Linnet and the Prince

by Alydia Rackham

  He stood still, head tilted, listening. I heard nothing. But suddenly, his expression darkened like a thundercloud. He lifted his head.

  “Ptah,” he spat, then stripped off his shirt, threw it on the floor and tossed my covers back. My eyes went wide as cool air hit me—and then he climbed in and pressed close to me. My heart raced as he pulled me against his bare chest.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “Sh,” he snapped, black eyes fastened on the door. I went still. I could feel his heart hammering against me, and every short breath he took. I found myself holding mine.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall—slow, quiet footsteps. Rajak muttered another low stream of curses, turned to me, took my face in his warm hands and kissed me.

  My heart banged against my ribs and lightning shot through my veins as he pressed deeper. He withdrew, his lips parted from mine, only to come again and again, harder and more passionate. My mind reeled and heat rushed to my face. But he was hungry, desperate, and each kiss threatened to overwhelm me—I couldn’t catch my breath. Then, at the edge of my spinning senses, I heard the door open.

  Rajak’s mouth instantly softened, and the kiss lingered for a moment, tender and deliberate, before his mouth broke from mine. For one second, he looked at me, our faces inches apart. My breathing came jaggedly, my face hot. He turned his face to the door. I looked, too.

  Commander Thanatos stood there in the half-open doorway, staring.

  “Tell me, Commader,” Rajak addressed him, his tone venomous. “Is there a reason you are interrupting us?”

  Thanatos was silent a moment, then canted his head and put on a pleasant expression—as much as he could with his scar.

  “I was instructed by King Niro to bring my prince and his new wife a wedding present,” he purred. Rajak arched an eyebrow.

  “Let us have it, then.”

  Thanatos’ expression went wooden, but then he glanced down and pulled out a long, thin, jeweled knife from his belt. My throat closed. The light flashed off the blade.

  “Thank you, Thanatos,” Rajak said. “Please leave it there, and thank my father.”

  Thanatos hesitated, then bowed low, put the knife on the stones and departed, shutting the door behind him.

  Rajak gentled against me, resting his cheek on my head and closing his fingers softly around mine, under the covers. But he did not move. He was still watching the door, listening. I swallowed hard, trying to gather my decimated thoughts.

  Rajak let go of my hand, sat up and slid out of the bed. He crept to the door like a cat and leaned the side of his head against it, his expression black. He opened the door, leaned out into the hall and looked both ways. He came back in, shut the door and leaned back against it, and let out a long breath. His frown disappeared, and the glance he gave me went straight to my heart.

  “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I know I

  promised—”

  “What was he doing here?” I breathed, taking fistfuls of the covers. Rajak did not answer.

  “He did not come to bring a wedding present, did he?” I pressed.

  Rajak paused, then shook his head. He glanced down at the doorknob.

  “My father is not a patient man. He does not wait for explanations.” He came back to the bed, picked his shirt up off the floor and donned it. “I know he understood me when I called you my jaaneman, but he must not be convinced the vows were sincere.” He straightened his collar, still staring at the door. I swallowed again.

  “He was going to have me killed.”

  Rajak watched me as he fastened his shirt. He nodded once. All the heat that had invaded my body now left it, and I could not turn away from that door.

  “That is the bad news,” Rajak said, finishing with his shirt and stepping toward the exit. “The good news is that now,” he picked up the weapon and turned back to me. “You have a knife in your room.” He held it out to me, handle first. I stared at it a moment, then took it from him and set it on the bedside table.

  “What is jaaneman?” I asked. He met my eyes for a moment.

  “’Life-partner’ is the closest translation,” he said. “True love is another. The old vows are supposed to be bound by love, or they are not considered valid.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Which was the reason for that display.” He gestured to the bed, then ran a hand through his hair. “I have to pretend to be in love with you or my father will kill you.”

  A pang traveled from my chest down into my gut as my brow furrowed.

  “Can you do that?” I asked quietly. He shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I have never been skilled at lying. But I will try.” He headed toward the door opened it and stepped through. He turned, grabbed the doorknob and shook it.

