Page 31 of The Jasad Crown
Years of practice kept Arin’s expression smooth and unreactive. Bayoum’s proposal seemed simple on its face. Reinstitute mandatory conscription across Nizahl, including in the lower villages, and eliminate the middle two tiers of training so the soldiers graduated faster.
Ham-fisted, lazy, and full of flaws. Just like every other idea Bayoum had proposed.
Under Nizahlan law, Arin couldn’t remove a previous appointee to the council without cause. The rule allowed council members to speak truthfully on divisive matters without fearing the loss of their position or wasting time with flattery of the next Commander. Ordinarily, Arin would find the rule useful. Since it guaranteed the continued presence of Bayoum in the council room, he hated it.
Faheem cleared his throat. New as he was to his role, he hadn’t quite found his footing among his new colleagues. “We can’t risk what would happen if news of the Jasad Heir’s existence spread.”
Bayoum groaned. Dishwater-brown hair curved over and behind the counselor’s head like a peeled banana, as slippery as his ever-shifting eyes and too-ready smile. “As I’ve repeated, the news will spread eventually. If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after. The Urabi did not risk their necks breaking into the Citadel to abduct her so they could tuck her away and let her go to waste.”
“We still don’t know it was an abduction. She probably snuck them onto the Citadel’s grounds before the third trial and gave them the signal to attack during the ball,” Sama interjected. She firmly believed the Victor and the Urabi had been in communication the entire time.
Arin’s fingers curled instinctively, his gloves sparing his fingernails from splintering against the table.
It wasn’t the first time Sama had shared her theory. In fact, she wasn’t even the first person to entertain the possibility that the Urabi and the Heir had been colluding throughout the Alcalah.
The Jasad Heir had been lying to him since the beginning. It would make perfect sense that she’d been lying about more than just her identity.
Except, Arin didn’t see the use of it. He didn’t see what she stoodto gain from enduring the Alcalah and risking her life in each trial if she was merely waiting for the right moment to join the Urabi.
If escape had been her goal all along, she would have taken it when he offered.
Run. Take a horse and get as far away as you can.
Be free.
Faheem cleared his throat, reclaiming Arin’s attention. “If we conscript half the lower villages, they’ll find out about her much sooner than if we let nature take its course.”
“It’s not nature that’ll decide!” Bayoum threw his arms into the air, and the conversation promptly devolved.
Arin counted the table’s ridges.
Five years ago, Arin’s elimination of non-wartime conscription in the lower villages had been met with outrage. He had explained it just once: nobody should be wearing Nizahl’s uniform or lifting a sword in its name who did not wish to.
Bayoum had made a career of attempting to reverse every policy Arin implemented. The existence of the Jasad Heir had given him a perfect opportunity to take aim at conscription.
As long as Arin remained Nizahl’s Commander, his word on all military dictates reigned. No amount of impassioned arm-waving from Bayoum could change the simple fact that unless Arin died, appointed his offspring as successor, or was found guilty of treason against Nizahl, the forces of this kingdom answered to him, and him alone.
The only other way to remove a sitting Commander was to hold a Nitraus Vote.
The legal mechanism had been put into place in 930 A.E. in response to the actions of a particularly maniacal Commander, and it had been used exactly three times throughout history. The Nitraus Vote allowed the council, with the support of the Supreme, to override a Commander in order to instigate or end a war. A NitrausVote meant all faith had been lost in the authority and judgment of the Commander.
The Nitraus Vote was a relic. A few paltry lines among thousands in Nizahl’s legal texts. Arin had forced himself to consider the option—to unravel that particular future within his mind’s eye—until he felt comfortable setting it aside.
To his right, Layla yawned just as she caught Arin’s eye. She blushed a bright red and straightened in her seat.
She turned back to the squabbling with an attentiveness bordering on comical, clearly embarrassed. Not as though Arin blamed her for losing interest, but Layla took immense pride in her work. Most people were surprised when Arin introduced Layla as the inter-kingdom emissary, since everything about her radiated guilelessness. Her round, heart-shaped face and wide eyes. The golden hair drifting around her shoulders like a cloud of sunshine, left loose to give her the opportunity to demurely tuck the strands behind her ears.
The impression of softness and vulnerability was one she had wielded with expert skill across a variety of scheming courts. Her subtle approach had taken Arin longer than usual to recognize. She did not assert her opinions or forcefully impress her will upon a higher authority. Instead, Layla would press against their resolve, over and over, a gentle wave eroding the most unyielding rock. The style required a patience and stability of temperament Arin admired.
Layla glanced at Arin again, and he remembered to avert his eyes too late. Her flush deepened, prodding at a tension Arin would rather leave forgotten.
Arin had known Layla since childhood, and any romantic interest Arin may have contemplated faded soon after it sparked. For as expertly as Layla navigated the twisted games of royalty, Arin had the sense she had never crossed the line into experiencing the true savagery leashed at its core. Hers was a high-collared life of perfume politics and deals struck over lavish meals in gilded manors.
If I were a sensible woman, I would slit your throat while you slept.
Arin thrust the memory aside with an impatient hand. He did not need to scour his own mind to understand that a certain kind of violence appealed to him—that the Jasad Heir’s oceans of wrath had called to Arin like a poisoned fountain to a parched man.
With a strained smile, Faheem interrupted the latest round of bickering to suggest, “With Your Highness’s leave, let us disperse and reconvene later in the day. After sunset, perhaps, if it should please the council.”
