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

by Cate Rowan

  “Ubaid, the family of your employer has long been allied to mine. Once,” he said with deliberate mildness, “there were even blood ties between us.” But inside, he gripped his own soul so it would not wail in remembrance of the losses. “It grieves me to see Faysal represented here, questioning me.”

  “O Lord,” said Ubaid, with a steady gaze, “let be it known in the goddess’s heart that you have no cause to grieve. My master’s loyalties are true.”

  Kuramos let one eyebrow rise. “Then tell your master that I will take care of my own house. And that he is to take care of his, until I have cause to direct him otherwise. I will be watching.”

  Ubaid bowed low, clasping his hands together in obedience.

  Kuramos turned and looked with deliberate scorn on the others. “Now return to your Houses and tell your masters I have spoken thus. BEGONE!” he roared. His guards beat the floor in unison, underscoring his command. Four men scrambled through the doorway like retreating spiders, while the fifth backed out with measured, respectful strides.

  In the ensuing silence, Kuramos released his breath and allowed the tension to ease from his neck. Naaz, he prayed, let this demonstration be enough to give my enemies doubt and quell their plans.

  Then the sultan of Kad returned to his chamber and bowed once more on his prayer rug before the dagger of his ancestors, seeking absolution for his sins.

  “Sohad?” Varene called after his retreating form, but the physician’s assistant strode wordlessly from the men’s infirmary, his back stiff with accusation.

  By Fate, what had happened? She’d merely been taking care of the bite wound when Sohad had glared like she’d hurled curses at his head.

  She smoothed the undercook’s bandages and then hustled down the hall under the curious gazes of her ill patients. Sohad wasn’t in the main infirmary.

  Damn. She huffed out a breath; it fluttered the wisps of hair that had escaped from her ponytail.

  Habit took over, and she returned to the men’s wing to wash her hands again. Her fingers were starting to chap and she wished for some lotion. She kept pots of it by each basin at home.

  At home. Where everything was where she wanted it. Where people behaved logically. Where she had a well-respected position among people who appreciated her skills and loved her.

  She gripped the marble edges of the bowl, wondering what she’d be doing now if she were back in Teganne. Mourning Findar. And trying to find a way to distract myself from missing him. She choked out a laugh that was half-sob. Be careful what you wish for, Varene. You often get it.

  She returned to the main room. Someone was waiting, but it wasn’t Sohad.

  A petite woman garbed in the palace colors glanced timorously around the room, hands clasped at her waist. When she saw Varene, she dropped her gaze to the floor and spoke. “You must be the Royal Healer. My name is Priya. I’m here to serve you.”

  Startled, Varene drew closer. “I’m pleased to meet you. But… in what way are you supposed to serve me?”

  The woman blushed, giving Varene a momentary pause.

  “I’m your handmaiden, here to assist you in whatever way you need. I…also have some small,” she waggled her fingers slightly, still avoiding Varene’s eyes, “very small, skills with healing. The Staff Mistress felt I’d be a suitable aid for you.”

  “I see. Well, I’m sure—”

  Sohad walked through the doorway, a mixture of guilt and defiance on his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak and caught sight of Priya, who’d turned her face to the door. His jaws snapped shut, then opened slightly.

  When Varene looked at Priya, the servant’s feet had inched closer together as if leaning upon one another for comfort.

  Interesting. “Priya, have you met Sohad, the Assistant Physician?”

  “No, my lady.” Priya’s brown gaze darted up to Sohad like a skittish mouse and ducked back down again. “I’m…pleased to meet you.”

  Varene noticed the parroting of the same words she’d said to Priya. The maidservant seemed rather flustered.

  “As am I,” Sohad said, “to meet you.” His own gaze darted toward Priya, then away at the wall, the floor, and landed on Varene.

  Hmm. Even more interesting. Varene cleared her throat. “Priya, you mentioned you have healing experience?”

  “Just…just small things, my lady.” She gestured self-deprecatingly. “Wrapping sprains, cleaning minor wounds. Tending to an aunt in labor.”