  “Now please,” he commanded. “Lock this door.”

  He pulled it shut and disappeared.

  For several minutes, I just sat there, fighting to orient myself. Then, I lurched out of bed, fumbled for my key, shoved it into the lock and twisted it. My vision blurred, and confusion hit me when I blinked and tears ran down my face. Enraged, I swiped at them, but that pang had opened up into a twisting ache that got worse with every breath. I hurried back to bed, climbed under the covers and curled into a ball. I slid my hand under my pillow and pulled the wooden box against my chest and held it there all night, telling myself over and over that I just wanted to keep close to my mother’s knife.

  Chapter Twelve

  I hid the next morning. I only let Ayah in the room after I had made certain I could recognize her voice through the door. Otherwise, I dressed myself and ate what Ayah brought, and stared at that door.

  I had been able to bear being alone so long before, because I had expected it, and gotten used to it. Now that I had been given a taste of company, I could not stand solitude anymore. I tapped my foot, I paced, I stretched, I took up the “wedding present” knife, studied it and then practiced with it, swinging, lunging and swiping with it, careful and quiet. It was because I stayed so silent that, from a distance, I could hear someone shouting.

  I stopped, the knife held lightly in my hand. A loud voice rang out, echoing up the corridor. Another answered in a lower tone. I stepped to the door, leaned my head against it as Rajak had, closed my eyes and listened.

  Both voices sounded familiar. I had heard one of them once or twice, but not enough to identify it. The other—the other had to be Rajak.

  I unlocked my door and opened it. Slipping my key into my pocket, I leaned out into the hall, the knife still in my hand. I saw nothing, heard nothing, except the flickering of the torches.

  The voices barked out again. They were coming from my garden.

  I slid the long knife into my belt, letting out a slow breath as I did. I felt better, calmer, with a weapon on me. I ventured out into the hall, treading softly, and swept toward the old harem.

  The gates were closed. I hugged the wall as I approached, then hid behind the left hand doorframe. I crouched down and eased my head around the corner, just enough so I could see through the gate. I froze.

  King Niro and Rajak occupied one of the beams of light in the center of the room. The fountain bubbled behind them, but no birds sang. Rajak, dressed in his finest, stood still, staring straight ahead, while Niro circled him like a hungry lion. The gem on Niro’s head flashed in the sunlight, and his visage twisted with restrained rage. He came around and stood before Rajak, and snarled something in his face, in Badi. Rajak answered, unmoving. Niro threw up his hands and exclaimed, gesturing with his right, and his many rings shimmered. He pointed at Rajak, and thundered something that made me cringe. He pointed at the gate now, lowered his head and gave a command. Rajak said nothing. Neither of them moved. I stopped breathing. Then, Rajak lifted his chin one inch.

  “Na.”

  Niro’s hand flashed. A crushing slap rang through the room. I clapped my hand over my mouth as Rajak jerked to the side, his hand flying to his right cheek. Niro drew himself up, his nostrils flaring, hi
s eyes blazing. He hissed a condemning sentence, shook his head and turned away. Rajak righted himself, and lowered his hand. His cheekbone was covered in blood. Niro whirled around and jabbed a finger at his son again, and issued one last statement. Then, without looking back, he thundered out of my garden and through a side door, and slammed it. The latch resounded through the room. All fell quiet.

  I gazed at Rajak, who stood still for a moment. Then, his shoulders sagged, and he pressed his fingers to his cheek. He studied the blood on them, then turned, moved back toward the fountain and sank down to sit on the edge.

  I stood up and backed away, my hand on my knife. His father had left him, and was now roaming the halls. I ought to go back to my room and…

  “Mujhe maaf kardo, Mata.”

  Rajak’s broken voice, so quiet I almost did not hear it, stopped me where I stood. I tilted my head, my brow tightening. He brought his other hand up and covered his eyes.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I started forward. I grasped the cold metal of the gate and pushed it open. The hinge squeaked. I halted. Rajak straightened, dropped his hand and sucked in a breath. His black eyes flicked to mine. They shone. He looked away, and his hands closed into fists. I swallowed, and started forward again.

