Chapter 14

The streets of the capital city of Da’ra were crowded and noisy with people talking, laughing, shouting insults, haggling over prices, begging for money, calling out wares, and making themselves heard the same way they did every day.

But every voice stopped when Jesse limped past.

Jesse could only imagine how he looked. A young Amarian boy with a crippled leg, dressed in fine scarlet cloth with embroidery along the edges, carrying a staff with a kalthara on top, dipped in gold from Samar’s caravan. He even had intricate designs of stars and moons painted on his forehead—Rae’s idea.

“This is not going to work,” Jesse muttered to Silas and Samar, who followed behind him, as all servants would near such a powerful person.

“Hold your head high,” Samar whispered back. “Remember who you are supposed to be.”

How does a sorcerer walk anyway? Jesse wondered. Grandly, I suppose. He made each step as confident as possible, never giving a glance at the Da’armons who stared and pointed at him.

One time, though, he risked a quick look to his left, just to make sure Rae was still there. That one glance was enough to make Jesse feel better. She moved with the crowd, her eyes downcast and her simple white garment making her blend in perfectly with the native Da’armons.

The streets between the clay-brick buildings were narrow and crowded, with clotheslines crossing the alleyways and vendors set up on every corner. Jesse should have had a difficult time getting through the crowd, but the people parted in front of him, stepping away from him and muttering. One mother held her child back, a frightened look on her face.

“Which way to the palace gate?” Jesse asked Samar, in a voice which he tried to make loud and booming. The last word was slightly choked off by the dust that billowed up from the street with every step.

“Straight ahead,” Samar said. “Once we get there, do not say anything. I’ll do the talking.”

The whispers behind him became a jumbled babble, as more people crowded to see the strange boy and his servants. Jesse tried to ignore them, which is what he imagined a powerful sorcerer would do.

Because he was trying so hard to hold his head high, he nearly walked into a small, dead animal that lay in the street. Jesse couldn’t tell what it was because it was covered with a swarm of hungry kaltharas. He shivered and decided to watch where he stepped.

“Jesse,” Silas muttered. “Something isn’t right. I say we turn back.”

Jesse turned to look at him. Even dressed in rags, Silas was an imposing figure, making most of the Da’armons stay back. But he was glancing nervously around, as if expecting an attack on all sides.

It’s because we wouldn’t let him carry his bow, Jesse decided. He feels vulnerable. “We can’t turn back now. It would be a waste of Rae’s artwork on my forehead.”

Silas was not amused. “We’re being watched,” he asserted. “I know it. I’ve felt it since we entered the city.”

Before he could reply, Jesse saw something flying out of the corner of his eye and ducked. It was a rotten fruit of some kind.

The young man, who looked a few years older than Jesse, stepped out from the crowd. “Na’halit les micre Amarian suler!” he shouted. “Alair de’haros!”

Although Jesse could not understand him, he knew he was being mocked. What would a sorcerer do? Slowly, with measured steps and a perfectly calm expression on his face, Jesse walked toward the young man. He stretched out his hand toward him and separated his fingers one by one.

“You are as rotten as the fruit you threw,” he muttered softly, looking the young man in the eye. “And twice as putrid smelling.”

Ordinary words, but Jesse said them as if they were a magical curse of some kind. He continued to stare at the young man, who started to back away.

“Go home.” Jesse’s voice rose to a wail of doom. “Eat more of that fruit until you get sick to your stomach!”

From the confusion on his face, the young man clearly didn’t understand Jesse’s words, but Jesse’s tone was plain enough. Confusion melted into fear, and the young man practically shoved his way through the crowd to get away from Jesse.

Jesse turned away and continued walking as if nothing had happened. Even over the crowd’s mutters, he could hear Silas laughing quietly.

“Excellent performance,” Samar whispered.

Jesse never looked back. “Thank you.”

Soon the clay buildings and shabby carts of the main streets gave way to a thick wall, made of bricks dried solid from years of baking in the sun. It must be wide enough for a horse to travel on top, Jesse thought in awe.

Of course, he let none of his amazement show on his face. A powerful sorcerer would never be impressed by the palace of a mere mortal.

Two men armed with large spears stood at the gate in the wall. They stared straight ahead, pointed helmets pulled halfway over their faces and arms crossed. If he hadn’t known better, Jesse would have thought they were statues.

“Pedriamet,” Samar called in greeting.

As if it were some sort of signal, both men turned to face him. One of them barked out a question in Da’armon, to which Samar replied.

“They want to know what your business is here,” Samar said to Jesse.

“Tell them that I must see the Sheik at once.”

Samar relayed this message. Neither guard looked very happy. More questions followed, and Jesse tried to keep a look of haughty unconcern at all times as Samar answered for him. At one point, Samar slipped them a few silver coins. Still they did not move to open the gate.

