Page 123 of The Jasad Crown
The groan echoed, ricocheting from the peak of the domed ceiling to the farthest corner of the cavernous throne room.
No guards rushed out to meet me. Aside from the squelch of my boots against the gleaming blue and white tiles, there was no sound at all.
Breathtaking sapphires shimmered in concentric spirals around the glass dome at the peak of the high ceiling.
At the other end of the throne room, a platform rose like an island in the midst of a foaming sea. In the center, the Omal throne.
Were I a more geologically inclined woman, I might wonder what sort of stone the enormous rochelya wrapped around the throne wascomposed of. The ethereal blue of its scales reminded me of Suhna Sea just before dusk. Its long tail was lashed around the throne’s leg, the reptile’s head looming above the back of the seat. Empty eyes glowered across the room, and a fearsome jaw unhinged in a silent roar.
Queen Hanan watched me from beneath its shadow.
I sheathed my dagger, taking a tentative step forward. “Your Majesty.” I cleared my throat. Should I have called her grandmother or Teta Hanan? I’d spent the later part of my youth in a keep full of village orphans—I had no idea how noble grandchildren addressed their elders in Omal.
I approached slowly, hands raised. There were three exits in the throne room; three places where guards could stream in and completely surround me if she called out.
“I wanted an audience with you, Queen Hanan. When last we met, I was Nizahl’s Champion. Today, I come before you as Malika of Jasad, and I—” I swallowed. “I hope to leave as Heir of Omal.”
A tiny sound broke the tomblike silence of the room. It sounded like water leaking from a roof.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Sunlight speared through the dome and scattered against the sapphires, sending arches of brilliant blue light dancing across the walls. They illuminated the blood dripping from the foot of the throne, the sheen of red spreading over the iridescent tiles. I followed the blood to the platform, where a pool had collected around the rochelya’s tail.
I climbed the steps to the platform.
She provoked him.
My boots tracked red prints across the river of blood.
Commissioning that portrait had been a message. The first decisive action by a Queen who had moldered for decades.
The first and final.
Queen Hanan stared sightlessly from the throne. She wore a blushing pink gown that stood in sick contrast to her bluish complexion. Knives pinned her hands to the arms of the chair. A deep gash across her throat exposed the sliver of her spine where her neck had been sawed to the bone. The point of a sword breached her forehead. It had been thrust through the back of the throne and into her skull to keep it raised.
Something glinted in the rochelya’s open jaw.
Stepping close to the corpse of my grandmother, I lifted the object from between the rochelya’s teeth.
A glass crown.
The platform rumbled. Ah—therewere the guards. An army of them, it sounded like.
I closed Queen Hanan’s eyes. With the end of my sleeve, I wiped the blood at the corner of her mouth.
“I haven’t held a very favorable opinion of you, Teta,” I murmured. The thunder of hundreds of approaching footsteps echoed in the throne room. “I cannot change the past, but I can offer you this: I will choose to believe that you would have said yes.”
Three sets of doors burst open. Rows of uniformed Omalian soldiers marched in front of the platform, spears pointed as they filled the room in neat lines. Boots squeaked over the shining marble floor. The chandeliers dangling on long chains from the ceiling swayed. A statue of King Toran in the corner keeled forward, cracking against a pillar.
I turned my back to my grandmother and gazed out at the sea of Omalian uniforms. Too many; far too many. They parted at the center as a lone figure strolled toward the platform. A real crown sat above his feathered black hair. Gleeful hazel eyes shone in his loathsome face, resting over a nose identical to mine.
“Hello, cousin,” Felix said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SYLVIA
Igazed out at the expanse of Omalian uniforms and wondered how many more waited outside the throne room. Felix had to have sent at least four or five thousand to attack the villager armies amassing at the perimeter of the upper town. How many soldiers would be left in reserve? Tens of thousands?
