by Somaiya Daud
I dropped into the vanity seat and covered my face. I wondered if this was what Maram had felt—sick and caught adrift, unable to wrangle her destiny into place. A moment later Idris joined me and took one of my hands in both of his.
“Before—before we were ever this, we were friends,” he said softly. “Allies. We can be allies in this, too, Amani. I would not see you come to harm—I would not see you in so much pain.”
“You think an alliance would be less painful?” I asked hollowly. “It’s a new word for the same situation.”
“With a new goal: survival. It’s all we have ever been able to do,” he replied.
It’s not enough, I wanted to scream. Nothing under the Vath was ever enough.
But I closed my eyes and nodded, turned my hand under his and linked our fingers.
“We have both survived worse,” he reminded me when my eyes opened. “And we have the scars to prove it.”
“Friends, then,” I said softly.
“Always,” he replied, then stood. “Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the divan.”
We were quiet as we readied for bed properly. I’d never really thought about the sounds one made when one settled into bed. The shift of clothes, the ripple of the duvet as it was lifted, the quiet sigh of pillows and body both as one reclined. But now the sounds filled my ears as I climbed into bed. Idris’s breath seemed loud as he blew out the last few lanterns—manually lit in what I can only imagine was a fit of romantic nostalgia.
At last it was dark and quiet, and I curled in on myself and tried to block out the world.
Friends, I thought, and squeezed my eyes shut. I had been friends with Idris before. We had always been friends. That was the problem, wasn’t it? We were one heart and one mind. We had been drawn inexorably together, against all odds, despite the threat that loomed over us from the very start.
In Kushaila there were degrees of love: gharaam, ‘ishq, najoua, la’wa, hoyaam. Attachment, passion, communion, anguish, madness. It felt as if we had passed through all of them. And it seemed to me there was no de-escalation. The old stories that invoked such words ended in union or death. Nothing would bring Idris and I together, and I could not submit to death. So what else was there for us? Submission and grief? Khula? Deep friendship? Could one go back from the pain of love to its serene origins?
There was no choice for me, I supposed. I would find out.
6
I slept fitfully that night, burrowed under the covers, my body cramped and tormented by an uncomfortable sleep. I’d been aware of every noise—the skitter of servants’ footsteps before dawn, the scrape of tree branches against the balcony. Now, the sun’s rays peeked in through the wooden slats at the far end of the room. In my grogginess the bedroom seemed as another world—dust motes floated in the air, and the room seemed to glow, as if drenched in the light of the sacred fire of the tesleet.
Idris frowned in his sleep, and slept on his back, one arm beneath a pillow, the other outstretched toward me, as if he were searching for me. Now, I slipped from the bed as quietly as I was able and made my way to the bathing chamber. It was empty, save for Tala, who had filled the stone tub in the center of the colorful chamber with steaming water.
“I am blessed by your friendship,” I said to her gratefully, gripping her hands.
She smiled. “I imagined you would want to flee as fast as possible. But you cannot afford to shirk her morning routine—so, quickly. Into the tub.”
We were well practiced at this routine by now. I scrubbed as she washed and oiled my hair. In under an hour I was out of the tub, dried, dressed in a blue qaftan, with my hair braided in Maram’s preferred style.
I hesitated for a moment in the dressing room. It was cowardly of me to flee Idris after our conversation last night, but I hadn’t lied. This—being forced into this part of his life—was painful. I did not want to know what he looked like when he woke in the morning. So I fled and returned with Tala, veiled and hidden, to the double’s suite. It was time for this part of the farce to end and for Maram to take up her spot beside Idris.
I found her in my parlor, seated on a divan, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She was facing my in-progress tapestry of Massinia with a heavy mantle wrapped around her and a steaming glass of tea cradled between her hands. Tala left us alone, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind her drew Maram’s attention away from the tapestry and to me. She examined me as she had examined the tapestry before finally gesturing to a seat across from her.
“So,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “What happened?”
I hated the sting that appeared behind my eyes. I wanted to keep our conversation private, the trials of the night to myself. But I couldn’t, not with Maram’s eyes on me waiting for some answer. Nor could I risk a lie.
“He knew I wasn’t you,” I said at last and took the glass she offered me gratefully. “He said—”
“Yes?”
I shook my head. If I told her we’d agreed to be friends it would raise more questions.
“He slept on the divan,” I said. “I left before he woke.”
“How chivalric of him,” she said and, setting the glass down on the table between us, came to her feet. “Now that he knows who you are, the next few weeks should be easier for you.”
I flinched as if she’d struck me. “What?”
“You will take my place beside him during the celebrations at M’Gaadir.”
“No!” The word burst out of me without thought. My whole soul rebelled at such a thing.
“No?” she repeated, her voice dangerously flat.
“I cannot play-act you for the duration of the celebration—that’s two months,” I choked out.
“Why?”
There was a dangerous tenor to her voice, and yet I could not heed it, raw from last night, reeling from the shock of such a request.
“This may come as a shock to you,” I said, fighting back my anger. “But I do not enjoy being you.”
