Nemesis by Anna Banks
Of course, Rashidi is in no position to insist that he do anything anymore—a fact that Tarik is just desperate enough to remind him of. Advisers may not forbid kings anything.
Yet, with privilege comes steep responsibility, and as Tarik slips past the last set of guards at the servants’ entrance of the palace—who know not to bow to him as he leaves—he feels some of the pressure lift from his shoulders as if evaporating into the dry desert air.
The shortest route to the Lyceum is to cut directly through Anyar’s Bazaar, and Tarik couldn’t be happier. Late at night, one of his favorite views from the palace is from the balcony on the west tower, which overlooks the vast Bazaar. Even from his vantage point and late into the darkest hours, he can smell the spices on the breeze swirling up to him, can hear the soft music mingle with children’s laughter as the booth keepers tuck their families into bed for the evening. The Bazaar used to glow brightly with spectorium at each booth, small dots of mostly white but sprinkled with specks of purple and blue. Now, only the wealthiest merchants have it and in small abundance. What they do have glows purple in the night, a dying supply of luminous security and power and prominence.
Soon the Bazaar will be lit by fire, and citizens will carry torches around instead of lanterns illuminated with spectorium, which isn’t in itself a terrible thing. The people used fire for centuries before spectorium was discovered and culled for its power, and they can certainly make do with it again. It’s not ideal, to trek in the direction of their ancestors, but it’s the only option they have at the moment. If it keeps his subjects fed and warm, who is he to complain?
But the Superiors, they will complain. Once the last splendor of spectorium has died out and the mechanical contraptions they use to amuse themselves fail for lack of power, they will grow edgy. Father always said that if the Superior class is not entertained, they will entertain themselves with ideas of overthrowing the throne. He said it is a natural inclination of people, to want to rule. And because the people of Theoria do not yet know what sort of king Tarik will become, the Superiors could easily play on the citizens’ fears and worries for the future, and steal the throne from beneath him.
What they don’t know is that Tarik would be glad for the relief. Becoming pharaoh, being responsible for so many lives … it’s not as glorious as the Superiors think it. Perhaps he should turn the throne over to them for a time, see if they can solve this spectorium conundrum and while they’re at it, tackle the plague harvesting victims from among them. Then perhaps they would be more humble when making assumptions about what the royals are and are not doing for the people.
Outside the palace walls, the well-worn dirt path, fresh with chariot tracks, meanders its own way into the Bazaar of Anyar and eventually branches out and finds its way to the Lyceum. It’s the same path used by visitors and invaders alike, the only road etched into the sand on this side, the only manageable way to come and go without being bogged down by the soft waves of the desert.
The Bazaar, when he and Patra arrive, thrums with trade and bartering and life itself. A pulse runs through the booths and tents in the form of commerce, buying and selling and negotiating. Patra weaves in and out of the crowd beside him, never more than inches away from him and on high alert at all times, but still fascinated and taken in by the smells and the sounds and the bustle. Fabrics, spices, vegetables, grains, jewelry, gems, fish, baskets, and pottery make up the medley that is the Bazaar, and Tarik wonders what it’s like to stay here all day and watch the people carry on as if their lives didn’t depend on it. People tend to give him a wide berth, for even though he’s not browsing as pharaoh, his rank is obvious by his dress and harassing such a one is punishable by flogging.
He passes through, avoiding the women who would sell themselves to him and steering clear of the merchants who overzealously push their goods, trying to lure him to their tents and booths with offers too good to be true. They do not seem to care that any Lingot within earshot can hear the deception in their alluring pitches.
At the end of the market, the Lyceum of Favored Ones is visible to the north and the closer Tarik draws to it the more he finds he admires what the engineers have done to improve upon its appearance. It used to be a large, uninteresting square structure that loomed over the Bazaar in a dark and uninviting way. It reminded him of a prison instead of a place of higher learning, a concept he’d always associated with brightness and clarity. Once the attendance of the Favored Ones started to wane, it was decided to enhance the presentation of the school, make it more attractive for its potential pupils. The endeavor worked very well. His latest report from the Lyceum was that they were in full attendance and might soon require an extension of their already massive structure.
