Page 117 of The Jasad Crown

Jeru had been rescued from the lower villages, hadn’t he? The story Sylvia told them in the tunnels fogged the back of Marek’s mind, and he struggled to call the memory forward. The Nizahl Heir had saved Jeru before an executioner could lop off his head for supposedly stealing a bag of oats. The oats had been stolen by a twelve-year-old boy, but Jeru had taken the blame.

Marek closed his eyes, an exasperated admiration painting the inside of his lids. Jeru had been willing to die to protect a single child in the lower villages. Betraying his Heir—an act Jeru probably viewed as worse than death—for the chance to catch the section leader responsible for accepting bribes from the entire eastern quarter and condemning countless lower villagers?

It was so disgustingly honorable that it made Marek’s teeth hurt.

The Almerour boy continued, eager to reclaim Zane’s attention. “Before Jeru’s men could take Sulor, he started shrieking about invoking his right to Fortune by Four. Can you believe the gumption?”

Zane cocked his head. “Fortune by Four? Never heard of it.”

On the field, four swords were driven into the earth like signposts, forming a square border around Jeru and Sulor. Sulor toed off his boots, bouncing on surprisingly lithe feet, and picked up a sword nearly the size of Zane.

Utterly unbothered, Jeru stepped around Sulor’s boots and rolled his sleeves to his elbow.

“It’s an old rite,” Almerour started, and Marek understood why this bookish boy’s parents had been so eager to thrust him into a compound, “used to decide conflicts between people from different kingdoms who didn’t trust the laws of either kingdom’s court to fairly mete out their justice. Goes back to about 400 A.E.”

Zane’s brows became a hairy ball of bewilderment in the center of his forehead, so the Nizahlan hurried to clarify, “A.E.—after the entombment. Back then, every kingdom still had their magic, so the idea was you could invoke the Awaleen through Fortune by Four and avoid a real trial by fighting your way to freedom. Theoretically, those swords could act as conduits for the Awaleen’s magic. An Orbanian could plead for Dania’s magic, a Lukubi for Baira’s, a Jasadi for Rovial’s, an Omalian for Kapastra’s, a Nizahlan for any of the four.” Almerour pointed at each of the swords gougedinto the field. “Not that it ever worked. The Awaleen are asleep in their tombs and we are alone up here, whether some like to accept it or not.”

Marek crossed his arms over his chest, watching the guardsman lay a relaxed hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. Sulor may be a traitor and a coward, but he was a prime fighter. He hadn’t been appointed leader of their compound for the sweetness of his temper. Jeru appeared to have the nerves of someone preparing for a leisurely stroll through a meadow. “Why would Jeru accept a trial of Fortune by Four? Nizahl prays to no Awal or Awala.”

Almerour shrugged, losing steam now that Zane’s attention had returned to the field. “You forget that it was only in the last seventy years or so before the Blood Summit that Nizahl started tightening its grip around the use of magic in any form. The people of Nizahl came from each of the four kingdoms; the streets were filled with the magic of Orbanians, Omalians, Jasadis, Lukubis. We observed these traditions just like everyone else, for a time. Today, the only tradition for the Awaleen that Nizahl participates in is the Alcalah.”

With a shout like a wounded boar, Sulor swung his sword at Jeru with a force capable of hacking through ten men. The milling soldiers snapped to attention, and Marek held his breath.

Jeru whirled out of the sword’s path. He still hadn’t pulled out his own weapon. Was he angling to get his tombs-damned head cut off?

It continued in the same pattern, with Sulor swinging at Jeru and Jeru dancing out of the way. They rotated between the borders set by the four swords, and as they continued, Sulor lagging with the fatigue of wielding the sword’s weight, Marek might actually have believed Jeru was being blessed by the Awaleen.

Until Sulor bellowed and changed the direction of his swing, cutting through Jeru’s uniform and lancing a bloody stripe over his chest. Jeru collapsed to one knee. Shouts and cheers mixed together from the observers, with some urging Jeru to get up.

Arms pushed Marek back as he jolted a step forward.

Pull out your sword, you arrogant idiot!Marek wanted to shriek.

Sulor raised his arms with a triumphant shout, turning to face the spectators with a victorious sneer that Marek wished to carve off with his thumbnail.

The section leader’s knuckles whitened around his sword as he lifted it high. Jeru’s head remained bent, and Marek had never been more attuned to the fragility of a human neck.

As Marek braced to see the guardsman’s curly head roll across Fareed Mill, his chances of finding Sefa rolling with it, a burst of movement juddered Sulor to a stop.

Jeru had sprung from his crouch and shoved a dagger through Sulor’s unprotected throat. The heavy sword dropped to the ground, and Jeru tucked his arms beneath Sulor’s as he whispered in the choking section leader’s ear.

Jeru dumped an empty-eyed Sulor onto the ground. The section leader’s body rolled, lifeless eyes staring across the field. Stunned silence waited beyond the four swords as Jeru retrieved his dagger.

Jeru glanced around. When his gaze landed on Marek, he lifted the dripping dagger to his temple in a salute.

Marek’s lone cheer drifted over the stunned crowd. It settled, soft as first snow, and triggered an eruption. The entire compound vibrated, Jeru’s name echoing across the fields.

But when Jeru looked down at Sulor’s body, there was no victory in his eyes.

Only dread.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

SEFA

It was over.

Sefa leaned over the balcony and watched a rider draw his horse to a stop beside the ruby obelisk.

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