by Somaiya Daud
That made him smile. “That is not the same.”
“And yet,” I said, “it is what you must accept.”
His smile softened and his thumb stroked an arc over my spine. We had not been so close since before his marriage, and I was loath to pull away now. For a brief moment in time we were as we’d been before—together and content, unbothered by the outside world. I wanted to kiss him and I saw that same desire reflected in his eyes, in the way his hand tightened over mine.
“Your Highness?”
It was as if someone had doused me in cold water. I withdrew from the circle of his arms quickly and turned to face Tala. Behind me, I heard Idris come to his feet.
“Yes?” I said, breathless.
“She is asking for you,” she said quietly.
“Of course. Tell her I’ll be there shortly.”
I didn’t turn back to face Idris as Tala descended the steps back into the main level of the estate. My hand pressed against where his head rested on my ribs, as if he’d branded me there. When I turned around, he was no longer smiling. The air in my lungs seemed to thin as he stepped closer.
“I won’t keep you,” he said softly.
I fled.
* * *
I paused in the hidden corridor outside the double’s suite and waited for my hands to stop trembling. It wasn’t a surprise that I was still so affected by Idris, but in the last little while the machinations of state had taken over. I hadn’t had time. I drew in a deep breath, hid my still trembling hands in the folds of my skirt, and entered the double’s suite.
Maram was in the suite’s tower room, surrounded by dossiers, with one in hand as she paced the length of the room.
I sank to my knees with a murmured greeting.
“Did you approve this?” she asked, and held out a dossier.
My eyes widened as I came to my feet. “I don’t approve anything, Your Highness.” It was a dossier of the servants and handmaidens Tala had collated for hiring. “These are Tala’s recommendations for permanent additions to your household.”
“But you approve of them?”
She was nervous, I realized. Not angry.
“Yes, Your Highness,” I said. “Some are a little chatty, but they’re diligent, well trained, and, more importantly, loyal. To you and you alone.”
“Why do you like them?” she asked.
I lifted one shoulder. “They’re competent and dedicated. Efficient. Self-directed when necessary but prudent enough to know when something should be brought to your attention.”
“No, why do you like them—you seem fond of them.”
I tilted my head to the side as Maram had done many times before. “Truth be told … they remind me of my friends on Cadiz.”
Maram’s eyes widened. “You never talk about it.”
“About it?”
“Your home. Your family.”
“There is little reason to bring up my elder brothers,” I said, trying to keep my voice flat.”Or my friends or life before.”
“Brothers? I imagined maybe some cousins. Certainly, your parents. You don’t act like the youngest.”
I grinned. “I’m the only girl. It happens.” When she didn’t smile back, I sobered. “The girls are trustworthy. If you’d like we can look at others, but—”
“No,” she interrupted, then looked over my shoulder. “Ah. And it seems our time together is about to come to a close. Though I didn’t expect to see you after—”
Idris climbed the stairs more quietly than he had this morning. In the interim he’d freshened up, and none of the grief I’d seen in the morning remained. He bowed to both of us as one, then straightened and raised an eyebrow.
“After my behavior the last time we spoke?” He inclined his head. “My anger was ill placed. I apologize for my outburst.”
From the expression on her face, I don’t think he’d ever apologized to her before. I was hard pressed to believe he’d never had such an outburst, but Idris was diplomatic and aware enough that only his cousin’s death might have prompted such a thing from him.
“I—” she started. “Thank you. I heard—I’m sorry about ‘Adil, though it changes nothing.”
He inclined his head again.
“I had another reason for coming,” he said, and held up a holosheet. Maram took it first, and I watched her face go blank before she handed it to me. A chill wound its way down my spine as I read. Nadine was only a few hours away. We’d known she would get here eventually—she would be a Vathek royal guest. But I, and no doubt Maram, too, had avoided thinking about it. Maram would have to pit her strength against the stewardess as both a married woman and mistress of her own household. And I could not do it for her. Nadine knew the differences between us too well.
“You will have to meet with the estate stewardess,” I said, handing Maram the holosheet. “And Idris can make sure that her servants are monitored so they don’t interfere. You will also have to greet her.”
“Greet her?” Her eyebrows rose. “Why must I greet her?”
“I can’t do it,” I replied. “She can tell the difference between us.”
“Why must anyone greet her?” she said, one hand on her hip.
“Why does a king greet visiting dignitaries to his home world? Because one is the host and the other is the guest. If only the staff greet her—”
She waved a hand. “Alright.”
There was a strange look of nervousness about her, as if she hadn’t counted on this. As if, impossibly, she’d forgotten how to be the Imperial Heir. I hesitated, then reached for her and took hold of her hand.
“You are the Imperial Heir and this is your home,” I said. “She cannot take power from you if you do not let her.”
“Are you … rallying me?” she said, on the edge of laughter.
I smiled weakly. “Is it working?”
“No. But good effort.”
* * *
A passage led from the abandoned suite to a small alcove with a shielded window that overlooked the entryway. It was sequestered from everything, with a single entrance leading back to the rest of the palace. It was there I stood as the estate gates groaned open and Nadine’s entourage made their way in.
