by Derr, Megan
"Yes," Beynum replied. "Tell your minx I mean no harm."
Fahima threw back the blankets and went to her maid, holding Gulzar close. "Perhaps, Lord Beynum, you should not sneak into rooms where you ought not be."
Beynum laughed. "I assure you, I would rather be in my own bed at this moment."
"Why are you here?" Fahima asked, letting a calmed Gulzar go to fetch her robe.Pulling it on and cinching it closed, she pinned up her long hair. Feeling a bit more presentable, she returned to the fire.
"My king sensed you had something more to say than that which you did when extending your sister's apologies."
Fahima drew a sharp breath. "Yes."
"Then come and speak your piece, where no unwelcome eyes or ears will impede," Beynum said.
"I do not trust this," Gulzar replied. "He is too sneaky."
Beynum merely looked at her, face implacable in the wavering light of the fire. "I would never harm my king," he said quietly. "Come, if you wish to have your say."
Fahima nodded. "Wait one moment for me to change." She kissed Gulzar briefly on the lips to reassure her all was well, then vanished into her dressing room. Panicking briefly over what to wear—what was appropriate for a clandestine meeting that would likely end in her family being executed?—before rolling her eyes and deciding on a simple morning wrap, dark brown and only minimally adorned in blue, green, and yellow. Tidying her hair up, she slipped on a pair of soft slippers and took a deep breath.
She wondered if her morning wrap was doomed to become an unpleasant pun. Grimacing at herself, she strode back out into the bedchamber.
Gulzar remained by the fire, dagger still out, glaring at Beynum—but she dropped the dagger as Fahima drew close, and embraced her tightly. "Will you come back, my lady?" she asked softly.
Fahima kissed her, fighting nervous tears that would only weaken her position. "I will do my best, darling." One last kiss, then she turned and strode to Beynum.
Beynum grinned and lifted a strip of cloth, and before Fahima could protest her eyes were bound. Her hand was taken in a surprisingly rough grip, calluses on a man she would not have expected to have them.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.
"Secrecy," Beynum said. "None may know these passages but His Majesty and those of us who protect him. Now be silent, lest someone hear you."
Heart in her throat, Fahima allowed herself to be led along, smelling damp and dust, smoke from torches. Suddenly the chill gave way to warmth, and the blindfold about her eyes vanished.
Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Shahjahan sitting at a low table dressed casually in dark cream robes, the high collar of it fastened only halfway. He sipped a cup of tea. "Lady Fahima," he said. "Please, do sit. I hope Beynum did not give you too much of a fright."
To his right Nandakumar snorted softly, glaring at Beynum.
Beynum merely laughed. "I think her maid was the one to give me a fright," he said cheerfully, sitting on Shah's left. "Interesting maid, to sleep with a dagger beneath her pillow."
Fahima sat at the place indicated, across from Shahjahan. "Gulzar spent many years on the streets before she was taken in by a woman who raised her more properly. Old habits are hard to break, and she holds me as dearly as I hold her."
Let them think what they wanted, that she would 'dally' with her maid. Gulzar had always been there for her, and would be until the end.
Shahjahan merely smiled and offered her a cup of tea, which Fahima refused.
"Now, Lady Fahima, what is it you so badly wanted to tell me earlier this evening? Unless I have called you here for some misunderstanding."
Fahima shook her head. "No, Majesty. There is something I must tell you, though …" She shook her head again, and stared at her hands, hating the cowardice but dreading more the look she would see in his face. "My sister is with child, Majesty."
Silence fell, heavy and thick and cold. She heard someone start to speak, but the words were cut off before they could truly form.
"I see," Shahjahan said, and the coldness in his voice cut like a knife. "Your family has been attempting to make a fool of my family, of Tavamara. Why do you tell me this?"
"My family is scared," Fahima said, slowly looking up, and the awful closed look to his face was all that she had dreaded. "My sister told my parents of her stupidity too late, and now they know not what to do."
Shahjahan watched her. "So why are you here? I sense you do not do this at the bidding of your parents."
"No, Majesty," Fahima said quietly. "My parents do not know I know—my sister told me herself, only a few days ago. I have been trying to speak with you ever since. In her way, my sister is trying to right things—she knew I would tell you where my parents would not."
"It is certainly a fine mess you have brought to me," Shahjahan said coolly, and Fahima barely kept from flinching. "You have brought me the problem; did you bring a solution as well?"
Fahima frowned. "Majesty, it was all I could do to convey to you we must speak. That was enough of a problem, I cannot solve everything."
"Your family is responsible for this," Shahjahan replied. "If they had but called matters off before they progressed this far, it would have been troublesome but not the difficulty it has now become. All firmly believe that in a week's time I will announce that yes, I will take your sister to wife. All other potential brides and negotiations have been called off. A promising candidate from a foreign nation was turned away and to return to it now would be humiliating in the slightest.
