Page 60 of The Jasad Crown

Sefa spent the next several minutes listening as Vaida described the different personalities of the plants growing in her garden. She had to wait for Vaida to pause in her rant about how lilacs had the attitude of roses but the market value of sunflowers before she could speak. “All done.”

“Perfect!” Vaida tossed her arms over her head and yawned. “My skin feels absolutely refreshed. You did an excellent job, Zahra.”

Thrown, Sefa twisted her lips into a hesitant smile. The Sultana’s moods shifted like spring rain. The whiplash between storm and sunshine left Sefa wishing she could duck for cover.

Vaida strolled to a curtain at the left of her bed and pushed it aside. A cavernous room stuffed with more colors, fabrics, and fashions than any human should ever possess struck Sefa speechless. Goodness, were the external wardrobes just for overflow?

“Oh, and darling”—Vaida pivoted in the doorframe, as though struck with a sudden thought—“the servants are toying with you. I never eat breakfast in my chambers, and I don’t rise until the sun is at its peak.”

Mortification flooded Sefa in a hot wash. She tried not to press the back of her hands to her overheating cheeks. That explained the smirks and derisive tones. Salwa must have been trying to warn her. “Oh.”

“Zahra.”

Sefa looked up, meeting Sultana Vaida’s thoughtful gaze. It was a moment unmarked by slyness, whimsy, or any of the other strange traits Vaida flipped through like a gambler with a trusty roll of coins.

“My palace was built by an Awala who crafted illusions more perfect and persuasive than any reality. Baira… she was never just one thing. Unpredictability made her dangerous. If you wish to last in the Ivory Palace, I suggest you fiercely guard that heart of yours. Its softness is an irresistible temptation to those of us with teeth.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

ARIN

An hour before dawn, Arin visited the prisoners.

Mildew and stale sweat wafted over Arin as he took the narrow stairs one at a time. Carved into the wall, the steps descended into the Citadel’s basement at a steep angle. Anyone in a rush would hurtle over the side and break their neck on the stone floor below.

A gate mottled with rust creaked when Arin fit his key into the lock, and the tendrils of conversation floating from the basement abruptly ceased. The lock groaned, scraping metal as it turned. Shoving the gate into the wall with his boot, Arin wiped his gloves on his handkerchief and walked into the prison.

Moss wreathed the torches molded to the walls, the corroded bases struggling to maintain a flame in the damp, airless space. Rivulets of yesterday’s rain dripped from the low ceiling, slicking the stones under Arin’s boots.

“Sire.” Bul appeared around the corner, flanked by two new recruits. Afan and Ladar rubbed sleep from their eyes and hurriedly tried to fix their uniforms. The sight of the dried blood on Arin’s head and the bruises shading his face stopped them in their tracks.

“Don’t let me interrupt a good night’s sleep,” Arin said.

Afan turned the color of an overripe plum. He opened his mouth. Nothing emerged.

“Has anyone been to visit?”

Bul straightened. “No, my liege. Should we be expecting someone?”

Rawain’s envoys hadn’t alerted the guards to the coming execution. The Mufsids had no idea they were spending their last night among the living.

Perfect.

“Go to the gardens and help the recruits prepare the Wickalla. Take Afan and Ladar. Pack a wagon with as much water as you can fit. They’ll need it.”

To his credit, Bul hid his surprise at the abrupt turn of events. “Shall I also summon the next guard rotation, my liege?”

This time, when Arin pinched the spark of irritation, it scorched his fingers. “Do you feel my orders are deficient, Bul?”

“No!” The guard flushed. “I only meant—”

“I did not ask what you meant. No one enters until I leave.”

The soldiers sprang into motion. Arin didn’t move until he heard their shuffling footsteps on the stairs vanish. As soon as the gate creaked shut behind them, Arin placed a hand against the wall, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass.

You’re bleeding and I don’t want to hurt you.

Arin did not know where to begin to make sense of how the Jasad Heir kept appearing near Arin without her magic. He had wondered if she knew, back in the garden, but she must. However little Arin may esteem some of her general choices, there was no faulting Sylvia’s sense of self-preservation. She had touched his naked shoulder with her bare hand—something she wouldn’t have risked even with the safety of her cuffs, let alone with her full magic freed.

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