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

by Cate Rowan

“Make sure you get some sustenance into your body, Priya. You work too hard to go without.” Though perhaps good kisses qualify as sustenance… “I’ll be at the Infirmary soon. I want to examine our patients before I release them to their duties.”

  “Yes, my lady. And thank you for your hospitality, my sultana and my princess.” Priya bowed and left.

  Varene pointed at the food. “May I share this with either of you?”

  “We’ve both eaten, but thank you,” Maitri said. “Would you mind if I continued sketching?” She reached for a sketchbook beside her chair.

  “Not at all,” Varene said with interest. “I love art, but have no talent for drawing, myself.”

  Maitri laughed. “You have other talents, though, much more crucial than these scribbles I do!” She gave a modest shrug. “It’s a hobby of mine. It passes the time.”

  Varene glanced at the sketch Maitri was working on and forgot all thoughts of food. The vase of daisies had sprung to life on the paper, some of the flowers so realistic they seemed to quiver in the air. “What stunning work!”

  “They’re just flowers,” Maitri said, her smile now resembling her shy daughter’s. “Nothing special. I drew quickly, since Mishka’s been removing them for her chain.”

  “O Lady, this is special,” Varene said firmly. “You have a true gift. Might I see more of your work?”

  The sultana’s chocolate eyes lowered, even as her grateful smile grew. “Mere doodles, that’s all.”

  “Please, consider sharing them with me for a moment, I beg you.” She held out her hand.

  Maitri riffled the edges of the paper leaves shyly, then passed the sketchbook.

  The daisy vase drawing had been near the back of the book, so Varene looked through it from back to front, turning the left-hand pages with reverence. There were more than mere sketches in here, some almost full paintings. The images ranged from the garden outside and its denizens—tiny geckoes in the leaves and birds splashing in the fountains—interspersed with still-lifes of Maitri’s quarters and more of Mishka—smiling, sleeping peacefully, and even feeding the courtyard birds, her angelic face half-hidden by a fall of sable hair.

  “These are gorgeous,” Varene whispered, turning at last to a portrait of Mishka cross-legged, weaving a daisy chain just as she was doing now. “Your lines are so evocative. You’ve captured her hands in such motion, I can almost see the next link rolling from her fingers.”

  Maitri blushed and clasped her hands together. “Thank you. You said you love art?”

  “Very much. When I was ten, my dream was to become a famous painter.” She gave a wry smile. “Eventually I found my calling as a Healer, and had no time to improve my painting, so I became a wistful enthusiast, instead. But you…these are exquisite.”

  The sultana made a dismissive gesture and smiled. “Unlike you, I’ve found myself with too much time on my hands. I envy you.”

  “Me?” She looked up in surprise. “When you have all this?” And you’re married to Kuramos, too?

  “As you said, you have a calling. Anyone can see how much you love your work.”

  Varene gazed at her for a long moment. “What would you have done, if you hadn’t married the sultan?”

  Maitri gave a delicate snort. “Much the same. The life of a highborn Kaddite woman is predestined: marriage and children. The only question is whose wife she’ll be, and her rank in his harem.”

  The injustice cramped Varene’s stomach, and she glanced empathetically at young Mishka, who was reaching for another daisy from the full vase.

  The full vase?

  Varene frowned. Just a minute ago there had been only three daisies left, and now it was repopulated…

  “But in truth,” Maitri continued, “I’ve been blessed. There is nothing I wanted in this life more than children. Fortunately, my husband knew how important this was to me, and he and Kismet were finally able to grant my wish.” She looked lovingly at Mishka, and leaned down to brush her fingers along her daughter’s string of white blossoms on the floor.

  Varene found herself decidedly unwilling to hear any more about Mishka’s conception. For a distraction, she turned to the next page of the book. And there, in naked glory, lay Kuramos, sleeping in Maitri’s bed.

  The envy that stabbed her heart soon braided with desire as her eyes traced the man’s form, his muscular back and taut buttocks, his legs tangled in the sultana’s sheets.

  Pain won. She tore her gaze away and flipped the page before the sultana could notice. “H-how long have you had this sketchbook?”

  Maitri sat back up and cocked her head to the side, thinking. “Since I married, most likely. Nigh on twenty years. But I have many others. It’s nice to feel a pen in my hand.”

  I’m sure it was nice to feel his hot skin on yours. The thought of the naked, rock-hard Kuramos kissing Maitri, splaying his hands on either side of her until she leaned back on the bed, so eager for him…of him making love to her, thrusting into her again and again until she quickened with his child…

  Cold hands fisted around Varene’s gut.

  “It’s done,” Maitri’s child softly announced. She rose to her feet, glanced bashfully at Varene and held out the long loop of daisies. “Healer, I made it for you. A necklace.”

  With her mind whirling in surprise, Varene stared into Mishka’s green eyes—Kuramos’s eyes. She blinked and dropped her gaze to the gift, and a sweet warmth crept in and chased away the chill.

  “May I put it on you?” Mishka asked, taking a step toward her.

  “O Lady, I would be honored.” She bowed her head. The girl slipped the necklace on her shoulders and Varene fingered the daisies lovingly. “It’s beautiful.”

  Mishka’s gratified smile burnished the air.

  Maitri took her daughter’s hand and kissed it. “Ah, it’s just as the Healer said—you’re a thoughtful girl.”