Now, instead of the dark, mud-colored blocks of desert sand, the face of the building is almost white with sun-bleached limestone harvested from the southern mines of Wachuk. Large rounded columns guard the front of it, offering inviting peeks of what’s to come. Tarik ascends the grand stairs leading to the entrance and finds Cy the Healer waiting for him there. Cy doesn’t recognize him at first, though, bidding him a good day and most likely expecting him to pass by, but when Tarik settles next to him on the limestone bench, Cy is forced to reconsider the person he thought was a stranger. The boy gives a sideways glance at Patra and recognition takes over his expression.
“Don’t call me Highness,” Tarik says quickly. “And do not bow.”
Cy licks his lips. “That doesn’t feel right, High—”
“Tarik.”
The young Healer shakes his head. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Of course you can. You’re Cy. I’m Tarik. Now, let’s get along with this, shall we? I’m curious to see what you have to show me.”
Without further hesitation but not without a hint of awkwardness, Cy leads him and Patra into the Lyceum. The rooms are spacious and open and separated by grand archways. The marble floors resound in muted clicks beneath their sandaled feet as they weave their way past classrooms with open doors and ones with shut doors and one with no door at all. Cy bids him to ascend another set of stairs when they reach the north wall, and they climb several levels silently. Tarik feels uncomfortable since Cy is so obviously uneasy with the informal nature of his visit. Still, Cy must get used to such things. It would be a pain to make ceremony out of each visit he makes to the Lyceum, especially since he intends to do so more often to check on his young friend’s progress. Whether that is an excuse to get away from the palace, Tarik isn’t sure. Others cannot lie to him, but on occasion he finds that he can fool himself.
When they run out of stairs, Cy bids him down a long hallway that would be dark if it weren’t for the lanterns of blue, dying spectorium lining the walls. “That spectorium could be put to better use,” Tarik mutters.
Cy gives him an amused glance. “Yes, High—Tarik. It could have, were it used before this stage. But I’ve found that in this form, with the power dwindling so rapidly, the spectorium is of little rejuvenating use.”
“Rejuvenating?”
Cy grins. “Yes. You’ll see. Come.”
At the end of the hall, Cy comes to a vast wooden door, locked by a wooden barrier on the outside of it. Tarik scowls. “I was under the impression that we had called for volunteers, not prisoners.”
“Forgive me, uh, Tarik, but if we allowed him out of the room he would terrorize the entire school. Trust me, things are as they should be.”
A faint scream echoes from the other side of the door, and there is an urgency in the way Cy lifts the board from its position obstructing entry and sets it hastily to the side against the wall with a loud “plunk.”
Once inside, they happen upon a young boy, possibly six or seven years in age, screaming at a capacity unhealthy for his lungs at an exasperated servant who holds a tray of fruit and meats. “I don’t want fruit. I told you, I want custard,” the boy says, on the verge of sobbing.
“Healer Cy says you must eat for your health while you’re here, y
oung master. Please, you adore grapes. Won’t you have some?”
“No!” The young master slaps the tray the servant offers; she recovers quickly as though she’s used to such outbursts.
“Enough!” Cy roars, impressing even Tarik with the manfulness of his tone. “Juya, you’re in my care until you’re completely well. What would your father say?”
Juya the young master juts out his bottom lip, which quivers under the weight of Cy’s stare. “But Cy, I’m better. You see?” He pulls down his cheeks to expose as much of his eyeballs as possible. “The redness and swelling are gone. And I’ve stopped bleeding.” Juya scowls at his servant accusingly. “At least, that’s what she said.”
The servant, an older woman with more wrinkles than patience, sets the tray down on Juya’s bed and brushes her hands together as if washing them of the situation. “I’m going to speak to your mother about your tantrum, Master Juya.” She wags a finger at him. “Your mother will surely be ashamed.”