Maram and Idris stood side by side on an elevated platform, and behind them stood a row of the senior-most staff. They made a striking image. The air had turned sharper and cooler the further into the autumn months we’d gone, and they both wore heavy velvet mantles in complementary shades of teal. Maram’s skirt was shot through with white embroidery that looked from one angle like tesleet feathers and from another like the frothing waves of the ocean. She wore a modest crown, but it too bore the sigil of the tesleet in its center. I’d not expected her to take so much comfort in the imagery of her mother’s house, but it seemed to steady her as she’d dressed and listened to me summarize the reports on the court that I’d given her.
She would need to be herself today, and likely for many days, a prospect she looked on with little joy. But I did not want to find out what Nadine would think of the role I’d played in shoring up Maram’s defenses against her. I’d learned from my loss months ago, and the ease with which she’d turned Maram against me. I would not lose to her again.
Nadine emerged from a self-drawn carriage, her silver hair gleaming in the late-morning sunlight. She surveyed her surroundings. I’d paid little attention to how she was until it was too late, but now I saw. Her eyes roved over the courtyard in a way that showed she was used to being obeyed, and used to the world bending to her will. But she was not the Imperial Heir, and the power she derived from rearing Maram and controlling the palace in which she spent her time would wane.
She stilled, and I felt my heart give a painful thud when at last she saw where Maram and Idris stood. Her walk was not sedate or leisurely; there was something predatory in the way she moved, and I felt my own hands tighten around the folds in my skirt. Maram, for her part, remained perfectly impassive, a half smile on her face as Nadine
sank to her knees then rose to her feet.
“Your Highness,” Nadine greeted.
“Welcome to M’Gaadir,” Maram said. There was no joy or happiness, but a diplomatic neutrality that I marveled at. I could not understand her fear of going into court—she was so practiced at it, in a way I knew I was not. Polished and at ease with power. “I trust your journey was easy.”
“It was, Your Highness,” she replied. “You need not have troubled yourself to greet me.”
Maram’s smile grew just a little, and I felt a strange swell of pride. “Of course I did. What sort of host would I be otherwise? We have prepared chambers for you in the eastern corridor.”
“I normally stay—”
“Yes,” Maram interrupted. “Adjacent to the royal suite. I have ordered them renovated. They will be absorbed into the royal suite by the end of the year.”
Nadine seemed at a loss for words. For long moments she stared at Maram, and Maram, to her credit, stared back, one eyebrow raised.
“Have I said something confusing, Nadine?”
“No, Your Highness,” she said, and inclined her head. “I am glad you are settling in so well.”
Maram gestured to a serving girl behind her. “This is Nahla,” she said as she came forward. “She will show you to your rooms and organize your staff so that they don’t disrupt the rhythms of the estate.”
Nadine knew, of course, what that meant. They would be watched and reported on and prevented from spying on Maram if they attempted it. Her hand did not fist in her gown, but there was something in the air about her that changed.
“I look forward to hearing your news from the capital,” Maram finished. Nadine gave her a small bow and that was that. I felt another swell of pride. Maram was royal and I’d always known that. But her self-imposed exile had worried me, that she’d somehow lost her ability to navigate court life, or that she’d given it up like an ‘ifrit giving up its magic in exchange for mortality. But now more than ever I felt the possibilities of her future and the future of this planet open up.
04. Maram
STARDATE 4393, SEVEN DAYS AFTER THE IMPERIAL WEDDING
Maram knew it was not the Kushaila way to leave offerings at shrines or images. Graves and tombs, perhaps, but her mother’s tomb was in M’Gaadir. She would not go there until the honeymoon and her life was irrevocably tied with Idris’s. But it was the Vathek way, and so she’d had a small room built, its ceiling strung with brass lanterns, with a single great stained-glass window within which her mother stood.
For half an instant she’d considered asking Amani how to make bakhoor. It seemed the sort of thing a villager, a farmer’s daughter, would have to know how to do. But wherever they were now—whatever they were now—she didn’t think she could reveal this to her. She couldn’t share this with her. And so she’d searched on her own, and soaked the wood chips and found the syrup. When the bakhoor burned it smelled like Najat—jasmine oil and a hint of rose.
Maram found she couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the stained glass that made up the folds of her mother’s qaftan. She understood that she was a terrible daughter. That she had never made the effort to visit her mother’s grave. That she was a terrible successor to her mother’s legacy. And that worst of all she was too scared to fix it.
Her hands shook as she unscrewed the top of the jar and moved from brass incense bower to brass incense bower, filling them with wood chips. There were almost thirty altogether, and she’d come home early from a viewing of falcons to do this. The room slowly filled with hazy incense smoke and the fragrance she’d soaked into the chips. Her mother appeared as an apparition through it all, lit by the fading light of the setting sun and the lanterns high above.
The doors to the room creaked open, and still Maram didn’t look away from her mother’s image. She knew it was Aghraas from her gait and from her silence. Many people would be motivated to make their apologies, to scurry out of the room immediately. But Aghraas stood a few paces behind her and remained quiet as if she were waiting for Maram to choose when to speak.