  “I’m sure you were a help to her, and I’ll be glad to have you here.” Varene gave her an encouraging nod, and the woman managed a shy smile in response, though the skin between her brows remained creased with uncertainty.

  “Actually,” Varene said, “there’s something you could do for me right away. Would you mind getting orange sherbet for one of the patients? Even better, bring sherbet for all of them, since the cold will help their throats and give them sustenance. Even that sourmouth Nipun. Let’s see, that means four servings, and—Sohad, since I haven’t seen them yet, how many ill women are in the infirmary?”

  “Just one,” he said, after a pause. “But Priya can’t take the sherbet to the men herself, of course.”

  Varene looked at him blankly. “Why not?”

  Sohad seemed scandalized. “She’s a woman—she can’t go in there!”

  Varene’s brow cocked. “I’m a woman, and I went in.”

  “Well, yes, but…but…” he spluttered.

  “Absurd. If she’s been sent here to help, she should be free to help in whatever way she’s needed. Haven’t the male physicians been seeing and treating all the patients, regardless of gender? As have I?”

  “A male servant should serve the men,” Sohad said with a stubborn glint in his eye.

  “I don’t see one here, do you?” Varene crossed her arms. “I need to examine the remaining patients now, and I think your own skills and knowledge would be better suited to helping me find a cure than by running to find some male servant.”

  “Priya could get one.”

  “Ah…” Priya said in a meek voice. “It might not be quite as simple as that.”

  Varene glanced at the maidservant. “Why not?”

  Poor Priya looked like she’d rather be cowering under a rock. “The Staff Mistress is…er…reluctant to risk her workers. Because of the sickness here.”

  “Yes, there’s fear, I’m sure. But she sent you, yes? Surely she’d send more if asked.”

  “The sultan himself requested that you be sent help, so Mistress Chaaya obeyed. But I…” She blushed again. “I’m not one of her favorite people.”

  Leaning forward, Varene stared at Priya. “You mean to tell me that she wouldn’t mind if something happens to you?” When the servant nodded, Varene almost choked on the ire balling in her chest. “And why does Mistress Chaaya dislike you so much?” More to the point, how could anyone treat a woman as debris?

  “My father…” Now Priya’s cheeks blazed like twin sunsets. “Years ago, my father revoked his betrothal to her.”

  “And she’s made you liable for it?”

  Priya gave only a miserable blink in answer.

  Varene scrubbed a hand across her face, then counted to seven to calm herself. One, Mother Fate. Two, Mother Fate. Three, Mother Fate. Four…

  “You have my empathies, Priya.” But there’s no time to dwell on grudges. Focus. “And clearly I’ll need to inform Mistress Chaaya that it’s doubtful the illness spreads from person to person in the way she believes. Or hopes.” She reached behind her to pull the confining band from her ponytail and re-gather her hair. That kept her from going off to find the Staff Mistress and choking the life from her spiteful body. “For now, let’s please not argue about gender. Priya, are you willing to find some sherbet and serve it to the men? Men, ha. Two of them are just boys.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The woman unclasped her hands and let them fall to her sides. After a fortifying swallow, she raised her gaze to Varene’s.

  So there migh
t be some courage behind Priya’s big brown eyes after all. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to take care of it, then. Sohad, let’s continue with our examinations.”

  He and Varene stared at each other. Tension stiffened her shoulders; Sohad still hadn’t explained his previous exodus, and now she’d overruled him on a matter of infirmary etiquette.

  His mouth thinned, but instead of turning away, he said, “Certainly.” He walked toward another doorway, presumably the women’s wing.

  Varene started after him, and saw his gaze alight on Priya as the servant’s slim form exited the room.

  The Healer permitted herself a small, knowing smile. She saw Death all too often; the spark of attraction—of Life—was a fine change.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Blessed are we mothers, Naaz, under Your life-giving sun. Blessed are the children, the images of Your glory, fruit of Your coupling with Idu, inheritors of the world You made. In this hour of my pain, of my suffering, I beg You to hear my prayers…

  A knock at the door of the suite broke Sulya’s concentration. Frowning, she raised herself from the rug to sit on her heels. As her eyes grazed past the form in the bed, she realized the intrusion had woken Tahir.

