Page 39 of The Jasad Crown

The flurry of new recruits, the visit from the Commander’s guardsman… it had to be about Sylvia. The creature she’d conjured at the Victor’s Ball had featured in Marek’s nightmares more than once already. If the gold wings and black eyes hadn’t clued Marek in, the horns on either side of its enormous skull would have (Marek may not have paid much attention in school, but even he recognized the symbol of Jasad).

He could hardly bring himself to believe that a kitmer the size of a building had been animated by the same Sylvia he’d seen blow her nose in a dirty tunic (“It’s going to be washed anyway!”), hide loaves of aish feeno in her waistband, swear and swing at moths that flew too close to her head, and rant about frogs until Marek begged her to stop.

In the hall, a leather boot creaked.

The bottom of Marek’s stomach dropped. He scooted away from the side of the bed facing the door, pressing his back to the wall.

Through the crack of the door, the light dispersed around a shadow. It lingered long enough for the spit to dry in his mouth. Before he’d done more than bunch his muscles in preparation, the shadow moved.

Awayfrom the door.

Marek went loose-limbed with relief. Thank the Awaleen.

Marek didn’t intend to stick around for the shadow’s encore. He pulled himself out from under the bed and stood, wincing at the painful pull in his lower back. He was only twenty-three years old, but his back felt every one of those years.

Pressing his ear to the door, Marek listened for any sign of movement. Silence met him when he cracked open the door. He cast a quick glance through the part of the hall he could see. Still nothing.

Relief slackened his shoulders. Just an absent-minded recruit.

Marek opened the door the rest of the way and stepped outside. Maybe he’d try hiding under Diran’s bed; Marek had heard Diran’s parents regularly sent him the best food, and Marek doubted the kitchen had saved him a plate at breakfast.

Before he had taken more than a step forward, a tanned hand materialized from his right and grabbed his collar. The world blurred as Marek flew back into the room. He slammed his knee against the bedpost and swore so loudly, it nearly masked the click of the door shutting behind him.

Marek whipped around, raising his arms to bar any further grabbing, and went still.

“Uh-oh,” Marek said. His heart pounded. “The Commander’s good little boy is far from home, isn’t he?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAREK

Jeru stared at Marek like he’d seen a ghost. Except for a row of violet ravens stitched along his right lapel and a pin of Nizahl’s crest carefully obscured beneath the flap of his chest pocket, Jeru was dressed like the rest of the soldiers. The hidden pin marked him as the biggest threat in the room, the one all arrows should take aim at.

“You tombs-damned idiot” were the first words out of Jeru’s mouth, exhaled in a disbelieving rush. “What are you doing here?”

Marek frowned. “Don’t call me an idiot.”

“Don’t call—” Jeru touched the top of his curly hair, perhaps to ensure there wasn’t blood seeping out of his head. “Marek, why are you in Nizahl? In atraining compound?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Marek could feel himself begin to devolve with defensiveness, his grip on maturity deteriorating under the weight of his panic. Sefa considered it one of his worst habits. Faced with the urge to mock the man likely tasked with murdering him, Marek couldn’t disagree.

“A guardsman has to pay a visit anytime a compound welcomes more than two hundred new recruits! His Highness almost sentVaun. Do you understand what Vaun would have done if he found you here?” Jeru sounded faintly nauseated. From a Nizahl guardsman, who had seen more bloodshed and horror than most men encountered in ten lifetimes, the unease was no small thing. “Andyou closed the door. Recruits are instructed to leave their doors open during a visit to permit ease of inspection.”

Oh. Maybe relying on the stories he’d heard from his siblings wasn’t a foolproof method of blending in. The blunder made Marek’s voice rough with aggression. “Well, it’s not Vaun who found me. What areyougoing to do?” Marek still hadn’t lowered his arms from their defensive pose.

“What am I going to do?” Jeru sank into the only chair in the room and clasped his hands together. Strain showed itself in the lines creasing his face. “Excellent question.”

Marek measured the distance between Jeru and the door. Jeru had the muscles and the training. Even Marek wasn’t brash enough to believe he could win a fight against the Heir’s guardsman. He had exactly one option.

Marek bolted for the door.

He managed to open it an entire inch before Jeru grabbed his collar and yanked him back. Marek, reacting on pure instinct, swung without aim or finesse. His fist connected with the hard resistance of a jaw, eliciting a hiss from Jeru.

His satisfaction enjoyed a short life. Jeru, who had been holding Marek’s writhing form at arm’s length as one might keep a grip on a rabid cat, reared his arm back and struck Marek so forcefully that for a minute, Marek wondered if he’d swallowed his own teeth. If Jeru didn’t still have a grip on his collar, Marek would be a human-size hole in the ground.

“Stop. Fighting!” Jeru dragged Marek until they were almost nose-to-nose. “He wants me to bring you back to the Citadel!Alive.”

The world stopped.

---