Page 4 of The Jasad Crown

Neat. Predictable—like this entire conversation.

Rodan didn’t take his eyes off the tainted glass. “Time has diminished the truth of her daughter’s treachery. She cannot be relied upon when it comes to Sayali.”

“I am sure Sayali felt similarly.”

Meeting Sefa’s mother had been a strange experience. She’d wasted an hour preparing tea and honey cake, jittery with apologies as she rushed to accommodate Arin and his guardsmen. It was almost,almosta perfect replica of her daughter’s endearing mannerisms. Except where Sefa’s eyes were always warm with mirth, a void tunneled through her mother’s. The rumors of her long-lost daughter appearing with the Nizahl Champion had unsettled her, and as he’d anticipated, Arin’s careful questions rattled the last of her defenses. He finished dissecting the truth from her before his untouched tea went cold.

Arin crossed his legs. “Sayali—Sefa—spent much time in my company. What I know of her is this: she is entirely led by her sense of right and wrong, she hates to be watched while she eats, and the only obstacle interfering with her loyalty to her friend was her fear of you.”

“I can assure you, sire, I would never—”

Counselor Rodan absorbed the impassive set of Arin’s features.

Then, a marvel.

Like a canvas stripped of its paint, the panic drained out of Rodan. In its stead waited a chilling blankness. “Well, here we are.”

Arin’s lips curved in a humorless smile. He considered it a personal victory every time he convinced a beast to show him its teeth.

“You have a choice,” Arin said. “A kinder choice than you deserve,but a fair one.” He nodded to the twin glasses. “Drink from the glass on the right, and your atrocities die with you. Your wife will give you a decent burial, and your name will not be stricken from our records. My father and the other counselors will lay the royal wreath on your headstone. You will have a grave for Sayali to spit on.”

Rodan licked his cracked lips, fixing on the poisoned glass. “And if I drink from the left?”

“A drink from the left is your death delayed. You will live—for a time. But when your death catches up to you, it will not be gentle. I am a creative man, Counselor, with limited opportunities to properly express it. Your killers will arrive with instructions to exact horrors upon you that your very worst nightmares cannot fathom. Those who bother to mourn you will remember you as a traitor and thief who stole from the Citadel and vanished. And when you eventually die, it will be with tears of relief on your lips. What remains of your body will be disassembled, burned, and cast into the river.”

And since Rodan had paid him the courtesy of showing Arin his true face, Arin repaid him in kind. His voice hardened, crystallizing beneath the force of the violence clenched behind his teeth. “Personally, I hope you choose the second. Sayali may have haunted you, but I will hunt you. I will see to it that every shadow in your wake takes my form. Every sound you strain to hear in the night will whisper in my voice. I will feed you your death in doses and enjoy watching it rot you from the inside. The glass on the right, Rodan? That is your one chance at mercy.”

Rodan stared at Arin, frozen.

After a lifetime, a laugh shuddered out of the frail High Counselor. “I warned them, you know. Even as a child, it was clear what you were. What you are.”

This conversation had already taken longer than Arin allotted for, but he supposed he could indulge a dead man. “What am I, Counselor Rodan?”

The High Counselor regarded Arin as one might gaze upon ropes hanging from the gallows. The terror was the first genuine emotion Arin had seen from him tonight.

“Nizahl’s doom,” Rodan whispered. “The end of everything we have built.”

The High Counselor gripped the poisoned glass. “My only regret is dying before I see my prophecy fulfilled.”

Rodan drained the talwith in one pull, slamming the empty glass on the table. “But it won’t be long now, Arin of Nizahl. Your legacy is death, and I am merely the first sacrifice.”

Outside, the rain pummeled the side of the Citadel, pouring over the windows in a dull roar.

Mildly bemused, Arin arched a single brow. “Do not grant yourself such credit, Rodan. If death is my legacy, it was anointed long ago, by adversaries far more worthy than you.”

Rodan went rigid before Arin could be regaled with further pontification. The High Counselor’s chair screeched across the floor as he bent forward, gripping his stomach with a groan.

Reaching for the glass on the left, Arin observed the sweat pouring from Rodan’s shiny head. Drops splattered on the table, which shook beneath the dying High Counselor’s tremors.

Arin took a sip, greeting the burn of the talwith like an old friend. “The night of the Victor’s Ball, I made a decision.”

Five days ago, a wing of the Citadel burned.

Five days ago, the Malika of Jasad stepped forward in Sylvia the village apprentice’s skin.

Five days ago, Arin strangled Sultana Vaida until blood broke in her eyes. One more second, and the ruler of Lukub would have been dead in his hands.

Control. For others, it was a pillar. Something steadfast to hold them up, to hide behind when the pressure became too much.

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