“Don’t tell Mother!” Juya says. “Look, I’m eating the grapes, Taia. I’m eating them. See?” He shoves three big ones in his mouth and proceeds to speak around them. “They’re good, too. So good.”
She eyes him. “Well. Maybe I’ll not have to speak to Mistress Suyan after all.”
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t. See?” More grapes, and this time, he picks up a generous sliver of meat and wiggles it at her. “I’ll even eat the veal.”
Taia nods. “Good. That’s a good little master.”
Tarik wonders if he himself acted that way when he was younger and cringes when he realizes he just might have. Only, his aversion hadn’t been to eating, it was against taking baths. He hated going to the baths with his mother and bathing with all the women instead of being able to go with his father and bathe with all the men. But his mother insisted the men didn’t talk of anything suitable for a boy’s ears—which, of course, made him want to accompany them even more.
Cy walks to Juya’s bedside and lifts the boy’s chin as he chews. “It is quite remarkable,” he says. “The swelling is almost completely gone, in a matter of a sunrise and sunset.” He turns to Tarik. “You see, Juya’s father, a Superior nobleman, volunteered him for our experimental treatments with spectorium. This boy was on the verge of death just two days ago, I swear to you. I thought we would lose him the night they brought him.” Juya’s eyes grow big at this revelation.
Tarik steps closer, bidding Patra to stay at the door. There is dried blood encrusted around the boy’s nostrils, and a bit of the same at his ears; his shoulder bones jut out sharply and his arms could be fully grasped by the hand of the child. He did suffer the worst part of it, Tarik can see. Still, with a little weight put on, the boy would otherwise appear in perfect health, not sickly by any means. It’s difficult to imagine that he was slipping away into death just two days prior, when right now all he wants for is a thorough bath and food. Plenty of food.
“Who is this?” Juya says.
“Pharaoh heard of your illness and sent me to make sure you were comfortable while being treated,” Tarik says. “I’m his servant.”
Juya allows himself the luxury of taking in the sight of him. Satisfied, and a bit smugly, he says, “So, the pharaoh has heard of me? I’m not surprised. My father is the wealthiest noble in Theoria.” At this he sniffs. Tarik discerns that the boy is telling the truth—or at the very least, the boy believes what he is saying.
Tarik raises a brow but says nothing. He hasn’t a clue who the boy’s father is, and furthermore, is not aware that there was a wealthiest noble in all of Theoria—or that the title deserved special attention. It must be the sort of thing the Superior class finds useful and perhaps even entertaining. “The Healer Cy has been so kind as to explain to me your treatment, so that I may relay that to the Falcon King. Would it be acceptable to you, young master, if I were to stay for his examination so that I may report to pharaoh of your good condition?”
“Of course,” Juya says generously. “You may stay.”
Cy sets about inspecting the boy, feeling at his jawbone, pressing into his stomach, testing each limb by bending and stretching it. All the while, Juya does as he’s instructed as if humoring an irritating relative or acquaintance. “I don’t have to take the needle again, do I, Cy?” His voice cracks just a bit.
“Needle?” Tarik says.
Cy nods. “Our method, the method that seemed to have worked on young master Juya here, is that we heat the spectorium back into liquid form, and then inject it in his most apparent vein.”
“I glowed,” Juya says proudly.
“He did glow somewhat,” Cy says, frowning. “We could see everywhere his veins carried the spectorium. It was … quite fascinating. In fact, I think we could use that for future cases in which we have a need to find a blockage—”
“You injected spectorium into the boy?” Tarik says, mesmerized. He couldn’t help but hold a new respect for Juya. “Did it hurt?”
“It burned. I cried. Only a little, though.”
Tarik looks at Cy. “But wouldn’t the spectorium cool inside his body and harden again?”
Cy smiles. “It would, yes. But you see, the blood is thinning as it is, and the spectorium helps it to thicken. Though I did have to mix it with red sage leaf to prevent the hardening, and a root balm to coat his veins to prevent burns inside the body.”
