Seth sat the Lion Throne, young and greedy and itching to match his grandfather’s conquests—and backed by generals canny and greedy enough to give him a chance.
She pressed the tip of her tongue between her teeth and tried not to scowl. What Kiril said was true—she was his best student, his most trusted agent. And what he didn’t say was true as well, that given a job as important as this she’d die before she disappointed him. He needed her here. But he’d sent her away, and it gnawed.
She tried to relax, but the jolt of hooves stiffened her back and shoulders. Adam rode more easily beside her, his eyes on the trees. The jungle clamored around them, screeching and chirping and rustling. Jewel-bright lizards and long-tailed monkeys watched them from tree branches, calmer than the birds that took flight whenever the clatter of hooves grew close. The trees hid all manner of exotic beasts.
And bands of desperate men as well. She just had to find them. Trade gold and weapons for warriors to wield them. To die for them. Thousands of Sivahri lives in exchange for Selafaïn ones.
She looked up and caught Adam watching her, pale eyes narrowed. She schooled her face and smiled at him. Then she shivered as they passed through a tingling web of wards. The trees fell away and they rode into the courtyard of the Kurun Tam.
The Corundum Hall. A long building of crimson granite, pillared and domed in Assari style. Faces watched them from the wall, bound spirits staring through stone eyes. Neat green lawns stretched within the walls, shaded by slender trees and pruned topiaries—all the jungle’s wildness tamed.
A young stablehand appeared to take charge of their horses, and Isyllt dismounted with a wince and brushed at the dust on her clothes. The gray-green linen hid the worst of it, at least. She breathed deep, tasted magic like spiced lightning in the back of her throat. It tingled down her limbs and prickled the nape of her neck.
They climbed broad red steps and entered a columned courtyard. Isyllt sighed as cool air washed over them—a subtle witchery and a welcome one. A fountain played in the center of the yard and she worked her dry tongue against the roof of her mouth. The air smelled of flowers and incense and clean water.
Isyllt washed her face and hands in the basin beside the door, and she and Adam added their boots and socks to the neat row of sandals and slippers. She didn’t hear the footsteps approach over the splash of the fountain until Adam spun around. She turned as a shadow fell across the stones at her feet.
“Roshani,” the man said, bowing low. Light gleamed on the curve of his shaven head, set mahogany skin aglow. He wore robes of embroidered saffron silk, the hem brushing the tops of his bare feet. “Or should I say good morning?” he asked in Selafaïn. “You must be Lady Iskaldur.”
“Yes.” She lifted her ring in warning as he offered a hand. “I’m hadath.” Unclean. Had she been born in Assar, she would go gloved and veiled and touch no one but the dead.
“Ah. It’s not often we see necromancers here.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips; his skin was warm, his magic warmer still as it whispered against her. His smile was wry and charming. “I’m not devout. My name is Asheris. Vasilios mentioned that he was expecting you. I’ll take you to him.”
“Wait for me,” she said to Adam, and followed Asheris down a shadowed arcade.
Zhirin was late again. The sundial in the Kurun Tam’s courtyard told her it was nearly noon—she should have been at lessons an hour ago. But as Jabbor escorted her up the steps, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“You shouldn’t come in,” she said as they paused on the threshold. It might have been more convincing if she’d taken her hand off his arm.
“Why?” His smile crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. “Will your magic strike me down?”
“Hush.” She stepped inside, toeing off her sandals. Two new pairs of boots rested beside the familiar row of shoes. “You’ll get me in trouble.”
“You’ll get yourself in trouble, you mean.” Jabbor stepped through the doorway, glancing about curiously. He didn’t take off his shoes; Zhirin rolled her eyes but didn’t chide him. It was progress enough that curiosity overcame his distrust of all things Imperial—politeness could come later.