Page 30 of The Jasad Crown
Vaida stared at Sefa. Her lips eased into a smile.
“Consider it done.”
CHAPTER NINE
ARIN
Arin reclined in his seat at the head of an excessively long table and imagined setting fire to the room.
Wishful thinking, but the idea tempted Arin more the longer he watched the council bicker. A particularly opaque Nizahlan proverb came to mind, one his father had been partial to when teaching Arin about the foils of pursuing a plan out of passion instead of strategy.Those with hunger and no vision will catch the duck and gorge themselves on its feathers.
He hadn’t understood it until this moment, sitting silently while men and women of supposedly advanced intelligence scrambled to ensure their horrible ideas were heard louder than the horrible ideas of the person next to them.
The war wing of the Citadel was the only one of the three—formerly four—wings of the Citadel strictly forbidden to anyone other than the council, royals, and their guards. The first time he walked into Hatem Hall, shortly after the Victor’s Ball, Arin had counted no less than seventy-seven active spiderwebs.
Lanterns hung above the iron-banded table, dangling from a peaked glass ceiling. The chairs were built many millennia ago from the oldest trees in Essam, and the austere wood had seated thousands of increasingly foolish counselors passing through Hatem Hall. Basalt had been carved into sharp, long raven feathers and forged tothe back of the Commander’s chair at the head of the table. Their shadow stretched like raised wings on either side of Arin.
When the counselors’ blathering finally breached the outer limits of Arin’s patience, he spoke. “Sama, correct me if I’m mistaken, but are you suggesting we rip apart every kingdom’s poorest population with an overwhelming show of military force on the slight chance we’ll capture members of a rebel group I have already scoured those same kingdoms for?”
“What other choice do we have, sire?” Sama asked. Her pin-straight hair fell in an assertive cut around her square jaw, giving Arin the impression of a soldier playing at accountant. “The rebellions in Omal’s lower villages have made it impossible to search for the Jasad Heir without meddling in Omal’s affairs.”
Three schools of thought—thoughtbeing a word Arin hesitated to apply to the intellectual backwash spewing from everyone in the room—had solidified in the last several hours. The longer Arin considered them, the harder it became to mask his scorn.
Arin tapped a finger against the edge of the table, counting the ridges. Disdain dripped from his voice. “There will be no Nizahlan interference in the lower village rebellions. The chances of the Jasad Heir hiding in the Omalian lower villages are negligible, and I will not violate our own laws on a poorly calculated gamble.”
Rebellion had been brewing against the Omal crown for some time, and it had only grown stronger after Felix saw fit to interrupt Mahair’s Alcalah waleema by hurling a child in front of his horses.
In this, Nizahl’s founding laws had always been absolute: unless it involved magic or directly compromised Nizahlan lives, they would not interfere with the internal affairs of another kingdom. The villagers could dismember Felix and hoist him on the spires of his own palace, and if it did not involve magic, Arin would execute any soldier who walked onto Omalian soil to intervene.
A few other counselors wanted to gather Sultana Vaida, Queen Hanan, and King Murib to secure their support and convince them to give Nizahl complete freedom to search their territories until the Jasad Heir was found.
Arin crossed one leg over the other. He affected a tone as lazy as his posture, befitting the value of the proposition. “King Murib hasn’t strategized beyond what he plans to have for breakfast since the Jasad War. Sorn runs most of the army’s operations. And as we know, the whole of the Orban Heir’s time is dedicated to searching for a cure for his comatose Champion.”
Sorn’s continued grief over his Champion had surprised everyone, including Arin. Rarely did Champions live to see the end of the Alcalah—a fact Arin would have thought Sorn needed no reminding of.
Even now, Sorn’s frantic bellowing while his Champion hung limp in his arms rang in Arin’s ears. The sound had played in the background of his own consuming panic as Arin dragged the Jasad Heir out of the sand. Though her head hadn’t gone under like Diya of Orban, her limp body and shallow breathing had been sufficient to strip Arin of any sense of relief.
Arin shook off the uninvited recollection. Until Sorn gave up on finding a cure for Diya, he was useless.
Arin continued, “The Zinish Accords are the only reason Sultana Vaida has not instigated war with us. I see no worthwhile reason to offer the Sultana a way to implicate Nizahl in a breach of the accords by involving her in our search.”
“The Sultana has a long history of running right up against the barriers of the Zinish Accords before backing down,” Layla added, speaking for the first time. The Nizahl emissary had been quietly taking notes since she sat down.
Arin nodded. “Layla is right. For years, Sultana Vaida has tested the limits of the Zinish Accords like a cat with a mouse under itspaw: too clever to risk removing its grip entirely and too mischievous to resist pressing down.”
“What about Omal? Are we positive Queen Hanan holds no sway over her nephew?” Faheem asked. The newly appointed High Counselor ran the pad of his thumb over his brow, studying his notes with a weariness Arin knew all too well.
Faheem was the second person Arin had appointed to the council. The first was Layla. One by one, Arin’s people were replacing his father’s.
It had not gone unnoticed.
Gersiny, the oldest counselor in the room, shook his head. “Queen Hanan barely leaves the Omal palace, and reports have come back saying her health has taken a turn for the worse. The shock of seeing her son’s daughter alive has been difficult.”
“What does it matter? She’s been obsolete since the Blood Summit,” said Sama. “Felix should be our target. He helms the kingdom and its substantial resources. He has every reason to want the Jasad Queen captured. Her father was first Heir of Omal; her blood gives her a direct claim to his throne.”
“Felix is a spoiled child,” Faheem replied. “The magnitude of an allyship is beyond his comprehension, and we cannot rely on the support of a vacillating ruler who holds his power like a rattle in a baby’s fist. We already have access into Omal and the rest of the kingdoms through the Madeen Declaration—as long as the soldiers do not exceed their bounds, we have written authority to search for the Jasad Queen as we see fit.”
“We don’t even have enough soldiers to spare,” Bayoum said, and thus arose the third—and most grating—school of thought.