"I know, Majesty," Fahima said, and indeed she did. "Yet the penalty for such a thing is execution—to execute my family for treating the royal throne so would solve the matter entirely. No one can blame the king for the actions of fools, and executing us will banish the worst of any humiliation."
Shahjahan brows went up. "You speak so casually of the execution of your family."
"The law is the law, Majesty," Fahima replied. "No one is exempt from it."
"It seems to me," Nandakumar said suddenly, "that the easiest solution is merely to exchange one sister for another." He cast a pensive look upon her, then slid it to Shahjahan. "No one would be surprised in the least if instead of the older sister, the king found himself enamored of the younger. You have already caused two scandals with the men taken into your harem, Majesty; I think the council half expects you to cause some sort of ruckus with your marriage."
Shahjahan smiled briefly. "I'm certain they have placed bets on what manner of headache I will cause them with it, as so far I have been quite obedient. You are right, Nanda, as always. It is the best solution."
Fahima kept her expression calm, but only barely. Had she heard correctly? Surely not. She was not fit to be queen—she had been planning to become a priestess!
"What say you, Lady Fahima?"
"What am I supposed to say, Majesty? No?" Fahima stood, fed up with the entire affair. "This entire time, I have had no choice in anything, and I see no choice now. So be it, I will be my sister's substitute. To spare my family and to serve my king and Tavamara."
The silence was both gratifying and infuriating.
"Allow me to escort you back—"
"I do not need your help," Fahima snapped, angry and miserable and it was only made worse because she could not quite say why she felt so—or maybe she did not want to say. "Three rights, two lefts, and I will be back in my own rooms. I bid you all good night, and thank my king for his unexpected mercy." She threw back the tapestry that hid the door to the secret passage and vanished into the dark hallways beyond.
Any other time the knowledge that such secret passages existed would have fascinated and enthralled her, but now she could only focus on angrily scrubbing away her tears.
An exchange. A substitute. That's all she was. Merely the next best thing, for which Shahjahan must settle. Not best for Tavamara, not what anyone really wanted, she was merely what they must endure.
Leaving the secret passage, Fahima threw herself into Gulzar's wait
ing arms and cried until she at last fell asleep.
*~*~*
Fahima walked around numbly. Two days later and her misery had only increased. She kept expecting her usual resignation to assert itself, that she would accept and make the best of the situation.
After all, she was going to be Queen of Tavamara. She could take Gulzar into her harem and have at least one friendly face. Finally she would be in a position to support the temples as much as she'd always wished. Her family would leave her in peace.
The easiest solution is merely to exchange one sister for another.
Rumors were already being whispered about the palace that the king seemed more interested in one sister than the other. Two days was all it had taken for Shahjahan to subtly but quickly begin to change things. In five more days, her fate would be sealed.
Bells tolled the hour and Fahima grimaced. Dinner was six hours away, but she dreaded it. Everything had fallen apart only a few days ago, but before that terrible meeting had been the dinner. The king had asked her a question and expressed his pleasure over her answer by way of wine from one of his own dishes, handed to her by his concubine.
Though it had stirred her jealousy, the meager bit of attention when Shahjahan had no reason to give it had made her happy.
Now he spoke to her plenty, and encouraged her to try many wines and dishes, and all she could think was that such things were actually intended for her sister. He did not mean any of it for her.
She dodged a rowdy group of men in the market place and turned down a row that was filled with stalls selling finer things—jewels, expensive fabrics, incense, slightly more exotic foods. She paused idly at a stall filled with jewelry, mostly hair pins, decorations for a head scarf or cloak, broaches.
A broach made to resemble a moon orchid caught her eye. Pink sapphire made up the petals, set in delicate silver. She picked it up and smiled briefly, wishing she could give in to such an indulgence.
Then she realized she was going to be queen. She would be able to buy more jewels than she would know what to do with, and never would she have to go to the market for them. It should have been a pleasing thought, but instead it ruined the smile briefly drawn out by the moon-orchid broach. She set it back down.
"Does the pretty lady see something she likes?" the stall clerk asked.
Fahima looked up, dredging up a laugh—it was not the merchant's fault she was in a bad mood, after all. "Much that I like, good sir. Alas, my father and beau both are too smart to give me money enough to buy such trinkets." She smiled. "Still, I am to be married. Perhaps I will convince my husband to spoil me."
"A wise husband always spoils his wife, especially one as beautiful as you, for beautiful women can have their pick of men, no?"
She laughed. "I'm afraid I did not get much choice in the matter, though certainly I could have no better beau." Beau, hah. She wondered if the gift for the bride from the king had already been chosen. Jewels to match her sister's pale eyes? Silks to compliment her skin? Some trinket she would adore?
