Page 133 of The Jasad Crown

I smiled, and a line appeared at the bull’s nose. With a thunderous crack, the fracture widened, splintering the door. I kicked the hinges and shielded my face as the door collapsed inward, exploding into wood and metal pieces.

“SORN!” I boomed. “Have your manners abandoned you? Come say hello, you drunken weasel! I’ve come to wake your Champion!”

More khawaga poured from the heart of the castle. I kicked the closest one in the gut and slammed my fist into his throat, disarming him with a savage twist of his wrist.

“Enough! Enough! Lower your swords!” a familiar voice roared. “SORN OF ORBAN GRANTS ENTRY TO MALIKA ESSIYA!”

The last sentence must have contained some magic of its own, because the khawaga immediately went still. I stopped in the middle of a killing strike, tip of the sword poised at the thudding point of the khawaga’s neck.

The Orban Heir leaned over the staircase. He met my gaze over the raised blades of his khawaga. A smirk twisted the royal brute’s mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t the dead coming to beat down my door,” Sorn drawled. “Come in, Essiya of Jasad.”

Animal heads watched us from the walls. A black stallion, a wolf, a three-headed extinct creature I’d once fought in Essam. Maia shuddered at the ghoulish mounts, clinging to Lateef’s arm. Namsa inspected them with a little too much interest.

The servant stopped at a door carved in the image of two rearing bulls. “The Heir will see you inside.”

She disappeared, leaving me to turn to the Jasadis with a somewhat sheepish smile.

I hadn’t told the Urabi about the voice I’d heard, nor the faces I couldn’t stop seeing. When they tracked me down at the edge of the Omal upper towns, I had handed them Felix’s head and refused to answer any questions.

They hadn’t wanted to come to Orban, but I had insisted we pay Sorn a visit. Orban had blockaded most of the major trade routes after Galim’s Bend. What was the point of telling Jasadis to come join me in Jasad if they couldn’t even get onto the roads leading to the kingdom? They would have to trek through the paths in Essam riddled with residual magic, leaving them exposed to all sorts of danger.

I slid my hands into the pockets of my cloak. “When we’re in front of Sorn, don’t contradict me. He might seem like another spoiled, drunkard Heir, but Sorn will gut you like a prize pig at the first sign of weakness.”

Gratified by their nervous silence, I pushed into the room.

Orrooms, as it turned out.

Sorn’s private chambers were an altar to excess. Sconces chiseled from stark white bone held flickering torches, the orange glow lending a dungeon-like atmosphere to the rooms. Soft bear-hide rugs padded our footsteps as we crossed to a luxurious bed fit to sleep sixty.

“Awaleen below,” Maia breathed, and I followed her gaze to Sorn’s headboard.

Hundreds of bone fragments had been soldered together to formthe pale, ghastly headboard looming several feet over Sorn’s bed. The bones twisted around one another like gnarled tree roots, rising behind the pillows like a skeletal fog watching over the dead.

“Is your headboard made of skulls?” I clicked my tongue. “You do tend toward the literal.”

“Do you like it?” The smile Sorn shot me bordered on feral. “I can get a similar one made for you. You’ve killed enough of my khawaga to get the base started.”

Crude and demented as always. I might have fallen for it if exhaustion hadn’t riddled Sorn like mold on wet cheese. His chestnut hair had lost its luster, falling limply over his forehead. Lines fanned out around his mouth and temples, eroded beneath the tide of tension flowing through his face. Though he was still powerfully built, his clothes hung a little looser on his frame. The booming energy, the debauched ennui… gone.

I focused on the source of his trouble—and the reason for our visit.

The still figure beneath the sheets looked even smaller in this room of beastly trophies. I hadn’t seen Diya since the third trial. Her hair had grown, the wavy strands tickling the tops of her ears. A waxy tint overlaid her brown skin in a shade Hanim would refer to as death’s breath, and I saw the other Jasadis shudder.

My attempt to reach for Diya’s shoulder stopped short at Sorn’s grip on my wrist and a growled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Breaking his hold took less than a quarter of the effort it had taken to break Arin’s. I chose to consider that an accolade for my own skill instead of a reflection on Sorn’s mental state. “I came here to help her. Stop getting in your own way.”

Sorn’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t block me from checking Diya’s pulse.

Thready and weak. She didn’t have much longer.

Any uncertainty about Sorn’s feelings for his Champion faded atthe sight of Diya’s lips. Someone who had slept this long would’ve had lips more cracked than the Desert Flats. Instead, they looked softer than my own.

“What do you want?” Sorn snapped. My prolonged assessment of his fallen Champion seemed to grate on him.

I sat on the foot of Diya’s bed and crossed my legs. “I’m sure you have a guess. Impress me.”

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