Page 145 of The Jasad Crown

Arin posed the question with only slight interest, as though it hadn’t haunted him every night since he discovered the truth. Many sleepless hours later, and Arin still didn’t know which was worse: that his father had planned to sire a half-Jasadi child with the intention of subjecting them to a near-fatal procedure to strip their magic and turn them into a conduit, or the alternative—Rawain had seen Arin, held him, and decided he would rather watch him die than raise this half-Jasadi son.

Rawain’s mask of confusion and concern disintegrated. A bone-chilling blankness replaced them, and Arin knew his time was running out.

The discovery had proceeded much like the unveiling of an exquisite painting. Attention not only for the whole of what it was, but for the individual brushstrokes bringing each detail to life. Details like Nizahl’s prisons, always bursting with Jasadis awaiting their trials. Prisons Arin routinely visited to drain the magic from the detained. Arin had thought his father merciful for prolonging the fate of the sentenced Jasadis. For allowing them to live on for years after capture.

Have you considered, in that infinite mind of yours, that the truly brilliant people are the ones who understand the realities we build were already built for us?

“I tried so hard with you, Arin.” Rawain shifted his weight onto his scepter, leaning heavily against it. “Even when you questioned, when you pushed back, I reminded myself you were a child. You were learning. When you became Commander and undid half of my policies, I told myself it was a sign of great leadership. You had a strategy, and as long as I held on to the assurance that we shared a vision for our world, it did not matter to me how you soughtto achieve it. At every step, I trusted you. And at every step, you doubted me.”

The Supreme swung, so quickly Arin only saw the blur of the scepter before it collided with the side of his head. The force knocked Arin off the desk. He caught himself on the wall, teeth coming together in time to prevent a hiss from slipping out.

“I raised you better than this.”

The sparks hadn’t faded from Arin’s vision when the next blow came to the back of his head, taking him to his knees.

“You make a mockery of the gift I went to the ends of the earth to give you. The magic you drain from these oh-so-poor Jasadis, do you think I hoard it for my own pleasure? Do you think Iwishto possess it?” The end of the scepter pressed into Arin’s neck, keeping him down. “Unlike the Jasadis you draw it from, the magic I wield doesn’t run in my veins. It holds no chance of corrupting me, and I can prevent others from using it for evil. I can use it to make Nizahl strong—to make thisfamilystrong. If it weren’t for me, you would have died at sixteen, slaughtered at the hands of that Jasadi murderer you allowed into your bedroom.”

Rawain’s speech, delivered with ire and put-upon frustration, barely penetrated the buzzing in Arin’s ears. Blood matted the side of his head. Pain pounded between his temples, but at least he didn’t feel any fractures.

With an edge of a humor he thought Essiya might appreciate, Arin noted that at this point, he probably had more bumps and craters on his skull than the roads of Mahair.

Arin’s jaw popped when he opened his mouth to speak, mellifluous and calm. “Slaughtering nearly everyone at the Blood Summit with magic I stole for you, blaming Niyar and Palia, and then using the bloodshed as an impetus to rally the other kingdoms into destroying Jasad? My lord, forgive my skepticism, but what corruption might magic offer to a soul that has never known anything else?”

The weight of the scepter vanished from the back of Arin’s neck. He raised his head. Rawain had the scepter raised high as he stared at Arin with a coldness Arin could never, if he lived a thousand years, manage to replicate.

“I always feared you would become like your true mother,” Rawain said. “I stayed vigilant for what you might have inherited from Hanim. In my worst nightmares, I never thought you would take after Isra. As weak and—”

“Weak is not a mother who throws herself between a boy with none of her blood and the wrath of the man who made him.” Arin wiped the blood dripping onto his lashes. “Weak is a ruler who holds a match to the world and then blames it for burning.”

The scepter swung. With the height of the swing and the speed, the blow would surely knock Arin unconscious.

So this time, Arin caught it.

Rawain inhaled sharply, trying and failing to yank the scepter from his grasp as Arin stood.

“I could have stopped you at any time. I could have stopped you a decade ago,” Arin said. It was hollow. Exhausted. “I should have known you would never stop yourself.”

Footsteps rang out before Rawain could answer. A shadow in uniform emerged from the corridor, stepping into the small study.

“Arrest the Heir,” Rawain commanded. “Magic has taken him.”

“Is it ready?” Arin asked Jeru.

Jeru nodded.

“Hold him.”

As soon as they grabbed Rawain, he began to struggle. A gag went between Rawain’s teeth, and Jeru wrapped his arms around Rawain from behind, pinning his father’s elbows to his sides.

“My guardsman,” Arin said. “The one you kindly deposited on my map table. He sent me a message before you ordered Vaun to execute him.”

Arin pulled out a scrap of parchment no larger than his palm and lifted it for Rawain to see.

No mines. The scepter.

“He found you out, didn’t he?” Arin murmured. “He saw you use magic from the scepter.”

The hateful beady eyes of the raven glared at Arin. For two decades, the scepter had symbolized Rawain’s power, but it had always been Arin’s magic behind it. Arin’s magic anchoring everything he drained into his father’s scepter. Arin’s magic facilitating every horror they were oathbound to prevent.

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