“Why does the spectorium work?” Not that Tarik wants his young friend to think he doubts him, but in order to continue to allow such treatments, he feels he should understand it himself. “I’m no Healer, keep in mind. But I’m sure the king would like to know, don’t you?”
Cy purses his lips. “Well, to put it plainly, it’s as if Juya’s body needed a boost of power. By all accounts, other than a weakening and dissipating of the flesh and, of course, blood loss, I can’t find any other symptoms except lack of energy. It’s quite mystifying, really.”
“And so you turned to a source that created energy.”
Cy nods quickly. “But I did test it on sheep before.”
“I wasn’t aware any sheep had been sick.”
“No High—Tarik. I tested to make sure the liquid wouldn’t solidify once in the body.”
Tarik feels the blood drain from his face and pool in his hands and feet. “You mean to say you didn’t know what would happen to the boy after you injected him.” He didn’t intend to raise his voice, but the alarm got the better of him.
Cy raises an eyebrow. “I mean to say that I knew what would certainly happen to him if I didn’t. This plague is not to be trifled with. His father was willing to try anything to save him.”
Cy’s words fall on Tarik’s ears and ring true. Everyone involved believed the boy would die. A last-minute effort on Cy’s part had saved him. He should be thanking the young Healer and complimenting him on his ingenuity rather than questioning it. “Of course. Well done, Healer Cy.”
Cy beams. “Thank you. May I—that is, I’d like for you to send a message to the Falcon King. Would you ask him if I could repeat the experiments on other willing patients?”
“I’m sure the king will agree to this, but I’ll deliver your request.”
Tarik is able to find his way out of the Lyceum on his own. He doesn’t want to keep Cy from his needy patient any longer, and he has much to think about—and company would tend to distract him.
“What am I to do, Patra?” he says, turning his path back to the market. “Spectorium is the solution, and it’s the one thing Theoria doesn’t have.”
But Patra offers no answer on their way back to the palace.
13
SEPORA
I can’t stop thinking of the last time I saw my father. Of his expression when I Forged a sword and pointed it at his face. I had refused to Forge for him any longer and he’d been about to strike me, I could tell. And so I’d Forged the sword faster than I’d ever Forged anything in my life. That is when I made the decision I would not be a waif like Mother, that some things
are more important than obedience. He’d had me imprisoned immediately in the highest mountain of Serubel, in a cell with an iron gate and open wall in the back, in case I chose to jump from it and plummet to my death. He never believed I would. I know he thought that after all my royal comforts were taken away, I would submit to his demands. He never expected Mother to come to my aid. I can only imagine his outrage at discovering that indeed, I had taken my own life. Or at least, so I hoped it appeared.
It has been three suns and three moons since Rolan and Chut captured me, and if the great River Nefari weren’t still to our right, I’d say we were lost. My face stings from the certain sunburn I’ve acquired, and my feet are swollen so as to protrude from my worn servants’ slippers. I stumble to catch up, trailing my captors by several feet while they talk and banter between themselves. They have not bothered to tie me up. Each night Rolan asks if I will escape, and each night I tell him I am much too tired to do anything but sleep. This seems to placate him.
I wonder aloud how close we must be to Anyar, but neither of them answers. Surely we’re close enough for Rolan to allow my face to heal and my feet to rest. Too, I must look a mess in this tattered clothing.
Rolan is a trader. Indifferent and logical. Surely he’ll see the reason in those things. Perhaps he didn’t hear my question before, though, so I try Chut. “Chut,” I croak. “Please stop. I must relieve myself.”
Chut does indeed stop and calls ahead to Rolan, who must have heard but kept going. “Says she needs to relieve herself. Again.” I try not to smile at the irritation in his voice. It’s true; I make them stop often. But I must Forge at every opportunity if I’m to keep my energy up.
“You just did, moments ago,” Rolan says, stopping. The corner of his mouth tugs up in an ugly grin. “You’re slowing us down. Perhaps that is your plan?”