  “What is it?” she bit out, irritation coloring her tone.

  “It’s Varene, the Royal Healer. May I enter?”

  Sulya itched to say no, but Tahir’s needs came first. She unfolded her legs with conscious grace and stood, raising her rib cage to display herself properly. “Come in.”

  The door swung in and Varene entered. Despite the deference of the woman’s words, she sensed none in Varene’s blue eyes—no obeisance, not even a hint of the submission she expected from those attending her.

  “I’d like to examine your son again,” said the Healer. Behind her stood the whelp Sohad, who at least kept his eyes downcast in Sulya’s presence.

  “Your knock woke him up.” Sulya withdrew from Tahir’s bedside, distancing herself from the visitors and their plans.

  “I apologize,” Varene said, as if determined not to quarrel. Sulya was cheered by the effort that clearly took.

  Varene moved to the bed and Sohad followed, carrying a large canvas pack. The Healer touched Tahir’s small hand and smiled down at him. “How are you?”

  Tahir glanced up through sweaty bangs and returned the woman’s smile. Pride at her son’s politeness warred with disgruntlement that he must behave so to a foreign infidel who was toying with his life.

  “You’re still very hot.” Varene gave a worried cluck. “How’s your throat?”

  “Better,” he croaked, but grimaced.

  There. If his throat still hurt only a couple of hours after the witch’s treatment, how much good had she really done?

  “And have you had anything to drink?” the Healer asked.

  Tahir shook his head, and Varene glanced at Sulya.

  “He’s been sleeping since you left,” Sulya said defensively. “Bairam had told me to let him rest. I had a pitcher brought, as you can see, and—”

  “Fine,” Varene interrupted. She poured a glass and spoke to Tahir. “You may not remember, but I helped to ease the soreness in your throat while you were sleeping. I’d like to do that again, so you can swallow and talk for a bit without it hurting so much.”

  He listened gravely and nodded.

  Sulya and Sohad stood in uneasy silence as the healer laid her hand on Tahir’s throat and performed the same ceremony as she had before. Sulya waited with a torn heart, half-hoping but skeptical, and shifted to eye the woman. As she stared, she became deeply puzzled.

  Varene was a Royal Healer, much the equivalent of a Royal Physician, and thus held an exalted rank among the non-royal courtiers—yet no rubies or sapphires graced her neck or wrists, no diamonds dangled from her vulgarly exposed ears. Whether gems glittered from her ankles or toes, she could not tell, for they were covered by skirts that hung all the way to the floor. Most unladylike.

  And instead of draping her long, thick blond curls enticingly around her shoulders and breasts like any woman with sense and confidence, the Healer had pulled her hair tightly back from her face, making her seem uglier than she was. In truth, her face was not unattractive, if pallid.

  Sulya fingered her own glistening necklace of emeralds and pearls, each twice as big as her thumbnails, that draped down to her gold-wrapped ankles. With no jewels and gems to attract a man, to entice their eyes and bring them close enough to smell and hunger for her, how could this pale woman hope to marry or keep a man of power or wealth and secure her place as the mother to his heirs? This wench made herself as plain as a mule beside sleek mares.

  In fact, Sulya thought, gathering her indignation around her, how could this woman be what she claimed, if she didn’t display the wealth of her rank? And if she was not what she claimed, how then could she be trusted with the sons and daughters of the blessed sultan? With Tahir, her own blessing?

  The Healer removed her hands from Sulya’s son. “Is that better?”

  “Yes!” he said. The joyous smile he gave Varene wrenched Sulya’s soul. She pressed herself back against the wall and kept her lips tightly shut.

  “Excellent,” said Varene. “Now please sit up, and drink this. I’ll need your help with something.” She waited while Tahir raised himself against the pillows and grasped the tall glass thirstily in both hands, then turned to Sohad and nodded. He brought the canvas pack closer and loosened the mouth of it.

  Varene knelt and rummaged through the bag. She removed several smaller sacks and laid them on the rug, then pulled something from each one of them. A leaf, a blade of long grass, a twig, a dried flower. Aghast, Sulya stared down at the bits and pieces of vegetation littering the floor. Leaves and sticks—these were supposed to heal her son?