Something like a shudder went through Maram, as if she were trying to rein herself in.
“You are admirably steel-spined for someone who has committed treason.” Her face seemed to go through as many emotions as I was feeling. Rage. Fear. Grief. Did she mourn what we had been before this as I did?
I tried to take hold of my emotions. Maram was not a girl to be manipulated, but she didn’t trust me and I needed her to, for both of our sakes.
You are stronger than her. You can bear more.
“I don’t know what I expected—why would anyone want to be the focus of a rebellion’s assassination plot? Better to side against her and eliminate the problem entirely.”
I didn’t close my eyes as I wanted to. This was not a problem I could look away from. This was not a belief I could allow to endure. I set aside my pain and came to stand next to her. Against my better judgment, I laid a hand on her arm. She flinched.
“You joined them,” she said without looking at me. “You said that we were sisters, and then you joined them. And now—”
“Before I was kidnapped—”
“I didn’t order your kidnapping,” she interrupted, and I squeezed her arm.
“I know,” I said softly. “But I was kidnapped. And before I was kidnapped, the Imperial Garda burned down my village’s only source of food. Half the village is either dead of starvation or has moved on to experience poverty in another city. During my kidnapping my best friend was shot. And when I arrived in the Ziyaana I was beaten, isolated, and attacked by a hunting raptor. My joining the rebels was not about you. It was about the Vath. About your father.”
Still, she wouldn’t look at me.
“And despite that—when the time came to choose between my life and yours, I chose your life, Maram.”
Her gaze was hollow and disconnected. “Why?”
“Because you are our only hope,” I said. “Because I saw something tremendous in you.”
Her head jerked up and her eyes widened. �
��What?”
“You have the makings of a great queen, Maram,” I said. “And I did what I could to save that.”
“Really?” she said hoarsely. She blinked rapidly. “Do you still think that?”
“Yes.” And the truth was that I did. Whatever Maram and my personal quibbles, in moments like these I saw a version of her that must have always existed. Vulnerable and soft and honest—whatever her father had tried to make her into, he hadn’t been wholly successful. There existed in her a woman who could lead our planet to prosperity, who cared about justice—she only needed to be coaxed out.
Something in the flash of her eyes, the reflection of light on unshed tears, reminded me of the tesleet. It had come to me after I’d thought I’d lost everything—my family beaten, my friendship with Maram in tatters, and alongside it the future of everything I’d envisioned. The tesleet had come to me in my lowest moment and brought hope with it. It was a sign from Dihya, a calling to do what was necessary. It meant, I knew, that I had to help Maram since I could not and would not depose her. That I could, despite my current circumstance.
“I’m sorry—” she began, and I was so unprepared a laugh slipped out. “Why are you laughing? I was serious!”
“I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize,” I said, smiling. “For anything.”
“I have,” she protested. “I think.”
My smile widened.
“You’re impossible,” she said, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
I sighed. “I will take your place at M’Gaadir. But I truly can’t do it forever. The longer I play at being you, the more of a disadvantage you will have. This is the time to build relationships, Your Highness. You will have to face your destiny sometime.”
“My destiny as someone’s wife?” she asked dryly.
“As someone’s future queen,” I corrected.
* * *
Maram and I parted on tenuous but hopeful ground. She returned to take up her spot beside Idris, and I remained in the double’s suite to help Tala pack for our trip to M’Gaadir. Now that I had agreed, all that was left was to do it.
“You are very brave,” Tala said as she hung up a qaftan. “And very strong.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh. “I am pragmatic,” I said. “Which is what happens when you are the only daughter with a foolhardy brother. When there is something to do, the only answer is to do it.”
She smiled. “You never talk about them.”
I rubbed at the rib-space over my heart. “It’s easier not to.”
A bell sounded then, signaling a visitor’s arrival. Maram had already gone, which meant the only other possibility was Nadine. Tala and I exchanged a look and I gestured for her to leave.
“I’ll handle it,” I said softly, and went out.
Nadine stood in the center of the courtyard attended by a single Garda droid. I sank to my knees demurely and bowed my head.
“My lady,” I greeted her.
“It is good to see the Kushaila can take a lesson,” she said. “Though I wonder if this is simply more of your excellent acting.”
I said nothing and kept my eyes on the ground.
“You did well enough at the wedding and feast,” she continued. “Well enough, at least, to convince the princess that you are a necessary and reliable security measure to bring along to M’Gaadir.”
Still I remained silent, but my mind raced. So, she had kept the wedding night a secret from Nadine. What was she hiding that even the high stewardess could not know?
“The princess has not returned to the foolish state of mind you instilled in her months ago,” Nadine continued. “She knows your kind are not to be trusted. So, you will be the shield that anticipates the knife, the wrist upturned for the viper. Understand?”
“Yes, my lady,” I said.
“The celebration is a honeymoon hosted by the Salihis,” she went on. “In light of that, the families present will be Andalaan, though that should be small comfort to you. Most of them will ape at being Vathek. You will tour the city, host these families, and be ready and willing to die in her place. You will behave as Maram at all times. Am I clear?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Sending you with Maram is not an act of trust,” she said at last. “It is an unfortunate necessity.”