“It’s been longer than moments,” I tell him. I should know. I’ve been tracking the movement of the sun, and expelling the spectorium once every hour or so, as far as I can tell. If anyone wants to get to Anyar, it’s me. But I can’t risk leaking the element at night while I sleep, either. I think of the royal toddler who leaked in his bed and almost blush. I’ve been able to control my Forging since I was four years old. Not a single accident since then.
Yet, with privilege comes steep responsibility, and as Tarik slips past the last set of guards at the servants’ entrance of the palace—who know not to bow to him as he leaves—he feels some of the pressure lift from his shoulders as if evaporating into the dry desert air.
The shortest route to the Lyceum is to cut directly through Anyar’s Bazaar, and Tarik couldn’t be happier. Late at night, one of his favorite views from the palace is from the balcony on the west tower, which overlooks the vast Bazaar. Even from his vantage point and late into the darkest hours, he can smell the spices on the breeze swirling up to him, can hear the soft music mingle with children’s laughter as the booth keepers tuck their families into bed for the evening. The Bazaar used to glow brightly with spectorium at each booth, small dots of mostly white but sprinkled with specks of purple and blue. Now, only the wealthiest merchants have it and in small abundance. What they do have glows purple in the night, a dying supply of luminous security and power and prominence.
Soon the Bazaar will be lit by fire, and citizens will carry torches around instead of lanterns illuminated with spectorium, which isn’t in itself a terrible thing. The people used fire for centuries before spectorium was discovered and culled for its power, and they can certainly make do with it again. It’s not ideal, to trek in the direction of their ancestors, but it’s the only option they have at the moment. If it keeps his subjects fed and warm, who is he to complain?
But the Superiors, they will complain. Once the last splendor of spectorium has died out and the mechanical contraptions they use to amuse themselves fail for lack of power, they will grow edgy. Father always said that if the Superior class is not entertained, they will entertain themselves with ideas of overthrowing the throne. He said it is a natural inclination of people, to want to rule. And because the people of Theoria do not yet know what sort of king Tarik will become, the Superiors could easily play on the citizens’ fears and worries for the future, and steal the throne from beneath him.
What they don’t know is that Tarik would be glad for the relief. Becoming pharaoh, being responsible for so many lives … it’s not as glorious as the Superiors think it. Perhaps he should turn the throne over to them for a time, see if they can solve this spectorium conundrum and while they’re at it, tackle the plague harvesting victims from among them. Then perhaps they would be more humble when making assumptions about what the royals are and are not doing for the people.
Outside the palace walls, the well-worn dirt path, fresh with chariot tracks, meanders its own way into the Bazaar of Anyar and eventually branches out and finds its way to the Lyceum. It’s the same path used by visitors and invaders alike, the only road etched into the sand on this side, the only manageable way to come and go without being bogged down by the soft waves of the desert.
The Bazaar, when he and Patra arrive, thrums with trade and bartering and life itself. A pulse runs through the booths and tents in the form of commerce, buying and selling and negotiating. Patra weaves in and out of the crowd beside him, never more than inches away from him and on high alert at all times, but still fascinated and taken in by the smells and the sounds and the bustle. Fabrics, spices, vegetables, grains, jewelry, gems, fish, baskets, and pottery make up the medley that is the Bazaar, and Tarik wonders what it’s like to stay here all day and watch the people carry on as if their lives didn’t depend on it. People tend to give him a wide berth, for even though he’s not browsing as pharaoh, his rank is obvious by his dress and harassing such a one is punishable by flogging.
He passes through, avoiding the women who would sell themselves to him and steering clear of the merchants who overzealously push their goods, trying to lure him to their tents and booths with offers too good to be true. They do not seem to care that any Lingot within earshot can hear the deception in their alluring pitches.