“It is not good,” Samar muttered to Jesse. “They say you are of the race of traitors and murderers. They ask you to prove your sorcery.”

Jesse let his voice rise, as if he was offended by this request. “Silas,” he said, “I’m going to need your help.” True to his part as a servant, Silas did not protest.

I hope this works. Jesse turned again to Samar. “Tell the guards that I will show them the extent of my powers by inflicting a curse on my servant.”

For a brief second, Samar gave Jesse a look of panic, as if to say, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Then, sighing slightly as if he did not believe Jesse himself, he rattled off a string of Da’armon to the guards, who began to laugh.

Ignoring them, Jesse fixed his eyes on Silas. He looked nervous, and Jesse was not sure if that was part of the act or not.

“I curse thee with terrible intestinal pain,” Jesse chanted solemnly, walking around Silas in a circle. “It will make you wish you had never been born!” He slammed his staff down on the ground with the last word.

Instantly, Silas fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his stomach as if he were in intense pain. He clawed the dirt and writhed in agony, thrashing violently. Jesse had to keep himself from staring in amazement.

I almost feel like I really have put a curse on him, he marveled. Outwardly, he looked down coldly on his servant’s display of pain.

Already a crowd of alarmed Da’armons had gathered. One woman was wailing, as if begging Jesse to stop. He let Silas scream a while longer, then shouted, “Enough,” banging the staff against the ground again.

Silas stopped, breathing heavily. Slowly, he stood, looking disoriented, and dusted himself off. The noise of the crowd died to an awed murmur.

“If you do not let us in, you will be next,” Jesse declared, pointing at the guards with his staff. Even if they did not understand his words, they could not miss his message.

The fear on their faces nearly made Jesse want to dance right there in the street. “Harlid mahat!” one of the guards called.

The gate began to lift.

“That,” Jesse said quietly as they paraded through the gates, “was probably the most impressive display I’ve ever seen. If you survive the Youth Guard, you should join a traveling theatre troupe, Silas.”

“If I survive,” Silas reminded him. “Let’s focus on that right now.”

At least, Jesse thought, Rae made it through. Her familiar face was among the throng of Da’armons who had pushed through the gate, despite the weak protests of the guards. If the mob wanted a show, they would have it.

Samar, at least, was confident they would succeed. If the clothes, painted designs, and staff were not enough, Samar had insisted that Jesse’s limp would be a key detail in his favor. “Da’armos is a harsh land,” he said. “Not many who have deformities survive for long. Those who do are considered marked by fate for greatness. Local folk tales tell of heroes who had to be wounded by the gods so they would not be able to overthrow them. That is what they will remember when they see you.”

For the first time since the accident, then, Jesse’s crippled leg was proving to be an advantage. I hope it’s enough of an advantage, he thought, as the guards flung open the gates of the palace, the central building in the courtyard.

Once again, Jesse had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping as he entered the palace hall. Incredible. The walls were hung with woven straw mats that featured brightly painted scenes, stretching from floor to ceiling, and the windows were framed with designs in gold.

And, at the front of the room, a man sat on an enormous wooden throne. He was dressed in purple robes and a turban adorned with the largest emerald Jesse had ever seen. Five servants with reed fans kept a constant cooling breeze on his face.

“This Sheik has only been ruling for two years,” Samar whispered to Jesse. “That is, perhaps, good for us. He is young and inexperienced.”

The Sheik stared at the new arrivals with a bored, arrogant grimace on his face. Jesse judged him to be cocky, more concerned with impressing than ruling.

“You’ll have more trouble with the ha’lit, Benotan,” Samar said, indicating an older man standing to the right of the throne. “He has served three generations of Sheiks.” The man was staring at Jesse with suspicion, paying no notice to the crowd of commoners.

“The Sheik looks like a peacock I once saw in a minstrel show,” Jesse said to Samar and Silas—a little too loudly.

Briefly, Jesse saw the one Samar called Benotan turn toward him. He might have imagined it, because it was gone the next instant, but Jesse was almost sure he saw a smile on the man’s face. He understands me, Jesse realized. It was an important thing to know. This time, he must choose his words carefully.

“Pedriamet,” Samar called, bowing to the ground. Silas bowed too, and made a motion for Jesse to do the same. He did not.

I’m going to get his attention eventually anyway, Jesse decided, never looking away from the young ruler.

The Sheik didn’t appear to notice. He sighed and asked Samar a question in Da’armon.

More formalities. Jesse sighed. It was stiflingly hot in the hall, and he hated not being able to understand what anyone was saying. A powerful sorcerer doesn’t have to wait for anyone, even a Sheik.

He slammed down his staff, cutting Samar off in the middle of a sentence. “Hear me well, all you people,” he declared with as much authority as he could find within himself. “I have traveled far and seen many rulers.”

He barely waited for Samar to finish translating before he continued. “I have been given divine wisdom to discern which rulers are cruel and greedy. Many are, and they must pay the price. We shall soon see if the ruler of your land is among them.”

