Ayan’s hand shoots up over her face. Both Hat­van and Kripa stare at her, mouths agape.

Jaruna
Who told you who she was!?
Satrap Nim­rod
Thank you for con­firm­ing my sus­pi­cions, mys­tic. Princess—I under­stand your father has been search­ing for you for some time. And I’m sure you will fetch a nice price. Per­haps enough to get the mys­tics to come out of the shad­ows and end this ridicu­lous war.

 

Kiddu
Ayan! You’re seri­ously a princess? Ha! I knew you weren’t just some native lady!
Satrap Nim­rod
Are those the chil­dren I sent to your cell? The beast-lovers? By Gods, you two really did turn out to be ter­ror­ists! I had thought that you might get her to talk—not that you’d be stu­pid enough to join her cult!

Gil can only see Ayan’s eyes, but they emanate such burn­ing hatred that he instinc­tively backs away from her.

Jaruna
If you think the war will end with the ran­som of my sis­ter, you are the biggest fool to walk the face of the earth.
Satrap Nim­rod
Sis­ter? Then you must be—Prince Bihima?
Jaruna
Wrong prince.
Satrap Nim­rod
I apol­o­gize. Your father is said to have so many wives, it’s hard to remem­ber who all you princes are…

Jaruna ignores him. He goes back to mut­ter­ing silently to him­self, still aim­ing at one of the two sor­cer­ers high above. His bow­string is drawn to his ear. Gil squints, try­ing to make out what he’s say­ing:

Jaruna
What do you see?
I see the bird.
What do you see?
I see the head of the bird.
What do you see?
The eye of the bird.
What do you see?
Only black­ness.
Satrap Nim­rod
Enough of this ridicu­lous stand­off. Sor­cer­ers—

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