At the end of the market, the Lyceum of Favored Ones is visible to the north and the closer Tarik draws to it the more he finds he admires what the engineers have done to improve upon its appearance. It used to be a large, uninteresting square structure that loomed over the Bazaar in a dark and uninviting way. It reminded him of a prison instead of a place of higher learning, a concept he’d always associated with brightness and clarity. Once the attendance of the Favored Ones started to wane, it was decided to enhance the presentation of the school, make it more attractive for its potential pupils. The endeavor worked very well. His latest report from the Lyceum was that they were in full attendance and might soon require an extension of their already massive structure.
Now, instead of the dark, mud-colored blocks of desert sand, the face of the building is almost white with sun-bleached limestone harvested from the southern mines of Wachuk. Large rounded columns guard the front of it, offering inviting peeks of what’s to come. Tarik ascends the grand stairs leading to the entrance and finds Cy the Healer waiting for him there. Cy doesn’t recognize him at first, though, bidding him a good day and most likely expecting him to pass by, but when Tarik settles next to him on the limestone bench, Cy is forced to reconsider the person he thought was a stranger. The boy gives a sideways glance at Patra and recognition takes over his expression.
“Don’t call me Highness,” Tarik says quickly. “And do not bow.”
Cy licks his lips. “That doesn’t feel right, High—”
“Tarik.”
The young Healer shakes his head. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Of course you can. You’re Cy. I’m Tarik. Now, let’s get along with this, shall we? I’m curious to see what you have to show me.”
Without further hesitation but not without a hint of awkwardness, Cy leads him and Patra into the Lyceum. The rooms are spacious and open and separated by grand archways. The marble floors resound in muted clicks beneath their sandaled feet as they weave their way past classrooms with open doors and ones with shut doors and one with no door at all. Cy bids him to ascend another set of stairs when they reach the north wall, and they climb several levels silently. Tarik feels uncomfortable since Cy is so obviously uneasy with the informal nature of his visit. Still, Cy must get used to such things. It would be a pain to make ceremony out of each visit he makes to the Lyceum, especially since he intends to do so more often to check on his young friend’s progress. Whether that is an excuse to get away from the palace, Tarik isn’t sure. Others cannot lie to him, but on occasion he finds that he can fool himself.
When they run out of stairs, Cy bids him down a long hallway that would be dark if it weren’t for the lanterns of blue, dying spectorium lining the walls. “That spectorium could be put to better use,” Tarik mutters.
Cy gives him an amused glance. “Yes, High—Tarik. It could have, were it used before this stage. But I’ve found that in this form, with the power dwindling so rapidly, the spectorium is of little rejuvenating use.”
“Rejuvenating?”
Cy grins. “Yes. You’ll see. Come.”
At the end of the hall, Cy comes to a vast wooden door, locked by a wooden barrier on the outside of it. Tarik scowls. “I was under the impression that we had called for volunteers, not prisoners.”
“Forgive me, uh, Tarik, but if we allowed him out of the room he would terrorize the entire school. Trust me, things are as they should be.”
A faint scream echoes from the other side of the door, and there is an urgency in the way Cy lifts the board from its position obstructing entry and sets it hastily to the side against the wall with a loud “plunk.”
Once inside, they happen upon a young boy, possibly six or seven years in age, screaming at a capacity unhealthy for his lungs at an exasperated servant who holds a tray of fruit and meats. “I don’t want fruit. I told you, I want custard,” the boy says, on the verge of sobbing.
“Healer Cy says you must eat for your health while you’re here, y
“No!” The young master slaps the tray the servant offers; she recovers quickly as though she’s used to such outbursts.
“Enough!” Cy roars, impressing even Tarik with the manfulness of his tone. “Juya, you’re in my care until you’re completely well. What would your father say?”
Juya the young master juts out his bottom lip, which quivers under the weight of Cy’s stare. “But Cy, I’m better. You see?” He pulls down his cheeks to expose as much of his eyeballs as possible. “The redness and swelling are gone. And I’ve stopped bleeding.” Juya scowls at his servant accusingly. “At least, that’s what she said.”
The servant, an older woman with more wrinkles than patience, sets the tray down on Juya’s bed and brushes her hands together as if washing them of the situation. “I’m going to speak to your mother about your tantrum, Master Juya.” She wags a finger at him. “Your mother will surely be ashamed.”
