Kismet's Kiss: A Fantasy Romance (Alaia Chronicles)

by Cate Rowan

  Kuramos strode through torch-lit palace halls with his son cradled against his chest, Tahir’s small arms wrapped around his neck. Sulya followed hard on his heels, her coined anklets jangling “look at me, look at me” with every step.

  “You’re taking him to Yaman?” she asked, low-throated.

  “Yes.” He hoped she’d pay heed to his curt tone. For once.

  “That donkey! He wouldn’t know how to cure a hangnail. He should have taken his rest long ago. What good can he do?”

  “Let’s hope he can cure our son,” he growled. “Leave the past alone, Sulya.”

  “Why? It will claw at us sooner or later.” She stretched her pace to his and yanked a stray raven lock behind her ear. “You should have let me bring Bairam here. He would have known what to do.”

  Pah. Unlikely. Bairam was her brother, and an old irritant. No love was lost between Sulya and the physician Yaman, and Kuramos clenched his jaw at the memory of why. But Tahir was Sulya’s son, too. He couldn’t very well ban her from Yaman’s presence when her son was ill.

  Tahir’s dark head slumped against Kuramos’s bare chest; the heat of the fever soaked his father’s skin. The boy peered ahead, but didn’t lift his head from its rest.

  Nearing the Royal Infirmary, Kuramos spied the stone visage of Naaz above the door. Her divine face was shaped into forbidding lines, and She held the Scroll of Mercy aloft in one hand, the Torch of Vengeance in the other. He closed his eyes briefly and prayed that this time, the goddess’s mercy would be the stronger.

  “Yaman,” he said, turning into the room, “Tahir is ill, a fever—”

  He froze at the sight before him. Yaman, his Royal Physician, lay on his side on the marble floor, face toward Kuramos, pupils rolling up toward his brows. His body arched as if a tiger’s jaws clamped his back. A spreading stain of red soaked the edge of his honey-colored turban just above one ear.

  Yaman’s assistant leaned over his master, frantically pressing mir leaves against the wound. Another man, whom Kuramos recognized as an undercook from his own kitchens, sprawled unconscious across a nearby table, blood running from a large gash in the bared flesh of his stomach. Yaman’s surgical instruments lay scattered over the floor as if they’d been kicked. And even as Kuramos watched, a twitching overtook the physician, growing more powerful until his limbs flailed like thrown sticks.

  “Yaman!” the assistant shouted. “Listen to me! Come back!”

  When the physician’s limbs slackened, his assistant glanced toward the doorway. The fear lingering in his eyes crashed through Kuramos.

  He thinks Yaman will die.

  Kuramos crossed the floor and knelt at Yaman’s side, one arm still cradling Tahir. “What happened?”

  The assistant moaned. “One of the spit-dogs bit the cook. He made it here, but Yaman…Yaman…he slipped on the blood, O Lord.” His shaky fingers pointed to a red pool on the floor beneath the cook. “He hit his head on the table. Then his arms, his legs—they jerked, as you saw…”

  Tahir, who had been staring down at the physician, turned and nestled into his father’s shoulder. For a moment, Kuramos wished his son hadn’t witnessed the grotesque scene. But as a child of the sultan, death and blood were the least of what he would have to know.

  Yaman’s eyes still strained upward as if to look back into his own skull. Kuramos placed two fingers below the physician’s jaw. The pulse weakened and ceased even as he found it. He straightened and stared down at the man who was supposed to cure the plague attacking his household.

  Yaman was dead.

  Kuramos gazed across the physician’s body at the frightened assistant. “Your name is Sohad?”

  The man nodded nervously and continued pressing the wound, though his patient could no longer be helped.

  Kuramos tapped Sohad’s arm. Surprised, Sohad stilled and released the leaves, as if now realizing they’d be of no more use. He peered at Yaman’s dead face and a keen rose from his throat, tears glistening in his eyes.

  A grim breath hovered over Kuramos’s tongue. By all the gods, the man deserved to mourn his loss! But time was merciless. As was Naaz. “Sohad! How much do you understand of the illness spreading through my palace?”