  He did not stand up, or lift his head again as I came toward him. I came to stand beside him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked roughly.

  “I heard shouting in my garden,” I answered. “I was not going to let anyone crush my flowers or disturb my birds.”

  He did not respond. My little smile faded. I stood for a long moment, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I lowered down onto the side of the fountain and sat next to him. For a long moment, neither of us said anything, and the murmur of the waterfall filled the silence. My eyes traced his cut, and the blood smeared on his cheek.

  “You already had a scar there,” I murmured. The skin around his eye twitched, and his jaw clenched.

  “It is his ring. He never misses.” His voice was low and husky, and his head did not turn. My heart plunged. It took me a moment to summon words.

  “He has hit you before?” I breathed.

  “You cannot tell me your father never hit you,” Rajak muttered, wincing as he touched the edge of his cut. I stared at him. I had seen Niro’s slaughtered victims, and the way he hauled women and children in to be sold as slaves. But this was his son.

  “No,” I shook my head, a lump forming in my throat. “My father was very strong, and had a short temper sometimes but…No. He would never hit me. Or Aeleth.”

  Rajak tilted his head toward me. His next question was low, careful.

  “Did he strike your mother?”

  Once more, shock pulsed through me, and I stammered to find words.

  “No! Oh, no. No. He is…was…always very gentle with her.”

  The corner of Rajak’s mouth lifted, and he met my eyes briefly through his long lashes, then returned his gaze to the ground. I was struck. I had never seen such pain.

  I swallowed, and shifted closer, so our shoulders touched. I stayed very still, waiting for him to pull away. He did not. Instead, he spoke.

  “I convinced my father that our vows were sincere.”

  My gaze flew to him.

  “You did?”

  “I think the destruction of this harem proved my point,” he said. “But he is displeased. So much so that he is leaving today, for the wine country.”

  I almost melted with relief. But Rajak’s demeanor took on a darkness that I could feel, and it made me quiet.

  “I know you missed your father whenever he went away,” Rajak mused, almost to himself. “Perhaps you thought of him every day he was gone, and prayed for him to return safely. Perhaps you wished on the stars for him to come home soon.” He frowned. “And I? I would be happy if I never saw my father again.”

  I trembled, and cast my gaze down to my folded hands.

  “And I would give anything to see mine again,” I whispered, my throat tight.

  Silence descended. Rajak’s frown remained. He took a breath, hesitated, then spoke.

  “For what it is worth,” he murmured. “I wanted your father alive.”

  I froze, my eyes fixed on his profile. He went on, his gaze distant.

  “I gave a command that King Peliar be captured to discuss surrender,” he said. “But Peliar believed it was a trick. He ordered a charge, and he shot at me. My army fired back. I do not know who struck him—no one would claim the kill, because my soldiers knew how angry I would be.” His voice quieted even more. “I was most sorry it happened. I knew he was a good king.”

  I could not move. A tear trembled on my eyelashes, then tumbled. I reached up and cast it away, swallowing and trying to clear my vision. I expected Rajak to study me, to watch my reaction. But he stayed motionless. He clasped his hands tight in front of him, as if braced for another blow. Then I realized that he expected to be scrutinized—and judged.

  For an instant, the black fire of my grief rose up inside me, urging me to take this chance to raise my hand against him, or at least wound him with a savage remark. But then the image of Rajak’s father striking his face flashed through my mind. Niro would not have given such a merciful order. Niro would not have spared my people. Niro would not have protected and shielded and helped me countless times. And Niro would have killed me where I stood rather than take me as his only wife.

  The fire smoldered and died.

  But Rajak could not see my broken expression. He was staring ahead again, his brow knotted, and pain welling up in his eyes, all the more visible without tears.

