I chased Arin, speeding up two flights of stairs. I skidded to a halt in front of him before he could turn into our hall. He raised a brow when I stood there mutely. “Yes?”
How easy was it for him to slip the doll into Vaida’s servant’s pocket? She would have been flustered, overwhelmed at his proximity. The doll’s weight in her pocket wouldn’t even register. Vaida’s servant, not Felix’s, because blame needed to be thrown in both directions. He knew how many people would be in the dining hall. How many times the ghaiba would divide itself to attack everyone. How long it would take for him to fight off his allotment, how long it would take for the others. He knew the ghaiba’s influence would disorient Vaida and Felix into a children’s squabble, one he could use to condemn them.
“If I were a sensible woman, I would slit your throat while you slept.”
Pale blue eyes glinted in the gloom. “Is that a threat?”
The same vicious hunger I had struggled against at the Ivory Palace bloomed in my veins. Baying for action. A hunger that demanded I take, forge a claim to him in flesh and blood and power. Etch my name into his bones for the world to see.
Arin’s gaze darkened. We were two swords meeting on a bloodied battlefield. Inevitable. Wreathed in violence.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The night before the second trial, I slipped away from the palace town’s festival, Sefa and Marek at my heels. The royals had their own section of the festival, surrounded by guards on the ground and observed by ones on the roofs. I maintained a wide berth from Supreme Rawain and Vaun, who watched the boisterous celebration with matching distaste. The merchants setting up booths around the large wooden platform painted what they were selling on the front of their booths. None of the royals ate from them, of course, but I spotted Mehti thrusting a bag of coins at a merchant standing behind a booth with a painted chicken.
Sparring matches like the one Mahair hosted took place on the raised platform, interspersed with groups of dancers and actors. They reenacted the Awaleen’s conversation around the oak table as our predecessors debated whether to entomb themselves with Rovial. They played out the final battle between the siblings, their fall from Sirauk into the waiting tombs below. Kapastra shone as the hero, the courageous sibling in the Omalians’ performance.
Since the festival took place over the entire town, different music played the farther along one wandered. I had already heard the sweet tones of a zither and a fast-paced Omalian lullaby on the lute, watched men wave sticks around as they danced to the beat of a drumming tubluh. The Omalian merchants coming from middle towns were relegated to the outskirts of the festival. I sipped my sugarcane juice, dodging the spinning rainbow skirt of a man dancing the tannoura. An old merchant waved from the ground, his knobby knees folded beneath his slim frame. He’d laid out his wares on a quilt, and the bright colors drew me.
“Do you have any money?” I asked Wes. When he nodded, I knelt to inspect the items closer.
Beaded bracelets and woven anklets mixed with rings of every size and design. At the corner of the quilt, dusty from where it hung into the dirt, a braided rope necklace caught my attention. Dyed a patchy black, the thin rope supported a dangling pendant. I turned the pendant over, revealing the inside of a halved fig. The seeds were tiny gold beads, the veins connecting them embroidered violet and pink. The outside of the fig was violet and outlined in gold. I ran my thumb across the fuzzy front.
“How much for this?”
I gave him twice what he requested. I wasn’t stingy with Nizahlan money, and Arin would compensate Wes. I slipped the necklace into my pocket.
“Your taste is terrible,” Jeru said.
The road curved downhill suddenly, sending pebbles skidding to the sides. My heart pounded as a woman with curly black hair disappeared into the crowd. Everywhere I looked, flashes of Soraya stole across the exuberant town. Any of the Urabi or Mufsids could be at the festival. They circled me, predators around a bleeding stag, waiting to see who would be closest when my legs collapsed.
I tried to ease my restlessness by focusing on the task at hand. We returned to the main stage and its crush of revelers. The dancers taking the stage wore gossamer gowns shaped to resemble rochelyas. A strap of fabric wound around their breasts and their hips, representing the rochelya’s long neck. A short skirt flared out at the waist. They kept their hair pinned up to expose the rochelya’s teeth clasped behind their necks, holding up the salacious ensemble. Bare except for the parts the rochelyas covered, the dancers’ appearance on the stage distracted the royals and guards equally.
Sefa, Marek, and I took our leave as they began their sinuous belly dance. The Omalian guards at the palace recognized me, allowing us free entry. If we had attempted this venture in Orban, I had a feeling the khawaga would have rendered our mission obsolete.
“Do you know where Vaida’s room is?” I asked Marek.
Servants streamed up and down the stairs, preparing the rooms for the drunken royals and nobles who would be stumbling into them.
“Third floor, east wing. I will recognize her door by the guard in front of it.”
Marek and Sefa had woken up in the morning with a headache, but none the worse for wear. They refused to speak of what the ghaiba had shown them, and they’d relished my description of Arin’s retaliation at the dinner.
While I had wasted the day walking the gardens with the other Champions and dressing for the festival, they had prepared for tonight.
So far, the plan was moving forward with shocking success. Sefa had asked an Omalian guard where she could deliver the Sultana’s gown for the evening, and he pointed her in the right direction. Marek would be charged with distracting the single guard on duty while Sefa and I rifled through Vaida’s room.
As for what would be done with the ring after we stole it, Sefa offered an unanticipated resolution. It seemed she and Marek had not been idly waiting in Orban while I completed the first trial. They had returned from their trip into Orban’s villages with a scribbled spell from a small apothecary. Three slashes marked the spell, which Sefa explained as the amount of magic a Jasadi would expend using it. I had asked, “Three out of what?” and received a dumbfounded silence in response.
Once we stole the seal and used it to barter for our protection, the spell should theoretically prevent Vaida from reneging on her promise. She would not know it had been cast unless she sought to harm us, in which case she would find herself losing track of the thought.