Chapter 23 Quil #2
“Years of training in Kotama is not practical for a monarch,” Diriya said.
“The Jaduna must come to you. In the meantime, experiment with your magic on your own. Ask those you love to help you, as the jinn do.” She smiled as they approached the river, gaze growing distant.
“One of my powers is to manipulate water. When I first discovered it, the Meherya, who you called the Nightbringer, taught me to harness it. Do you know how?”
Quil shook his head.
“He waited for a summer rain and stood outside, allowing it to quench his fire. And he refused to move until I parted the rain. It took hours, and I knew it pained him. He was the strongest of us and rain could not kill him. But it could make him hurt.
“He made the sacrifice because he knew nothing else would move me. He was a brilliant teacher, for we never realized when he was teaching us. Only that after he spent time with us, we were wiser with our magic, braver with it. That was the Meherya’s gift: the knowledge that magic should be like breathing, like laughing. It is not taught—it is instinctive.
“Strange,” she said. “I last saw you only a moment ago, and you were a child. And yet here you are, a man already. Your lives are so quick. Perhaps that is why your kind is so willing to murder children.”
Quil looked out at the willows, at the flare and fade of the fireflies. Jinn could live for thousands of years. Perhaps Diriya thought of him the way he thought of the firefly: here and then gone, nothing but a brief impression of light soon forgotten.
“Jinn children take years to kindle, you told me last time,” Quil said. “That must make them precious.”
Diriya nodded. “Since the death of the Meherya, our people have had only one child. Not so much younger than you. She is nameless, as yet—kindled in the dawn of a new era. Your paths will cross, for one day, she will be our queen, and monarchs must know each other. But that day is far away.”
“Are you telling me,” Quil said, hope flaring in his chest, “that in the future the Empire will still exist?” Please say yes. Please tell me we have a chance.
“It is a possibility. Another that is equally likely is that you will die defending your people, another flame quenched by human barbarity.”
“Before the Kegari came, did you know what they would do to us?” Quil wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. “Did you see our future?”
“We saw the scything of your people.” Diriya sounded neither sad nor happy. “But we did not see how it would happen or when. We could not warn you. We do not involve ourselves in the affairs of men, unless the situation is…extreme.”
“You do not think the deaths of tens of thousands is extreme?” Quil’s voice rose, and he didn’t bother trying to temper his anger.
Her indifference was salt in the open wounds of his people.
“Of all living creatures, the jinn best understand the horror of such brutal warfare. We are being decimated. Help us, please.”
It was not the clever, strategic plea he’d hoped for. But it was all he had.
“I take no joy in your suffering, Prince,” Diriya said softly. “None of us do.”
She knelt at the edge of the water. In the gloaming, the river splashed and danced, glinting blue and green. “Do you know why the Scholars attacked my people so many years ago?”
Quil knew that the jinn spoke in circles. All the stories said so. He hadn’t expected it to be this infuriating. But he needed something from her. And losing his temper wasn’t going to get it.
“Greed,” he said. “Selfishness.”
“There is another reason.” Diriya dipped her finger into the water, sending out a ripple.
“A story. The king of the Scholars heard a story about our people. About our magic. And he told himself a story—a lie, really. He convinced himself that we were hoarding magic, that we were a threat. That he and his army should maim and kill and manipulate so that the power of the jinn might be theirs. The story ruined us. It destroyed the Scholars. It led to a thousand years of pain.”
She dropped her voice low. The river went suddenly still, its joyful rush silenced. The shadows deepened.
“There is another story,” Diriya whispered.
“It is wrong, and its existence has twisted the world. The story must be retold, Prince. But there is only one who can discover it, though it may destroy her to do so. Bring her to us, and we will help you. Your enemies will not be able to stand against us.”
“Who?” Quil said. “Who do you wish me to bring to you?”
But in his heart, Quil already knew. It was Aiz who had begun this mess. And it would be Aiz who finished it. Quil didn’t know how he’d get to her, but he’d find a way. He’d drag her to the jinn in chains if he had to and he’d watch her be destroyed. Gladly.
“Aiz.” He spat her name. “You want the Tel Ilessi.”
But the jinn queen shook her head, appearing almost surprised. “No, Prince,” she said. “We care not for Aiz bet-Dafra, for she was but a tool in the hands of a monster. We want she whose footsteps shake the world. We want the Vessel. The Inashi. We want Sirsha Westering.”
The response was so unexpected that Quil needed a moment to respond. It was a moment he didn’t have. Diriya stood, gesturing to someone behind Quil. Umber emerged out of the dark, her enormous glaive glimmering wickedly.
“I fear our time has ended, Prince,” Diriya said. “I will have Umber escort you—”
“No,” Quil said, and though he could feel Umber tense behind him, though he could see Diriya’s displeasure at his tone, he didn’t care.
“Sirsha is my Adah.” He pulled his coin free. “My soul half. You know how powerful the bond is. I will not bring her to you without understanding why and without a guarantee of her safety. You said you need her to discover a story. Why her?”
“I have told you all I know,” Diriya said, though it was clear she hadn’t. Not even close.
Damn her! “If I bring her to you,” Quil said, “you won’t hurt her? She won’t suffer?”
Diriya looked over Quil’s shoulder at Umber, who frowned ever so slightly. Diriya stared out over the river as waterbirds dropped down in swift flashes of white, hunting fish and insects.
“Umber does not wish for me to say it,” she said.
“But I do not believe in deceit.” Diriya’s sadness descended like a shroud over the moonlight and Quil felt as if the blood was draining out of him.
“Sirsha will suffer greatly. I do not foresee her survival. But I ask you, Prince, do the people of your empire not suffer? Are you so poorly trained as a leader that you have never had to answer the question?”
Quil knew the question. Aunt Hel had posed it to him a hundred times, in a hundred ways. Is one life worth more than the lives of your people?
Aunt Hel’s answer to the question was clear: The Empire took precedence.
Quil had always struggled with that decision.
But in the past few months, he’d grown to accept it.
He’d left off the search for Sirsha, had he not, even though he’d wanted desperately to find her?
He’d done what his aunt wanted. He’d chosen the many over the one.
And now he could finally save his people. Rid the Empire of the Kegari scourge by bringing the jinn the woman he’d been desperate to find for months.
All it would cost was her life.
“If you choose the many,” Diriya said, pressing a plain wooden coin into his hand, “then have her break this coin. We will come to her, wherever she is.”
“Why her?” Quil said. “Of all people, why Sirsha?”
“No more questions, Prince,” Diriya said as Umber closed her hand on Quil’s shoulder. “There is no time. By the next moon, the Empire will have two paths laid before it. One of ruination and one of rebirth. It is your choice, and yours alone, that will decide which path your people will walk.”