Page 8 of The Jasad Crown

Arin rubbed his eyes and stood, stretching his bones until they popped. He moved to the only window in the library. He took a deep breath, filling his chest with fresh air, and forced his circling thoughts to settle.

Beyond the three towering iron gates protecting the Citadel, the wilderness of Essam Woods waited with a predatory anticipation. Magic may have run dry in the rest of the kingdoms, but Essam… Essam had played host to countless wars between the Awaleen. To bloodshed and magical atrocities Arin’s generous imagination could never stretch far enough to accommodate. If the Mirayah had existed, it wouldn’t have faded like the magic of Lukub, Orban, and Omal. It would not have weakened like Jasad’s.

Like a parasite, the Mirayah would sustain itself on the bleeding magic of the woods. It would be the eyes of Essam, staring back atArin every night as he fought not to saddle his horse and ride into its waiting teeth. Its voice, whispering blood-tipped promises in his ear.

Arin couldn’t shake the feeling that if he struck out on his own, he’d find her.

Arin exhaled harshly, his breath misting the window. He hated this—hated fighting a force that could not be reasoned with, that refused to surrender any ground in Arin’s mind. He would give anything to reach inside his chest and tear out the rot of her. To close his eyes without seeing her face.

Unusual cruelty is your specialty, she had said once, her tone accusatory and full of spite. And maybe she was right, but one thing Arin knew: He would never have done this to her. He would never have let her step toward this precipice with a lie wrapped around her neck. He would never have watched her willingly drop herself over the edge.

Arin took a handkerchief and wiped his breath from the window. Easier for the woods to keep watch.

Lighting another candle, Arin opened the book again.

CHAPTER THREE

SYLVIA

Children’s laughter skittered in the dark.

Ugh. More brats. Didn’t the keep have enough mouths to feed already? Raya insisted on taking in every dusty, nose-picking little orphan Mahair coughed out. There were more cows than people in this Omalian village; where did she keep finding these children? Under a hat?

A voice broke through the chatter, soft and melodious. Sefa?

In the emptiness, Sefa’s name sparked like flint skating across stone.

This woman wasn’t Sefa. She couldn’t be. I sent Sefa away.

How did I send Sefa away?

“Many, many years ago, there once lived a brave and honorable Awal. His name was Rovial, and he was the kindest of all the Awaleen. Do we remember how many Awaleen there were?” the voice that wasn’t Sefa’s said.

“Four!”

“Five!”

“Minna wins! The four Awaleen of our earth were Dania, Rovial, Kapastra, and Baira. Before there was us, there was them. Kapastra became the mother of Omal, known for her terrifying rochelyas and glorious weather magic. Baira was the beacon of beauty, and she built Lukub in her image. Battle beat in Dania’s bones, and she sang its bloody song through Orban. But Rovial was different than hissiblings. He wasn’t searching for a place he could shape to mirror his own spirit. More than anything, Rovial wanted the land to speak to him in its own language. He wandered for years and years, looking for such a land. All his siblings found his plan ridiculous, but Rovial wouldn’t give up. Some say Rovial’s heart was molded from the lights that hang in the night sky, and it lit a path only he could see.”

My fingers twitched.Oh.I had fingers.

“One day, Rovial grew weary from his travels. He found a sturdy tree to rest beneath for the night.”

A date tree. The shape sprouted in my head. I could almost feel the rough bark scratching my palms. Suddenly, it wasn’t a strange voice telling the story, but Hanim’s.

No. Hanim was dead. I killed her twice.

Tension knotted between my shoulder blades. The darkness rippled.

“Rovial slept deeply and soundly. The best sleep of his whole immortal life. When he woke, a rabbit stood near his head. It was chewing on a fallen date and watching him. He stroked its ears and marveled at its tranquility. The air filled his chest with new life. He ate from the tree that had watched over him through the night. ‘This land is for me, and I am for this land,’ he said. But the first problem appeared when he tried to find water to wash down his date. The river cut too far north of the land, and the seawater sweeping the other shore couldn’t be swallowed. So Rovial walked until he found the nearest spot where Hirun flows and pulled it south, stretching the river until it ran all the way down to Janub Aya. This way, the people of his land would never need to travel too far for water.”

Water. I needed water. My mouth tasted awful. I probed the darkness for a way out, but it held firm.

“That land, Rovial’s land, is our true home. It was peaceful before they burned it to ash.”

“Is there anything left?” a child’s voice asked.

“We are what’s left of Jasad.”

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