  Varene selected the skinny leaf. “Tahir, open—”

  “You will address him as Prince Tahir!” Sulya snapped. “He is the son of the Great Sultan of Kad!”

  Varene shot her a hard look, then turned a solemn face to her son. “My apologies, Prince Tahir.”

  “They are accepted, Royal Healer,” he replied in a thoughtful voice. “What is it you need me to do?” He peered curiously at the leaf.

  “Please hold your hand out toward me, palm up and open, and close your eyes.”

  He did so, and Varene placed the leaf in it. She lowered her own palm until it was inches above his, facing down, as if her hand were a cap over the leaf.

  After a few seconds, Tahir’s hand descended, as if weighted down. “What is happening?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

  “I’m testing what will help you. Your body will tell me what you need, if you let it.”

  “But…how does it know?”

  Varene laughed. “Alas, even I can’t solve that age-old mystery. But I can enhance your body’s response, and it will show us what you need. It just knows. And it doesn’t want this.” She plucked the leaf from his palm and replaced it with the dried flower. “Shut your eyes again please, Prince Tahir.”

  Once again, she placed her palm above his, and within a few moments, his arm was descending. “Not that, either,” she murmured, and changed the flower for the grass blade.

  When the same thing happened, Sulya lost her patience. “What is this? Of course his arm will go down. That’s natural. Your method is nonsense, chicanery…”

  Varene ignored her and put the twig in his hand. Tahir closed his eyes, and Varene held her palm in the air above his. Sohad, who’d been watching quietly, grew tense.

  Tahir’s hand rose. “Oh!” He stared at it with shocked eyes.

  Varene grinned. “Yes!” She turned to Sohad. “See? It matches. The body always knows.”

  He shook his head as if trying to accept what he’d seen.

  Sulya moved closer. “What do you mean, ‘it matches’?”

  “The bodies of the others I’ve tested in this way have reacted the same. I hope, then, that this will heal them all.”

  “A twig? A twig to cure
a malady that has k—” She choked off her words. Tahir didn’t know that others had died, and she didn’t want him aware of his peril.

  Varene’s eyes widened a fraction, showing she’d understood. “What I hope will cure him isn’t the sugarwort twig itself, but the decoction I’ll make from it. In fact, the dried buds may be even more effective…”

  Appalled, Sulya grasped for reasons to dispute the woman’s claims. “Who? Who else have you tested this with?”

  “So far, the surviving maidservant and the sultan’s Second, Fourth, and Fifth wives.”

  “They all had the same reaction?” She looked not at Varene, but to Sohad for confirmation.

  “All, Sultana,” he said crisply.

  She rose tall, letting air fill her chest. “And how are Zahlia, Maitri and Taleen?”

  “I’ve done what I can to make them more comfortable. Fortunately, the sultana Zahlia has a milder case, perhaps the least noxious of the ten living patients. She’s athletic and healthy, but that might not be the only reason.”

  “And how is Maitri’s daughter?”

  “Mishka is…forgive me,” the Healer said, eyes glittering. “I’m not certain of the proper honorific for her.”

  “Princess will do,” Sulya answered in an arch tone.

  “She seems to have avoided the illness so far.”

  “I see.” Sulya didn’t want any of them to die, of course. Not really. Taleen and Maitri weren’t genuine threats, anyway, and certainly Maitri’s daughter wasn’t. A sultan of Kad would never let a daughter take the throne. Zahlia, though, had been a claw in Sulya’s side from the beginning. “But what is this illness? Why has it struck here, and now?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Because the malady is…” Varene looked at Tahir and hesitated, “…a grave one, my priority now must be to heal as best and as fast I can. Then I’ll search for more answers.” She gathered the rejected vegetation into a pile and tugged closed the drawstring on her sack. “I’m relieved there have been no new cases today. That’s a hopeful sign. I also don’t believe it is spread directly from one person to another. After all, you’ve not become sick, nor has the sultan, or Sohad.”