Page 84 of The Jasad Crown

“You have a map of the mountains?” I asked faintly. “A detailed map?”

“I have several, but they’re far from finished.”

He had known where I was—he just hadn’t known how to get to me.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to study the creatures again. A crocodile lashed the point of its tail, sending water arcing at my feet. I winced. I had ridden the Sareekh. These crocodiles were barely the size of one of the Sareekh’s scales. And yet—

I shuddered and turned to Medhat. I’d met the man briefly my first day in the mountain and instantly wanted to saw off his tongue. On his worst days, Marek could talk for several hours straight, but Medhat—the Jasadi possessed a bottomless well of energy and an eagerness to wield it against every unwitting fool in his path. Fooled by his youthful demeanor and gangly limbs, I had given him seventeen years of age until Namsa revealed he was older than me by eight years.

Mere minutes in his overwhelmingly cheerful presence, and I already wanted to lie down for a week. I pointed at him. “If you try to slap me again, I will liberate your hand from your body and feed it to my kitmers as a treat.”

The group made a disgusted face. I pressed on, puffing my chest. “With that said, I’m afraid you are going to need to tie me to the crocodile.”

It took sixteen hours to reach land. Sixteen hours traveling by water beneath the Desert Flats, slipping in and out of the river as the crocodiles swam at top speed.

Marek and Sefa werenevergoing to believe me.

In the back of my head, I had been keeping a collection of all the stories I wanted to share with them when I saw them again. Stories from the mountain, certainly, but also from before. Stories from my childhood and Usr Jasad. About the Blood Summit and Rawainand Hanim. They had learned I was Essiya minutes before my magic destroyed the wing of the Citadel.

The minute they knew me completely was also the minute I lost them. How very consistent.

I wrung my hair out for the third time, grimacing at the twinge in my sore arms. We’d made camp for the night on the outskirts of Essam Woods. The trees this far northwest were more scattered than I was accustomed to, the wide gaps between them forming doorways of darkness around the perimeter.

The seven of us huddled next to the crackling fire. Maia passed around soggy feeno sandwiches, the fluffy bread sliced down the center and filled with gibna rumi. I hadn’t had gibna rumi inyears. Not much of a loss, since the overly salty flavor and crumbly texture of the cheese always dried out my mouth. But food was food, and I was ravenous.

Someone scooted closer, an arm slinging onto the log braced behind me. “I think I saw you shiver earlier. If you need anyone to warm you up, I’ve been told my services are more than adequate,” Medhat said. Mischief glittered in eyes bluer than a spring sky.

I squinted suspiciously.

Silver and gold swirled in his irises. Flames danced on the ends of his fingers and melted into his calluses, flowing like red rivers through the lines of his palm. “Think about it.”

The other reason meeting Medhat exhausted me: he was yet another of the Urabi with a rare magic. They’d called those with the ability to draw forth fire and manipulate it a wakeel el-nar. Their services had been highly coveted in the Jasad military, but of those blessed with the terrifying power, most had the personality of a butterfly. They preferred to flit through life using their fire for festival tricks and royal entertainment instead of lending it to battle.

“Medhat,” Namsa groaned from her sprawl near the fire. She had curled into a ball as soon as we trudged out of the river and hadn’t unfurled. “Leave the Malika alone.”

“We are only having fun,” Medhat pouted. “As a rule, I don’t irritate women who threaten to feed my body parts to their pets.”

He ran a hand through his wavy, sand-brown hair and shot me a grin. “Despite the insult to my honor, I do still try to make sure those women don’t freeze to death.”

“How about you check on the rest of us first?” Efra groused. He had been the most active in our group, gathering wood and arranging makeshift bedding out of scattered leaves, moss, and weeds. An admirable effort, if a wasted one. The upright among us certainly couldn’t unclench our frozen limbs long enough to lie down.

“You will have to forgive Efra,” Medhat shared in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s usually much better mannered.”

My nostrils were too frozen to produce a respectable snort. “If you say so.”

Victory flashed in his toothy grin, and I stifled my groan. He had tricked me out of my stoic silence, and now he had a better notion of what buttons to push.

“Just sleep, Essiya,” Namsa mumbled. “He won’t shut up until you do.”

I rolled to the ground, cushioning my head in the crook of my arm. I was too nervous to sleep, but I could pretend.

After a stretch of petulant silence, Medhat shuffled in Efra’s direction, and I heard him muse, “Do you think I have the right chin shape for a beard?”

Curiously, I didn’t have to fake for long. I breathed the comforting stink of rotten eggs and moss wafting from Hirun; listened to the chirps of crickets buried in winter-eaten tree trunks and self-assured frogs who no longer had a reason to fear a hooded chemist’s apprentice ruining their night. The lullabies of my youth.

Soon, my act became reality, and I slipped into the best sleep I’d had in weeks.

I roused to the sound of hushed voices.

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