition of his Champion. I dropped my forehead against the wardrobe, forcing my ragged breathing to stabilize. I was not in a sane enough state to handle the Heir.
“These are from a jalda whip,” he guessed. The pressure moved to my right side. “A switch.”
I eased the towel’s knot enough to reveal my lower back, morbidly curious. Could he put a name to every instrument Hanim had used against me? I couldn’t.
“Is this an arakin?” he gasped, sprawling his palm against the base of my spine. I jumped.
“A what?”
“These were banned decades ago. Your scars—they can’t be more than six or seven years old.” He sounded furious. “Those crops do real damage. You might have died.”
I tightened my towel and turned.
“Is an arakin the one with the poisoned metal spikes? Yes, those were quite inspired. Tipped with just enough venom to scream yourself hoarse for a week or so, but not enough to put an end to your misery.”
“What—” He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly, gathering the words. The most articulate man in the kingdoms rendered speechless by Hanim’s handiwork. “What happened to you, Sylvia?”
I laughed. It was alarmingly choked.
“You are not the first to use me for your own ends. I have a legacy of disappointing people, you see.”
I kept my attention fixed over Arin’s shoulder as he reached past me. He pressed a black gown with buttoned sleeves and a violet neckline into my arms.
“I am still waiting,” Arin said.
“Waiting?”
I had learned to defend myself against every version of Arin. Devised strategies to safeguard against his ever-twisting mind and sharp tongue. But no one taught me how to protect myself from the Nizahl Heir when he looked at me like this—gentle, human, with his steadfast gaze pinning my own. Grounding me.
“To be disappointed.”
Unlike the Ivory Palace, the Orban castle made for a modest sight. Painted an unappealing tan, it rose a mere three stories and stretched from the end of the Champion’s Pavilion to the border of Essam Woods. What it lacked in luster, the castle doubled in protection. Orbanian khawaga were a deadlier, less disciplined version of the Omalian patrol. They settled disputes by their own exacting standards, and the stories of their abuse in the lower villages had circulated far. Fifty of them surrounded the palace, their curved janbiya daggers hanging from their belted waists.