Page 90 of The Jasad Crown

My grandparents had never spoken of my father. Neither had Niphran, beyond an incoherent sentence or two during her fits. Emre was a mystery I had made peace with leaving unsolved, and the entire time… the entire time, Rory had known him better than anyone.

“When he fell in love with your mother, he became like a man possessed. He would have laid down his life to please her. But your mother wasn’t like him. Shewasa warrior, an Heir, slotted to be the future Qayida. Emre could offer her little in the world of warfare and combat, and he had no magic. So he threw himself into the one way he might support your mother: a study of magic. How it might be strengthened, manipulated, transformed. I don’t know if he wanted to find a way to draw magic into himself or merely to enhance Niphran’s.”

I exhaled slowly to conceal my dawning comprehension. Emre was not merely researching magic; if he had wanted to aid my mother, he would have been researching magic mining.

Niphran could roar astride the biggest horse in the kingdom, swing a sword three times her size, and kill someone without dislodging a strand of hair from the neat bun at the nape of her neck. She was more likely to use a book as firewood than to crack one open. Emre would have had to know pretentious drivel about magical history and long-forgotten artifacts would not earn her respect.

But a solution to her parents’ profane practices? A way to rectify the harm they had done and prevent its repetition?

“When he learned she was pregnant with you, everything changed,” Rory continued, unaware of my racing thoughts. “Niphran could feel your power, and it terrified her beyond measure. Emre applied what he had learned about magic to try to understand yours, but it defied reason. Your parents were planning to take you and flee Jasad as soon as you were born.”

“But my grandparents killed him,” I said tonelessly. This part of the story never changed. “And Niphran went mad.” Rory didn’t need to know Niphran’s madness had been a result of Hanim and Soraya’s yearslong poisoning. The spindle of this tale kept turning, and the threads were already too tangled.

Rory nodded. “I retired from my post after the Omal Heir’s death and came here. But I still cared about Queen Hanan, and long journeys took a toll on her health. Before the Blood Summit, I would join her on those trips. Several of which were to Usr Jasad, where I had the dubious pleasure of watching a peculiar little girl climbing trees in the courtyard and sending the palace staff into hysterics.” Rory cocked his head. “Ten years later, she wound up at my door, covered in blood.”

I clutched the journal to my chest. I knew this history—had vividly and brutally lived it—but hearing it alongside the truth of Rory’s identity shook me. Of all the places I could have gone, all the doors I could have darkened, why Rory’s? It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

After I killed Hanim, I had barely been alive myself. I had walked without seeing, focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other. I could have wound up anywhere. Mahair hadn’t been the closest village, not by several miles.

I thought of the Sareekh. My magic had destroyed the protective bubble because it knew my best chance of survival was on the other side. Could it have led me to Rory? Had it wielded some control even behind the cuffs and guided me to the only person capable of keeping me safe?

My heart plummeted into my stomach. The appearances to Arin—they always happened near the peak of my panic. My magic had been whisking me away to the one person who could pull me back from the edge.

Terror raced through me.

You speak as though your magic has a will of its own.

I tightened my grip on the journal. “Thank you for this,” I said. I didn’t own anything belonging to my parents. I escaped the Blood Summit with the clothes on my back, and the war had scorched the rest to the ground. “Rusheed.”

“My pleasure, Essiya.” He tapped the top of the book. “He would be proud of you, you know. You’re like him. Passionate. Committed. Reckless for the people you love.”

I crooked a sardonic smile at the chemist. Such sweet nonsense. “We both know Emre would be horrified by me. He was a bookish royal incapable of so much as swatting a fly. He would have expected a daughter who read poetry in a garden and played with frogs instead of serving them to you in buckets.” I traced the edge of the journal with dirt-crusted fingers. “I am his blood, but I am no one’s daughter.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

SYLVIA

Raya emptied two rooms for the Urabi, settling in her guests with an overwhelming show of hospitality. The warm welcome had clearly unnerved Efra, and he kept eyeing Raya like she might fold his body into the furnace if he relaxed a single muscle.

I found Lateef in my old room, reading in the chair by the corner. Since I wasn’t a guest, Raya had graciously tossed me into a room with four other girls, so I would be sleeping on the rug in front of the hearth tonight.

“Essiya,” Lateef said, surprised. He closed the book, setting it on his lap. “Are the preparations finished?”

“Mostly.” I scuffed the toe of my slipper against the carpet. “Medhat and Namsa went out to finish the rest.”

“Good, good. The Omalian soldiers will have a real fight waiting for them.”

When I continued to linger in the doorway, Lateef gestured at the journal hanging by my side. “Is it yours?”

“My father’s.” I lifted a shoulder. “I was wondering if I could read it in here. I wouldn’t be a bother. It’s just, the girls keep asking me questions, and I need a moment of silence.”

“Of course. I am hurt you felt the need to ask.” Easy as that, Lateef picked up his book and resumed reading.

I took my spot at the head of the bed as though I had never left.I propped my back against the wall, knees against my chest and my feet tucked under the covers.

Time to see what my father had to say.

Frankly, it was a miracle my grandparents hadn’t tried to kill Emre sooner.

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