  The assistant looked up, trying to refocus his watering eyes. “Yaman and I discussed it… He didn’t know what it was.”

  “And do you?”

  He swallowed, clearly shaken. “No, O Lord.”

  “Then find someone who does.”

  Sohad bowed his head. “Yes, O Lord. And I will do my best for the patients, as poor as my contributions may be to your service—”

  “The patients you speak of now include my son, Tahir.” Kuramos’s arm tightened around the boy. “See that your best includes protecting him from the fate that befell the others.”

  Sohad bobbed anew, fingers shaking against his thighs.

  “I will send for Bairam,” Sulya said from the doorway, her voice taut as a lash.

  The sultan swung his head around. That drunken oaf couldn’t find a cure if it were on his very plate, and his fawning presence would disrupt what little peace Kuramos might carve out in the next few days. Still, Sohad’s manner did not inspire confidence.

  “Do that, Sixth Wife,” he drawled, and watched the reprimand register in her blazing eyes. She coveted the position of the honored Sha’Lai, the First Wife of the Sultan of Kad. “But also tell my scribe to call the physicians of the city here.”

  Sulya’s gaze shuttered as she bowed. “As you wish, O Lord.” Yet she raised her head and glanced at her son, then back at Kuramos with a mute plea.

  “Wife,” he said in a softer tone, “I will do whatever I can for Tahir, and so will Sohad. As, I hope, will Bairam and the others. Now go.”

  She nodded and backed out the door.

  Kuramos turned back to the wide-eyed Sohad. “Who else might know of a cure?”

  “I…I’m not certain. I come from a small village in Gida Province, five days away…”

  Panic clawed up the sultan’s chest, but he concealed the cuts.

  “O Lord, I could ask the herbalist from whom Yaman buys…er, bought…his medicines.”

  Kuramos stared at Sohad for a moment, then nodded. He may not have much experience, but perhaps he has a mind. We’ll need that. “Send for the herbalist. And for any and all who may be of help.”

  Kuramos lifted Tahir so their eyes were level. “Sohad will take care of you, little leopard. Stay with him.”

  Swallowing once more, Sohad gingerly held out his hands, but Tahir clutched the sleeves of his father’s kaftan. “Where are you going, Abha?”

  “There’s something I must do. But I’ll be back soon to be with you.”

  He placed Tahir in Sohad’s arms, and with another stern gaze at the assistant, reluctantly let go. He cast his son one last glance, memorizing his face, then rose and strode from the room.

  Kuramos went straight to Dabir’s quarters. His mentor’s body was already being prepared for cremation, and for the first time in many years, Kuramos entered Dabir’s rooms without him. The new silence wrenched his soul.

  Books spilling from every nook held knowledge that the sultans of Kad and their subjects had gleaned over generations. Dabir had known each tome, and when asked a question, could instantly locate the right volume.

  No longer.

  Towering bookshelves grazed the clouds and blue sky that graced the domed ceiling. Joyous tears had glistened in Dabir’s eyes the day Kuramos had surprised him with the trompe l’oeil mural. “My thanks to you, O Lord,” he’d whispered. “Now I can be among my books and under Idu’s vast heavens, all at once.”

  Kuramos drew his fingers across the books’ russet spines and gold leaf lettering, wishing he could soak up their knowledge and find the answers he needed. Disparate thoughts and feelings careened in his head. He struggled for order, a path to take, but found none.

  Idu and Naaz, god and goddess, father and mother, lovers and enemies. Architects of the wor
ld; destructors at will. With Kismet, Their son, They reigned over all creation, even as Kuramos ruled over the lives of the Kaddites. But Kuramos was mortal and thus fallible, while They were divine. And all-knowing.

  Dabir is gone, and now Yaman. Those who might have had the skills to decipher and treat the plague upon my house have been taken first.

  Now the scourge has my little Tahir…

  Naaz is thirsty for my blood.

  Because She knows.

  He turned on his heel and stalked back to his own chambers.

  There under the torchlight, the pomegranate stain he’d made earlier drew his reluctant gaze.

  His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. So stupid to think he could hide from a goddess. She’d bided Her time…but after all, She had all the time in the world. She had created time.

