Page 68 of Legacy of the Heirs
“Please tell us you found it after all that,” Issam joked. Nyzaia reached the hand void of any scar for his large one, allowing him to haul her effortlessly over the edge. Before answering, she peered back over to ensure Farid was climbing. “He is one fast climber.” Issam whistled.
Farid was already halfway up the rope as Jabir peered over.
“Well?” Rafik asked, continuing to monitor the rope they had staked in the ground. Nyzaia nodded, and Isaam grinned like an excitable child. “Let us see it then.”
“Farid has it,” she said, and the three men frowned. “It would not allow me to take it.”
“It’s odd that it would not allow its true owner to possess it,” Rafik said, voicing her thoughts. She hummed but kept her eyes on the edge of the rock, waiting for Farid to appear. Perhaps it was meant for the true heir, which she never intended to be—despite whatthe prophecy suggests. Or maybe it was a defence mechanism to prevent younger siblings or distant relatives from attempting to usurp the throne with the talisman’s power. Jabir reached for Farid’s hand, the scar visible on his palm.
“What is that?” Jabir asked as Farid hastily let go and stepped back. Nyzaia checked to see if any of the other men had noticed while Jabir reached for Farid’s hand again but stopped at the coldness in Farid’s eyes.
“What is what?” Rafik asked.
“There is a scar on your hand,” Jabir said, glancing to where Farid crossed his arms.
“I have many scars on my hands,” said Farid, and Nyzaia winced at the memories of his own fire creating those scars and the pain emanating from him.
“That was different. It was raised, like it was new.” Jabir stepped towards Farid, who hesitated before stepping back. Sensing Farid’s discomfort, Nyzaia intervened.
“It is not important right now,” Nyzaia said with queenly authority, a tone that was becoming second nature. “We need to return to the Neutral City.”
“Nyzaia,” Issam said, and she turned her head at his solemn tone. Issam, Rafik, and Jabir stood in a line of mismatched heights and builds, yet they shared the same tight-lipped frown.
“What is wrong?” she asked. Farid edged towards her until he stood by her side.
“While you were both down there, we”—Rafik gestured to the men standing either side of him—“were talking.”
“About what?” Nyzaia snapped, immediately regretting her tone. Rafik rubbed the back of his neck and averted his gaze, and Issam took over. He was always more straightforward.
“What that boy said about the Red Stones is not okay, Nyzaia,” he said firmly. “There is no one there to maintain the way of things or keep them in check.” He stepped forward, his hands somewhat pleading. Nyzaia was forced to consider how much their lives had also changed since she became queen. The Red Stones was a culture—a way of life—yet her syndicate lost that the moment they followed her to the palace.
“You know why you appointed each of those heads,” Isaam continued.Ruthlessness, leadership, dedication.“And you know without someone there to oversee their operations that a power struggle will soon ensue, perhaps even a war among them in your realm.” Nyzaia did not like where this was going.
“What am I to do?” she exclaimed. “I cannot be in two places at once.” Nor did she believe the people of Keres would respond well when discovering their queen had been an assassin.
“We are not suggestingyoulead.” Jabir sighed, shuffling on his feet.
“Then who?” she demanded. Farid’s presence burned beside her as the three men exchanged a look. Slowly, Nyzaia nodded, finally understanding. “You three?”
She turned her back on them and fiddled with the saddle of her horse, hiding the tears she furiously blinked away. She could not lose Tajana and the rest of her syndicate in one fell swoop. Her family.
“Not all of us,” Jabir replied. Nyzaia forced herself to turn, catching Farid’s eye. He appeared uncertain, and she felt his questions sitting within her chest like a swinging pendulum. Jabir raised his chin. “I will stay with you and Farid. Rafik and Issam are well paired, brains and brawn.”
“We described my position as a little more than simplybrawnlast night,” Issam jabbed him, but Jabir ignored him as he met Nyzaia’s eye. She turned over the suggestion but could think only of their absence by her side. Farid voiced her thoughts.
“How would the queen know if your plan to monitor the new council is successful?” he asked, folding his arms. Jabir studied him for a moment.
“We are a direct extension of you, Nyzaia. We are family. They are not leaving you,” Jabir reassured her, stepping forward again until he was only steps away. “With Rafik and Issam overseeing the Pillar Heads and in turn, the Red Stones as a whole, you will have an understanding of what is going on. It can help you rule.” Jabir reached for her hands, and she let him. It did not go unnoticed when he grazed the underside of her palm where the raised scar marked her skin. His face did not falter. “We will all meet once a week for formal debriefs, and of course, we still want our regular nights of cards.” He tried to smile, but must have noticed her lipquiver. “You are in safe hands with Farid and I. You can let them do this.” Jabir squeezed her left hand, and only her left. He knew they were tied.
Nyzaia did not fear a loss of safety. She feared losing two people who distracted her from the pain of Tajana with their playful bickering and bets. Nevertheless, Nyzaia knew little of the Red Stones since leaving and becoming queen. It was selfish of her to make them stay. As queen of Keres, she did not have the luxury of returning, not when they might need to gather weapons in the coming weeks or months, with the threat of darkness and creatures likely to arrive again—perhaps in her realm, this time. Nyzaia nodded in acceptance of their proposal and her personal sacrifice.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Larelle
Larelle shuddered as she breathed in the smell of comfort and security. The breeze from the terrace blew in the familiar scent of water-drowned trees from the warmth at her right while the smell of rosemary salt rose off Zarya’s dark curls as she rested on Larelle’s lap. She combed her fingers through Zarya’s hair, loosening the spirals as she went. The rise and fall of her daughter’s chest kept her calm. Alvan had taken Larelle straight to her chambers without having to ask, and she had not left since, remaining glued to her daughter’s side until the sun began to set. She memorised the curve of Zarya’s lips, the light flush to her skin, and the few freckles scattered across her nose, which Olden always said his wife had. Larelle shuddered once more, but this time at the thought of being taken from her daughter again.
Alvan’s gentle hand squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into it. The bed dipped as Larelle slowly shifted to make room, careful not to wake Zarya. It did not take long for her to fall asleep, her mind returning to comfort and safety now her mother had returned. Larelle had expected tears, hysterics, or hundreds of questions from her daughter, but when Larelle walked through the chamber door to where Zarya sat crossed-legged on the terrace, she had simply run to her quietly and gripped her legs. She bent down to embrace her daughter, praying this was real and she would not wake up against a wet rock wall to the sound of creatures outside it.