“Shall I say a prayer?” Aghraas asked at last.
“She can’t hear you,” Maram scoffed.
“Not to her,” Aghraas replied. “For her.”
“Our prayers help the dead as much as their wishes for the living help us,” Maram said quietly, and turned away from the image of her mother. “Which is to say not at all.”
* * *
Part of her was loath to wash the scent of jasmine and rose oil off her skin, but she was not a child who could linger in her mother’s perfumes. So she bathed, and sat still as Fatiha oiled and combed her hair. The sun had set, and the light orbs filled the small estate. She always felt strange after visiting that room, and she felt stranger still now that someone else had been in there with her. There were times when she stood in her mother’s shadow and thought she could do the right and necessary thing, that she could uphold her mother’s dying wish.
The people depend on us—and us alone—to be their shield. Do not fail them.
The people are almost broken, she wanted to tell her mother. Because I stood by and let him do it.
“There you are,” Fatiha said, and draped the heavy braid over her right shoulder.
“You need not do a serving girl’s job,” she said instead of thanking her.
Fatiha smiled. “It gives me some pleasure,” she replied. “You will not believe me, but you remind me very much of your mother.”
Maram was too tired to be angry, so she gave her a half smile. “I don’t believe you. But I accept the compliment.”
“Good night, Your Highness. You know where I am if you need me.”
Many of the servants lived on the grounds, and there were times when that showed—a child’s laughter, the soft sound of song as they prepared for the evening meal. Maram shrugged into a light robe and slippers and descended from her chambers and into the garden. Aghraas had been at the estate for some time now, and it was moments like these—confronted by her as she was now, haloed by the light of the orbs—that Maram regretted her invitation. Aghraas looked young, as young as her, her braids down around her face and without the martial clothing that made her appear remote. Instead she wore a dressing gown and sat in the grass, her slippers in a pile to her left, with a book open in her lap.
“Your Highness,” she said by way of greeting. She did not stand.
“Falconer. You are reading.”
“I am, Your Highness.”
“What do you read?”
“Poetry, Your Highness.”
The Vath had poetry, but they were a society who preferred plays. Maram had grown up watching dramas and tragedies on the Vathek stage—poetry had seemed part of her mother’s world and so she’d read little and enjoyed less. But she knew Amani had a love of it, that the Kushaila prided themselves on their poetry possibly more than they did their ability to terraform moons.
“Will you read some?” The words came out more gently than she’d intended. Always, it seemed, Aghraas challenged her and Maram stood her ground. For once she wanted the falconer to be off her guard, to be worried. To—
Aghraas’s eyes widened. “Read?”
“You can read, can’t you?”
“I can, Your Highness.”
Maram gestured toward the book. “Then.”
Her pulse thrummed in her fingertips.
Aghraas lifted her chin and met her eyes, and Maram had the sharp realization that she’d made a mistake. That even if she did not understand Kushaila very well, Aghraas’s performance would be affecting. And she understood enough—Aghraas spoke with the clarity of ancients, her voice high and pure, her language unadorned with modern flourishes. Maram understood enough for her cheeks to warm and her heart to beat harder in her chest. She understood enough that something inside her recognized itself and clicked into place.
“Shall I translate?” Aghraas said.
Maram couldn’t say no. It would be cowardly. It would be adm
itting defeat.
“Yes.”
I believe Suhayyah weeps,
And I wish I had been known to her before today.
Before she stopped all speech
And her eyes found mine, stopping me in my path.
She stood exalted over me when my staff fell,
As if she were an idol plied by devoted priests.
Your wealth is yours, and your slaves are yours.
Is your torment for me spent?
Forget my misfortune when the war party comes.
They will swarm like locusts,
They will flee with their saddles wet
with water—ridden by hawks in revolt.
We have struck a great wound in the center
and they pale as they bleed.
There was a long silence after, and Maram had the strange sensation she’d lost feeling in both of her hands. Aghraas’s eyes did not waver from her face, and so she didn’t look away either. She was surprised at the piercing feeling in her belly when Aghraas’s eyes lowered, the sharp pain that bid her take a step forward.
She heard her father’s voice. Control yourself.
And yet she took a step forward and then another and another. They were measured and unhurried, and yet they were steps, and when she stood over Aghraas she could not keep her hands to herself. She slid a hand beneath Aghraas’s chin and raised her face to look at her. Her hands didn’t shake and she moved with a surety she didn’t feel. Inside, her world had tilted on its axis.
“Why are you still here?” she asked.
Aghraas’s eyes widened. “You haven’t given me leave—”
“No,” Maram interrupted softly. She felt unmoored from herself. “Here. At my estate. With me.”
Aghraas’s hand wrapped around her wrist, and Maram fought a shudder.
“I serve at your pleasure, Your Highness,” she said. “Wherever you are, so too shall I be.”
At that Maram could not control the way her hand seized and pulled away from her, nor the sharp intake of breath. It no longer felt as if it were a battle of wills—something she’d lost and won at the same time—but something else entirely. She looked away from Aghraas and pressed her hand against her ribs as if it might relieve her difficulty in breathing.