  Blood. She wanted blood. And She would get it from him, one way or another.

  She comes.

  He knelt and touched the wall. The crimson had scarred dry and unyielding under his fingertips. “Naaz,” he whispered, “if I give myself to You now, as I should have done that fateful day, will You release my family from Your doom?”

  He leapt up and snatched the dagger of his father from the golden brackets on the wall. The gems encrusting its ivory hilt caught the light—emeralds, sapphires, and a blood-red ruby the size of his thumb.

  A knife of his royal ancestors, of all his people. He turned the wickedly pointed blade until it flashed in the torchlight, then poised it just below his ribcage, ready to punch up toward his heart. The tip sliced through the sable edge of his kaftan like ghee and pricked his skin.

  One thrust to save them. One thrust to spare their lives from death.

  He took a breath, his last, to steel himself.

  “No, O Lord!”

  Kuramos whirled to discover Hamar, his steward, frozen in the doorway with mouth agape. At once, Hamar dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the floor.

  “Almighty Sultan, forgive my impertinence. It is only my shock at the sight of you…with that dagger in your hand. Please, please, do not take your life.”

  Kuramos’s chest tightened, choking his words. “A scourge has come to my house, Hamar! Dabir has died. Yaman, too. Others have been taken and soon more will join them—including my children, the heart of my existence.” His fingers clenched the hilt. “And you, Hamar, you know what I did.”

  Hamar touched his forehead to the floor once more. “Yes, O Lord, I remember.” His torso expanded with a long breath, and then, slowly, he sat up and looked the sultan in the eye. “But I also know why it was done.”

  “That why,” Kuramos snarled, “seems not enough for Naaz.”

  Hamar dropped his gaze to his knees. “O Lord, most noble of men, if you feel you must do this, I cannot stop you. But I beg you to hear this: if you go, who will ascend the throne of your ancestors? Who will wield the Royal Scimitar of Kad? Who will hold your house and people together? You have not chosen an heir.”

  “No.” Kuramos twisted his wrist, incising a small, bleeding crescent under his ribs. The pain sharpened his senses, tightened every nerve. “I’ve never wanted squabbling rivals in this house. My children were to learn, to strive, to grow wise, so I could choose the best of them to rule Kad when I am gone.” Irony soaked his caustic laughter. “My wish has come to naught—none are now old enough to rule. And to save them through my own death, I would have to choose one to ascend my throne under the goddess’s curse.”

  His fingers tightened on the hilt until his knuckles whitened. One stab to end it all, then an eternity among the slumbering spirits at Naaz’s feet…

  The blade plunged to the thick rug below, where it lay glinting above the crimson fibers, pointing at his heart.

  Without a hand to hold the weapon, it was lifeless, powerless.

  And so would be an empty throne.

  So what was left to do? Catastrophe raged and his enemies circled, primed to strike.

  Teganne, Dabir had said. Look to Teganne. A land of mages. And sorcery.

  And healers.

  Kuramos’s people were famed as warriors and merchants…not physicians. But at least in Kad, healing was righteously done, without heathen magic!

  Still…before Yaman had died, the physician had not identified the illness ravaging the royal household. It seemed possible no one else would, either.

  Sulya’s insults notwithstanding, Yaman had won his physician’s robe and his place in the palace by experience. Kuramos knew there were no others in his realm who could do better.

  He turned to Hamar, still kneeling in the doorway. “Bring the Cage to me. Our need is great.”

  As the steward rose and backed out, Kuramos thought of Tahir, and wondered if need alone would be enough to bridge the chasm.

  Dread pierced him. No matter what he did about the plague, Naaz’s judgments could not be escaped.

  And She might yet require his soul.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Varene couldn’t shake the chill that had clung since Findar’s funeral. Even now, sitting at a table in the Healing Rooms sorting herbs for storage, she had to force herself not to stare out the windows toward the grassy knoll where his pyre had burned. To spare herself that, she chained her mind to her task, letting the fragrances and monotony lull her into a semblance of oblivion.

  Sharp raps on the window nearly jolted her out of her chair.

  She whipped around, half-expecting to see a lanky, beloved face returned from the beyond. Instead, a yellow slash of beak and umber wings zoomed by, jabbing again at the glass.