With an effort she swallowed the choking bitterness and returned to chatting lightly with the merchant until she could escape. Giving the orchid broach one last look, she finally moved on through the crowd, browsing aimlessly and generally avoiding life by losing herself in the chaos of the Tavamaran market.
If her parents knew she was here rather than at temple, they would either pass out or spend the rest of the night bellowing. Her sister would tell her horror stories of what befell a young woman who wandered alone in such a place; Fahima found that vastly entertaining.
Finally she heeded the chiming of the bells, for it would soon be dark and even she was not that reckless. Tucking away the tea she had purchased, as well as a charm for Gulzar to wear, she began to hurry back to the temple and her waiting palanquin.
Back in the palace, she ignored her parents and all but bolted for her room. Stripping quickly, she moved to the bath and settled into it, numbness growing as Gulzar helped her wash and dress, fixing her hair just so.
Gazing in the mirror, all Fahima saw was a pale imitation of her sister. A substitute. She wondered what the price difference between them would be, were they wares in the marketplace.
Gulzar was giving her a concerned look, and the unbroken silence between them expressed more than words could just how deep Gulzar's worry ran. Fahima squeezed her hand, kissed her cheek, and fetched the little packet that held the copper charm she'd bought; more than that, she simply could not muster the energy or caring to let Gulzar know everything was fine.
Departing before her maid could speak, Fahima dredged up a smile and followed her family to the banquet hall. As they reached the king's table, everyone there greeted her by name. Fahima nearly stumbled to a halt from sheer surprise, even as training kicked in to reply to each greeting.
Only yesterday they had greeted her as part of the family, now by name?
She glanced at Shahjahan, who smiled warmly, or seemed to, but she had not forgotten that terrible coldness, the way he had so calmly agreed to exchange one sister for another. Bowing her head, she murmured a warm greeting suitable for a woman secretly smitten with her sister's beau, and took her seat on a plush cushion of deep plum silk. Everyone settled in place as appetizers were set out, and the guests began to reach for their wines of choice.
Fahima reached for a carafe of Sea Rose, then paused.
Each night her wine dishes were different; some made of china, others of translucent glass in a rainbow of colors, but none of them had been like these. A discreet look about the table showed that no one else seemed to possess any like them.
Carefully she picked one up, admiring it. Clear glass, and captured within were pale pink flower petals. The other stacked dishes each held a different colored petal, and two even held entire flowers.
Pretty. She smiled briefly at them, and filled the pink-blossom dish with the Sea Rose wine. Sipping at it, she conversed politely with the people on either side of her, others who joined in, until she realized at least half the table was conversing avidly with her.
It was unnerving as she'd never drawn so much attention at once.
Warm laughter captured her attention, and she turned to face Shahjahan. The open friendliness in his face made her want to cry again, because he didn't mean it. That look should belong to her sister, even if the twit no longer had any right to it. "You are as clever as always, Lady Fahima. Perhaps I should find a place for you on my council. I think you would force them to work much harder." He winked, then turned briefly away to accept the wine Beynum held up for him.
Fahima forced herself to keep smiling, and poured more wine before resuming the argument on translations. Flirting. Shahjahan had been flirting with her. Right? Or had he just been making a teasing comment? Had it been anything?
What did it really matter? He didn't mean any of it.
Oh, she really was lost in self-pity now wasn't she?
Honestly, she told herself sternly as she poured more wine—dark Winter Night, suitable to bridge the pause between the first and second course—she was going to be queen, what did she really have to complain about?
Right this very moment she could be locked up and awaiting execution, if not already dead. Instead she was going to be queen. Did she really have the right to mope and sulk and pout because the king did not actually care about her? So what; nobles did not marry for love or even affection.
Reprimand delivered, she turned stubbornly to her own task of ensuring that all thought she was rather too interested in the king meant for her sister; and Nawra, thankfully, was playing her own role of not caring one bit what her sister did.
Fahima wished miserably that she was not the only one in this farce acting honestly, because the hard truth was that she was enamored of her sister's king, though she could not say when she had first felt so or even exactly why. Too many things came disconcertingly to mind, not least of all that he would go to these measures when executing them would have been more benefi
cial.
It didn't matter, she reminded herself. It was what it was, and could not be changed. What could not be changed must be endured. Her life would be a grand one, and she would have Shahjahan, after a fashion.
The reassurances fell flat, and she poured more wine to chase one bitterness away with another.
When the dinner at last concluded, she could not bear the thought of going back to her rooms to wallow in self-pity. She was stronger than this, she would overcome it. Begging a need to clear her head after too much wine, she returned to her room only to fetch a wrap, then departed for the public gardens.
She wandered for a time admiring the flowers, which always looked so different in moonlight, envying a few blossoms she would not mind seeing in her own garden. Never to happen now, but she was going to be queen, and the queen had or could have private gardens. So, really, all these blooms would be hers if she so desired.