“Yes, my lady,” I said again.
“‘Yes, my lady,’” she repeated. “How sweet you are.”
Her hand gripped my chin. I was sure when she released me there would a trail of four small crescent moons indented in my skin.
“Understand this,” she said, her voice hard, and jerked my chin. “Your family’s survival depends on your cooperation. Misbehave, and they will begin to lose both limb and life.”
A chill settled at the pit of my stomach. Nothing would erase the image of my brother being beaten by the Imperial Garda.
But Nadine’s omission of the bedding ceremony had revealed something to me. She did not control Maram as she thought she did. More importantly, this visit revealed that she knew it and feared it. Feared me. Feared what sway I had over Maram, and the pull her kin would exert when she was surrounded by them. Perhaps even encouraged to love them.
I bowed my head when she released my chin. “Yes, my lady.”
two
TARD: THE HUNT
7
M’Gaadir had been the seat of Kushaila power in antiquity. When the Ziyadis unified the planet, it became the seat of their first rulership, and thereafter the heir to the planet ruled from the estate. It was the birthplace of the first Kushaila, Houwa, and the place she’d built after being crowned queen of the Kushaila.
It was also our beginning.
Millennia ago, on the edge of our continent where sand met sea, a few miles from where the first stones would be laid for M’Gaadir, a clutch of tesleet eggs washed ashore. The clutch had been lost and wandered through space far from its celestial nest, or so the stories say. When at last they landed on our planet and hatched, the first of mankind came from their hallowed shells. And because they were far from the sacred flames of their city, they never became what they ought, and remained mortal. And it was from these people that Houwa came and nursed the kernel of magic in her blood. And it was from this legacy that they chose their name—Kushaila, “those among the noble.”
The queen’s estate rested where many people believed Houwa had stood after the slaying of her conqueror husband, a crown on a hill that overlooked the city and the sea. It was a two-story structure, ringed by a wall, and with two towers, one rising out of its southern end, the other from its eastern side. I sat in the southern tower now, hidden by the shadow cast over its balcony, looking down at the city. The estate was surrounded by palm trees, and I could hear the roar of the ocean as it threw itself over and over against the cliffs. A herd of goats bleated as someone shepherded them around the walls of the estate and down the hillside. The city extended around us like a skirt draped over the hillside. White and sandstone, green and blue, everywhere I looked there was a flash of color like jewels stitched into fabric.
I wondered if Maram’s mother, Najat, had drawn strength from the memory of our first queen after she’d married Mathis. She had no family to plot with, no magic to support her. Only her wits and her will and her determination. My fingers were wrapped in the strand of prayer beads as my mind bounced between thoughts of one queen to another and the vision spread out before me. The two-month-long festivities celebrating Idris and Maram’s marriage would take place here, and it would be more Kushaila than the festivities thus far.
I wondered if Maram thought of her mother in this place and all the things she’d endured at the hands of her father.
The chambers I was allotted at M’Gaadir were nearly as run-down as my quarters in the Ziyaana. Instead of a single room and a garden, I’d been given a two-level suite with its own courtyard. A strange excess, but one I was grateful for even if I would rarely be allowed to use them. I drew in a brea
th, then stepped away. I’d been given a small reprieve since Maram had arrived as herself, but at any moment I could be expected to take her place. If the sound of footsteps echoing off the steps was any indication, Tala had at last come to collect me.
The estate was already in an uproar. In true Kushaila fashion, two of the families sworn to the Salihis had arrived ahead of schedule. The Mas’udis and Nasiris were makhzen who controlled less land but commanded as much respect as any of the old families. They had to be greeted by both Maram—myself—and Idris. I dressed quickly in a blue brocade qaftan with black stitching—it had a high collar and epaulets on each shoulder besides. I was not much one for armor, but it made me feel stronger to be so robed in Maram’s clothes as I entered a situation I very much did not want to.
The courtyard where the Salihi guests gathered opened out into an orchard that sloped down toward the city. Its trees were tall and thick enough that you could not see the city of M’Gaadir at all, and if we so wished it, we might raise the shield and block out its sounds as well. The stone walls were old, and so clean I thought their age had been made to show purposely, so that those who sat in their shadow would never forget where they stood.
There were tables and gazebos littered through the courtyard, and though the walls were old, the tiled floors—green and white and gold—gleamed in the early-afternoon sunlight. The courtiers played games and chatted, while Idris and I sat in a white and blue–tiled bower waiting to greet his cousins. Its wall faced the sea, with a great glassless window that framed where we sat. I could only imagine the image Idris and I made, though I was sure a moment later that it made no impression on the cousins.
There were only four of them and yet they entered with the sound of a dozen Kushaila cousins come to carouse and make merry. Idris was on his feet before any of them had greeted us properly, pulled into one bear hug and then another with the two young men. The young women were more sedate for their part and kissed his cheeks, once on the left and twice on the right.