Benotan frowned and started to speak, but Jesse cut him off. “Those whose leaders rule with a fist of iron and a heart of stone will have their greatest treasure, the source of their power, turned into iron and stone.”

As Samar relayed his message, Jesse heard a new word spread through the crowd, “obidhala.”

Feeling rather ridiculous, he began dancing in a circle in front of the throne, chanting nonsense words and lifting his staff into the air. Rae must be enjoying this.

With a final pound from his staff, Jesse stopped, eyes frozen on the Sheik, who looked slightly confused. Jesse turned instead to the advisor, Benotan. “Bring out the obidhala,” Jesse commanded. “We will see what the leader of your land is truly like.”

Benotan did not even wait for Samar to finish translating. “You think we must listen to your demands?” he scoffed.

Jesse had been ready for this, of course. “The only way to get him to bring out the obidhala,” Samar had told him earlier, “is to manipulate him through the people.”

“I see that you’re afraid.” Jesse said, walking closer to the advisor.

“Keep your distance, Amarian,” he snapped, edging away as if Jesse had some sort of rare disease.

“You’re afraid of what will happen when the people find out that your obidhala is nothing but a block of stone. You’re afraid of losing power.”

More mutters from the crowd as Samar translated his bold words. Jesse almost expected another piece of rotten fruit to come flying through the air.

Another step forward. This time, Jesse lowered his voice, so that only Benotan could hear. “And power is the only reason you rule, isn’t it?” The expression of hatred on his face was answer enough, and Jesse nodded with satisfaction. “Then my curse was well-placed. You do have reason to fear.”

“You go too far, boy,” Benotan hissed.

Jesse shrugged casually. “I merely state what the people will think. If you refuse to show them the obidhala, they will assume that it did turn to stone. Perhaps it will be enough to remind them of the evil of their leaders. You are heavily outnumbered. An uprising of any strength would succeed.”

Although Jesse’s logic was sound, Benotan still hesitated. He can’t actually believe that I have the power to curse the obidhala…can he?

Restless, some in the crowd began to mutter, until one man raised a shout. It was soon echoed by others, “Padrok le’obidhala!”

His face expressionless, Samar turned to Jesse and the Sheik. “They ask that the obidhala be brought out and presented to them.”

The Sheik seemed to consider this, although he still looked confused. Jesse held his breath as Benotan whispered something in his ear.

The Sheik nodded, then made a proclamation in Da’armon that made the people cheer. “For my people, I will do this,” Samar translated. “I shall not be made a mockery by this Amarian pretender.”

He clapped his hands, and the two guards at the hall door crossed over to a door near the throne room. They are going to the storehouse where the treasures are kept, Jesse guessed.

If Jesse had not been watching carefully, he would not have noticed Rae following. She moved lightly along the back of the room, carrying a basket of grain, as if she were on her way to the kitchen. No one would take any notice of her. She was perfect in her role.

It was true with all of them, Jesse realized. They each had their own strengths that contributed to the success of the mission, and they had already saved each others’ lives many times. Parvel had been right—they could not have done this alone. They needed each other.

Everyone else was staring at him, and Jesse felt oddly like a juggler who, once onstage, has no act to perform. He settled for crossing his arms and trying to look intimidating. All I can do is wait.

Samar’s plan had been simple. Rae must find out where the obidhala was kept, take note of its surroundings, and report back to them. It was a classic trick used by pickpockets: force the victim to unknowingly reveal the hiding place of a valuable.

Once the people saw that the obidhala had not turned to stone, Jesse would be jeered at and laughed out of the palace, but they would have the information they needed to decide what to do next.

The plan did not involve someone bursting into the throne room, shouting in Da’armon.

Jesse turned around to see a man standing in the doorway, wearing the dark blue uniform of the Patrol with the black cape of a captain. His skin was dark, and his square jaw was stiff in a scowl. The two guards stood behind him, although they were partially blocked from view by the captain’s large frame.

“Demetri,” Samar muttered. His voice sounded slightly panicked.

For a moment, the man just stood there, breathing hard. He glanced at Jesse, then Silas, and nodded, a look of triumph on his face.

Then he grabbed someone from behind the guards and pulled her into the room.

Jesse froze. It was Rae, her white headdress ripped aside and her eyes defiant.

The captain held her wrist high into the air and shouted something in Da’armon. Then he looked straight at Jesse. “This girl is with the sorcerer! She tried to steal the obidhala!”

Shouts of outrage were already erupting from the crowd. This time, at least the Sheik had an easy decision to make. He shook his fist at his remaining guards and called out an order.

The captain, Demetri, never looked away from Jesse. The man was smiling—smiling!—as he roughly shoved Rae to the guard in the doorway. “Take them to the dungeons. By order of the Sheik.”