“Don’t tell Mother!” Juya says. “Look, I’m eating the grapes, Taia. I’m eating them. See?” He shoves three big ones in his mouth and proceeds to speak around them. “They’re good, too. So good.”
She eyes him. “Well. Maybe I’ll not have to speak to Mistress Suyan after all.”
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t. See?” More grapes, and this time, he picks up a generous sliver of meat and wiggles it at her. “I’ll even eat the veal.”
Taia nods. “Good. That’s a good little master.”
Tarik wonders if he himself acted that way when he was younger and cringes when he realizes he just might have. Only, his aversion hadn’t been to eating, it was against taking baths. He hated going to the baths with his mother and bathing with all the women instead of being able to go with his father and bathe with all the men. But his mother insisted the men didn’t talk of anything suitable for a boy’s ears—which, of course, made him want to accompany them even more.
Cy walks to Juya’s bedside and lifts the boy’s chin as he chews. “It is quite remarkable,” he says. “The swelling is almost completely gone, in a matter of a sunrise and sunset.” He turns to Tarik. “You see, Juya’s father, a Superior nobleman, volunteered him for our experimental treatments with spectorium. This boy was on the verge of death just two days ago, I swear to you. I thought we would lose him the night they brought him.” Juya’s eyes grow big at this revelation.
Tarik steps closer, bidding Patra to stay at the door. There is dried blood encrusted around the boy’s nostrils, and a bit of the same at his ears; his shoulder bones jut out sharply and his arms could be fully grasped by the hand of the child. He did suffer the worst part of it, Tarik can see. Still, with a little weight put on, the boy would otherwise appear in perfect health, not sickly by any means. It’s difficult to imagine that he was slipping away into death just two days prior, when right now all he wants for is a thorough bath and food. Plenty of food.
“Who is this?” Juya says.
“Pharaoh heard of your illness and sent me to make sure you were comfortable while being treated,” Tarik says. “I’m his servant.”
Juya allows himself the luxury of taking in the sight of him. Satisfied, and a bit smugly, he says, “So, the pharaoh has heard of me? I’m not surprised. My father is the wealthiest noble in Theoria.” At this he sniffs. Tarik discerns that the boy is telling the truth—or at the very least, the boy believes what he is saying.
Tarik raises a brow but says nothing. He hasn’t a clue who the boy’s father is, and furthermore, is not aware that there was a wealthiest noble in all of Theoria—or that the title deserved special attention. It must be the sort of thing the Superior class finds useful and perhaps even entertaining. “The Healer Cy has been so kind as to explain to me your treatment, so that I may relay that to the Falcon King. Would it be acceptable to you, young master, if I were to stay for his examination so that I may report to pharaoh of your good condition?”
“Of course,” Juya says generously. “You may stay.”
Cy sets about inspecting the boy, feeling at his jawbone, pressing into his stomach, testing each limb by bending and stretching it. All the while, Juya does as he’s instructed as if humoring an irritating relative or acquaintance. “I don’t have to take the needle again, do I, Cy?” His voice cracks just a bit.
“Needle?” Tarik says.
Cy nods. “Our method, the method that seemed to have worked on young master Juya here, is that we heat the spectorium back into liquid form, and then inject it in his most apparent vein.”
“I glowed,” Juya says proudly.
“He did glow somewhat,” Cy says, frowning. “We could see everywhere his veins carried the spectorium. It was … quite fascinating. In fact, I think we could use that for future cases in which we have a need to find a blockage—”
“You injected spectorium into the boy?” Tarik says, mesmerized. He couldn’t help but hold a new respect for Juya. “Did it hurt?”
“It burned. I cried. Only a little, though.”
Tarik looks at Cy. “But wouldn’t the spectorium cool inside his body and harden again?”
Cy smiles. “It would, yes. But you see, the blood is thinning as it is, and the spectorium helps it to thicken. Though I did have to mix it with red sage leaf to prevent the hardening, and a root balm to coat his veins to prevent burns inside the body.”
