Page 24 of The Jasad Crown

“They have numbers,” Maia said. “We need numbers.”

Dumbstruck, I stared at Maia. It dawned on me that she was telling the truth. If Efra’s petulant silence hadn’t convinced me, the sheer absurdity of this plan would have.

Title and magic.I’d thought I had the answer for what my title offered them, but clearly I had underestimated the Urabi. I was the daughter of Niphran of Jasad and Emre of Omal.

Born Heir of JasadandHeir of Omal.

“Queen Hanan disinherited me at birth.” I thought of the dull-eyed, fragile woman drowning in her finery at the head of Omal’s banquet table. She’d barely had the strength to hold a conversation, let alone strip her monstrous nephew of his title and pass it to the human equivalent of political suicide. “Giving the title to me would turn her own council against her. It would mean war with Nizahl. Queen Hanan helped tear our kingdom to pieces. She signed the decree against magic. What makes you think she would have any interest in reinstating me?”

“She was grieving her son and her husband during the war,” Maia said. “She may feel differently now, knowing her granddaughter lives.”

Rovial’s tainted tomb. Sequestering in the mountains had bred their delusion, unchecked, and developed it into a plan guaranteed to annihilate us.

I went back to Maia’s first remark. “What does Queen Hanan have to do with the fortress?”

Maia hesitated. She glanced at the rock still clenched in my fist. “If our plan to regain your title in Omal fails, we will have no choice but to stand on our own in Jasad. Even if seventy percent of the Jasadis in hiding come out to fight with us, we will not triumph against the forces of Nizahl, Omal, Orban, and Lukub. We are already running out of time—the kingdoms have been purging their lands of magic, bypassing Nizahl’s laws to execute anyone suspected of having it. Hundreds are already dead, and the rest will be too frightened to risk traveling to Jasad without assurance of their protection. Our only chance of survival would be to resurrect the fortress around Jasad.”

Was this some sick attempt at humor? “It took thousands of Jasadis to raise the fortress. The effort of channeling their power burned Qayida Hend alive, and that was centuries ago, when magic was still rich in our blood.” My grip tightened on the rock. “The Jasad fortress cannot be raised.”

Eyes entirely too sincere for someone protecting an idiot pleaded with me. “I swear to Sirauk, Namsa and the Aada have been meeting to figure out how we can prepare you to raise the fortress by Nuzret Kamel.”

Nuzret Kamel? The name rang a distant bell. Some holiday the lower wilayahs had celebrated. What did it have to do with raising the fortress?

Maia placed her hand on the rock and gently pushed my arm down. “We were going to tell you once you became more comfortable in the Gibal, but circumstances have changed. Efra acted without thinking, but it wasn’t out of malice. We’re desperate.”

I dropped the rock, disgusted with myself for entertaining any of this. “What do you mean, circumstances changed?”

Efra’s purpling lips curled into a sneer, and he finally broke his silence. “The Silver Serpent thinks he can hide your existence and wage this war in the shadows.”

I didn’t move my glare from Efra as the door to the mountain scraped opened.

“Maia, Efra, what’s happening?” Namsa appeared in my periphery. “Mawlati, you’re soaked!”

“Efra,” I said quietly. Dangerously. “What did you do?”

He wiped the blood dribbling from his nose. “The first strike of this war,Mawlati, goes to us.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

SEFA

Close to six years had passed since Sefa’s survival depended on tricking lecherous men out of their coin.

A spoon of mahalabiya nudged her lips. “Open your mouth, darling,” said a man at least thirty years Sefa’s senior. “A sweet for my sweet.”

“Oh, I don’t eat milk desserts. They make my stomach sing. You wouldn’t wish to be a one-man audience to its special melody, trust me.” Sefa patted her middle.

He blinked, as befuddled as if she’d started barking. Docile, sweet lap girls did not turn away the hand that fed them, no matter how catastrophically its contents would implode in their bellies. He nudged the spoon against her mouth again, and Sefa reluctantly parted her lips, pulling the creamy mahalabiya onto her tongue.

Treacherously delicious. She could almost forget the consequences.

On the substantial list of schemes she and Marek had used to swindle their way across the kingdoms, seduction had always ranked last for Sefa. They usually avoided it unless they were on the brink of starvation, especially since Marek’s own charms could usually save them from a predicament or ten. The difference was Marek had no qualms following through on his illusions of seduction, whereas Sefa had never allowed it to go so far.

But Marek wasn’t here, and Sefa hadn’t eaten more than four stalepieces of bread in the same number of days. What she wouldn’t give to squeeze a lime over a steaming bowl of ful speckled with black pepper. To plunge a piece of freshly baked aish into a bowl of molokhia. Bless Baira, she’d even settle for Maya’s eggshell omelets.

Corpse Walker’s hand landed on her head. She’d forgotten his real name within minutes of hearing it. Balanced on the edge of a small stool at his feet, Sefa forced herself to stay motionless as he petted her hair and ran proprietary fingers along her neck. Just another Lukubi courtesan for the garden of debauchery.

Sefa glanced around the Ivory Palace’s verdant estate. Lush green vines wrapped around the ivory pillars encircling the palace. The stone-forged skulls of Ruby Hounds glared from the cornices over the archways, the torchlight glittering across their bejeweled eyes.

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