  I reached up, hesitated, then touched his temple with my fingertips and stroked his midnight hair back, just above his ear. I dropped my hand, but stayed near his shoulder.

  “Thank you for trying,” I whispered. He did not answer. But his hands relaxed, he took a deep breath, and we remained there for many minutes after.

  LLL

  I followed Rajak’s servant down a long, unfamiliar hallway in the men’s portion of the caverns, still puzzling over where I was headed. I had spent the past hour in my room after Rajak had left the garden to prepare for his father’s departure. Then his servant had come to get me, ordered me to follow, and said nothing else.

  My stomach growled and I pressed my hand over it. It was past the time for my midday meal, and my hunger was fast overtaking my curiosity…

  “Here, Rani,” the servant stepped aside and gestured to a half-open door. My brow creasing, I stepped forward, pushed the door aside, and stepped onto the largest balcony I had ever seen.

  An overhang shielded this part from the sun, and ruffling sheer red curtains hung between stone support pillars. Warm wind caught my hair and dress. I stood on a higher level, but out there were some shallow steps that led to a broad, sunny section that was bordered by a stone railing, and beyond that…

  Beyond that lay the canyon, and then a sweeping view of the blue sky and the rolling green hills of the wine country.

  “You’re here.”

  I jumped, and turned toward the sound. Rajak strode toward me, wearing his black dress tunic and trousers without shoes or a robe, and he held a rag pressed to his cheek.

  “Come this way,” he beckoned broadly, and I followed him between two pillars, under a curtain, and into a little room with three cloth walls. The absent wall allowed me to still see the spectacular view, and feel the breeze. Within the little room sat a low table covered with covered plates and platters and goblets of drink. Beneath the table lay an elaborate red rug, and around it sat plush pillows and cushions.

  “Sit down,” Rajak invited, moving around the table and seating himself. He made a face as he pulled the rag away from his cheek and set it down on the tabletop. “Ayah swears this herb will keep me from bruising…” he muttered. “But I think it just smells foul.” Then his eyes found me where I stood. He gestured at the place opposite him. “Sit! You do not want to miss this—trust me.”

 
Eying him, I eased down on the floor and crossed my legs. He took the rag back up and pushed it to his cut.

  “Long ago,” he muttered. “I told Ayah how miserable I always was whenever my father returned from plundering. She said, ‘You must search for the bright spot, Maharaj.’ I said there wasn’t one. She said, ‘You are wrong, Maharaj,’” Rajak shook his finger at me. “‘Because whenever your father returns…” He reached down and grasped the handle of a platter. “‘…we have fruit.’”

  He lifted the lid. I gasped. Beneath, on the platter, lay dozens of colorful, juicy slices: apples, pears, plums, strawberries and melon. He lifted another lid to show piles of raspberries, blueberries and blackberries. A delighted laugh escaped me, and I looked at him. He gestured to the fruit, and that was all the permission I needed. I dug into the raspberries first and ate dozens of them, then picked up three slices of apple, and then six strawberries, and then ate a whole plum. Rajak followed suit, abandoning his rag and taking almost all the pears for himself.

  For a good while, we did not say anything—I was too absorbed in the tastes and lusciousness of finally eating fruit again.

  At last, though, as I enjoyed my tenth slice of apple, a thought rose to the surface of my mind that I had been curious about, and now that Rajak seemed to be in lighter spirits, I felt brave enough to speak up.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “You may ask whatever you want,” he answered, pouring himself some wine. “Whether I answer you or not…” He shrugged with one shoulder, but he was almost smiling. I decided to take the plunge.

  “Why does your father have a gem above his right eyebrow?”

  His face darkened, and he glanced at me. I stiffened, certain he was going to change the subject—but then he began.

  “The old people say there is a chamber in Nazre—a place where a blue light shines into a pool of water,” he said. “They call it the heart of the court. The ancient princes, upon their coronation, would go down into this water, and when they came up again, a blue jewel appeared just above their right eyebrows. The water would only bestow this gem, called the Stone of Inheritance, upon a prince of the true bloodline.”