“Why does the spectorium work?” Not that Tarik wants his young friend to think he doubts him, but in order to continue to allow such treatments, he feels he should understand it himself. “I’m no Healer, keep in mind. But I’m sure the king would like to know, don’t you?”
Cy purses his lips. “Well, to put it plainly, it’s as if Juya’s body needed a boost of power. By all accounts, other than a weakening and dissipating of the flesh and, of course, blood loss, I can’t find any other symptoms except lack of energy. It’s quite mystifying, really.”
“And so you turned to a source that created energy.”
Cy nods quickly. “But I did test it on sheep before.”
“I wasn’t aware any sheep had been sick.”
“No High—Tarik. I tested to make sure the liquid wouldn’t solidify once in the body.”
Tarik feels the blood drain from his face and pool in his hands and feet. “You mean to say you didn’t know what would happen to the boy after you injected him.” He didn’t intend to raise his voice, but the alarm got the better of him.
Cy raises an eyebrow. “I mean to say that I knew what would certainly happen to him if I didn’t. This plague is not to be trifled with. His father was willing to try anything to save him.”
Cy’s words fall on Tarik’s ears and ring true. Everyone involved believed the boy would die. A last-minute effort on Cy’s part had saved him. He should be thanking the young Healer and complimenting him on his ingenuity rather than questioning it. “Of course. Well done, Healer Cy.”
Cy beams. “Thank you. May I—that is, I’d like for you to send a message to the Falcon King. Would you ask him if I could repeat the experiments on other willing patients?”
“I’m sure the king will agree to this, but I’ll deliver your request.”
Tarik is able to find his way out of the Lyceum on his own. He doesn’t want to keep Cy from his needy patient any longer, and he has much to think about—and company would tend to distract him.
“What am I to do, Patra?” he says, turning his path back to the market. “Spectorium is the solution, and it’s the one thing Theoria doesn’t have.”
But Patra offers no answer on their way back to the palace.
13
SEPORA
I can’t stop thinking of the last time I saw my father. Of his expression when I Forged a sword and pointed it at his face. I had refused to Forge for him any longer and he’d been about to strike me, I could tell. And so I’d Forged the sword faster than I’d ever Forged anything in my life. That is when I made the decision I would not be a waif like Mother, that some things
It has been three suns and three moons since Rolan and Chut captured me, and if the great River Nefari weren’t still to our right, I’d say we were lost. My face stings from the certain sunburn I’ve acquired, and my feet are swollen so as to protrude from my worn servants’ slippers. I stumble to catch up, trailing my captors by several feet while they talk and banter between themselves. They have not bothered to tie me up. Each night Rolan asks if I will escape, and each night I tell him I am much too tired to do anything but sleep. This seems to placate him.
I wonder aloud how close we must be to Anyar, but neither of them answers. Surely we’re close enough for Rolan to allow my face to heal and my feet to rest. Too, I must look a mess in this tattered clothing.
Rolan is a trader. Indifferent and logical. Surely he’ll see the reason in those things. Perhaps he didn’t hear my question before, though, so I try Chut. “Chut,” I croak. “Please stop. I must relieve myself.”
Chut does indeed stop and calls ahead to Rolan, who must have heard but kept going. “Says she needs to relieve herself. Again.” I try not to smile at the irritation in his voice. It’s true; I make them stop often. But I must Forge at every opportunity if I’m to keep my energy up.
“You just did, moments ago,” Rolan says, stopping. The corner of his mouth tugs up in an ugly grin. “You’re slowing us down. Perhaps that is your plan?”
“It’s been longer than moments,” I tell him. I should know. I’ve been tracking the movement of the sun, and expelling the spectorium once every hour or so, as far as I can tell. If anyone wants to get to Anyar, it’s me. But I can’t risk leaking the element at night while I sleep, either. I think of the royal toddler who leaked in his bed and almost blush. I’ve been able to control my Forging since I was four years old. Not a single accident since then.