  Astonished, she threw open the casements overlooking the bustling castle yard. Above the merchants, lowing cartbeasts, and messengers, a bird soared to the height of the gray turrets opposite, spun on one wing with a loud caw, and swooped back toward her sill.

  As he alit on the masonry, bronze talons glimmering in the sunlight, Varene eyed the red pouch studded with mysterious gold symbols that hugged his neck. He raised his feathered head and regarded her with black and haughty eyes. “You, woman,” he rasped, “where is the Royal Healer?”

  Oh-ho! A jencel-bird…and an arrogant one. Several of the talking jencels had been friends of the royal court for decades, but she didn’t recognize this one. She planted her hands on her hips and gave him a cool stare. “Who wishes to know?”

  His head popped up in affront, voice crackling like crumpling paper. “Woman, I’ve flown a long way for the Royal Healer! Fetch him, and be quick about it.”

  “You’ve already found her, jencel.” She crossed her arms and stared down her nose at him. “Varene na Seryn, Royal Healer of Teganne.” Her fingers drummed on her silk-clad biceps. “What do you want?”

  The bird went still. She allowed the quiet to swell and reproduce while he gave several slow blinks.

  Finally he swept a wingtip forward and dipped his inky head. “My apologies, Healer. Ah, you see, where I live, well…”

  Varene uncrossed her arms and raised a corner of her mouth. “Hmm. And where is this place you live, jencel?”

  “My name is Gunjan.” He took two jerky steps along the width of the sill and cleared his throat. “As to my home…er, I haven’t prejudiced you against my mission?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But stalling won’t help.” She narrowed her eyes. “Out with it.”

  He cast a quick glance at the busy yard behind him, then cocked his head to an almost impossible degree. “May we converse in private?”

  Varene gestured toward the center of the room and stepped aside so he could fly past. He circled over the long racks of jarred herbs and medicines and landed on the arched back of her chair. “We’re alone?”

  “As much as anyone can be in a castle,” she said dryly. “Solitude never lasts.” She pulled a second chair from the table and sat facing him, leveling their gazes.

  Gunjan turned his beak toward the wall and gave her a one-eyed stare. “I’ve come at the bidding of the Great Sultan Kuramos.”

  “Kuramos?
The ruler of Kad? But that’s…” an enemy realm. “So far from here,” she continued, not quite smoothly. “Why—”

  “I flew all night, Healer, and then some. But these wings are among the swiftest of all birdkind.” His chest puffed out and he raised his eye above hers. “And my mission is urgent.”

  “Then tell it!” she snapped, though amused by his body language. Conceit was a known tendency of Kaddites. “I’m the Healer. Who is ill?”

  “Twelve members of the Great Sultan’s household—including his youngest son. And some have died.”

  Hearing that, Varene’s own grief stirred anew. If only she could inure herself to death! It was a professional hazard to feel it so keenly. “What is the malady?”

  The bird shook his head. “Before it could be identified, the sultan’s Royal Physician passed away.”

  She raised her brows. “Of the illness?”

  “Nay, from a simple accident, my lady.”

  “I see.” Her indigo silk skirts rustled as she rose and began to pace. “Describe the symptoms, please.”

  Gunjan swung his head the other way, sending the little red pouch dancing against his chest. “A terrible fever strikes, then a fiery, parched throat no liquid will soothe. Some patients hallucinate, others simply sink deeper into the fever, growing weaker. When the fever finally breaks, awareness returns, but it may only give false hope. Soon they cough—great racking coughs, often with blood. After that, death.”

  Varene mentally surveyed the hundreds of illnesses she knew, but though many shared some of those symptoms, she couldn’t be certain any were an exact match.

  “Healer,” the bird added solemnly, “when I flew from the palace, the twelve patients had all fallen to their sick beds within a day. By now, many others may be ill or dying. Including more of the sultan’s children.”

  Varene sighed with regret, spreading her palms. “From your description, I can’t be sure what it is. It’s difficult to be much help without having seen the patients.”

  Gunjan raised his wings high and stared straight at her. “That is why the Great Sultan summons you to Kad.”