  A movement at the edge of Varene’s vision drew her eyes. “Oh!” A tiny gazelle stood in the doorway to the sultana’s bedchamber. Raising its delicate head, it stared at her for a moment, then reached down to lip and nibble at the fringe of a rug. Maitri and Mishka settled back, unconcerned.

  “So that must be…common?” Varene peered at the graceful creature.

  “Enakshi’s my pet,” Mishka said.

  “One of them,” Maitri added. “She’s always had an affinity for animals—gazelles, peacocks, orphaned kittens, the fish in the fountains, parrots…they’re all drawn to her.”

  Varene tried to imagine how Alvarr and Jilian would react to a gazelle in their Tegannese castle. They’d probably share a laugh, then usher it out to the stables and find someone to take good care of it. Outside. Definitely outside. Then again, with the huge harem courtyard just steps away, this almost was outside.

  Mishka sagged and gave a half-frown. “Wafi died, though.”

  “Wafi was another pet?”

  “My parrot.”

  Varene tilted her head. “Wafi is a nice name. What happened?”

  “I don’t know, he just got sick. He was fine, and then the next morning, he was dead.”

  “That bird,” Maitri shook her head. “Always escaping. I never thought he’d die in his cage—I assumed one day he simply wouldn’t return. But he always did.”

  “He liked coming back,” Mishka said. “Who else would feed him his favorite sunflower seeds? But then he’d get out again. Because sometimes I just closed his door and didn’t lock it. Sometimes I forgot.” She shot Varene a guilty look.

  Varene glanced at Maitri. “His wings weren’t clipped?”

  “Not as they should have been. He could still fly short distances. Often he’d visit the fowlery to scrounge up more food. He’d come back with fowl feathers clinging to him, and we’d tease him about having a lady love there. Not that he understood the words, but he soon learned them and repeated them! ‘Lady love, lady love…’” She laughed, but her humor faded and she patted Mishka’s arm. “He died almost a week ago.”

  S
omething fidgeted in Varene’s mind. “And how long before that was his last escape?”

  “A day or two before.”

  “Did he come back with fowl feathers that time?”

  Mother and daughter looked at each other, and Mishka shrugged. “I don’t remember. Probably.”

  “And soon after, your parrot was dead?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Varene frowned. Maitri had been ill, Mishka’s parrot liked to visit the fowlery, and several of the patients had been fowlkeepers…

  She turned to Maitri. “Did you or anyone else touch the parrot, by any chance?”

  Perplexity crossed the sultana’s face. “Well, yes, sometimes…”

  “Recently, I mean? After the parrot escaped this last time?”

  “Well, let me think—yes, several people did. We had such difficulty getting Wafi back in the cage.” Her shoulders shook in remembered mirth. “Mishka was elsewhere being tutored when Wafi returned, so I had to call in a guardsman to capture him.” Her mouth twisted in humor. “He chased Wafi all over the room. I laughed so hard—I couldn’t help myself—that Zahlia came in to watch it all, too. The poor man… I wouldn’t be surprised if our parrot picked up a few words that day.” Then her mouth turned down, along with her eyes. “Unfortunately…he passed away of the illness a few days later, before you arrived.”

  Varene sat up, tension popping along her cells. “You, Zahlia, the guardsman… Did anyone else touch the parrot then, or get near it?”

  “My maidservant Sezen. She took Wafi’s body away and cleaned the cage.”

  “And in the hammam, you said Sezen died of the illness!”

  “Yes.” Maitri’s brows drooped in sadness, then snapped up. “Oh…oh, no! You think—”

  “I can’t be sure anything’s related just yet.” Varene scrambled to her feet. “I only have a suspicion.” She gave a little curtsey and twisted toward the door. “Excuse me, please. I need to ask questions. I may be back soon.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.” She sped out, her food untouched.

  After several breakneck stops around the palace to ask questions, Varene practically skidded into the Infirmary. Her sudden arrival startled Sohad and Priya, who looked remarkably…guilty. Priya’s hands fluttered around her reddened mouth like she didn’t quite know what to do with them while Sohad cleared his throat and avoided Varene’s eyes. The Healer quirked her lips as she sped past them into the men’s wing.

  “There she is!” said the master baker with a smile, sitting cross-legged on his pallet. “Royal Healer, we’re all awake and anxious to be up and working again.”

  “I’m sure you are, Ferran, and I’m so glad you’re awake. I hope you’ll all be back to your jobs very soon—perhaps within an hour. But first, please tell me about your position here at the palace. For example, do you ever work with fowl?”

  He recoiled in surprise. “No, my specialty is desserts and sweets. Ah, the scent of a proper custard tart—exquisite, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh.” Damn. Varene’s shoulders slumped.

  “Healer,” Sohad said from behind her. “What is happening?” He and Priya stared at her from the doorway, puzzled.

  She ignored the question and addressed Ferran again. “You never bake with fowl?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head firmly. “The closest I get to fowl is their eggs.”

  “Eggs…of course!” Varene smacked her forehead. “You’d use them constantly. And the Sha’Lai mentioned that she’d spoken with you last week in the kitchens.” She thrust her hands in the air triumphantly.

  She turned to the boys sitting up on their pallets, both staring at her openmouthed. “I know you work with the swine. Do you ever touch the fowl? Have you, lately?

  Jubayr of the large ears answered first. “No, not really. Though there was that day they escaped the pen, and we had to round them up…”

  Her heart was tapping a tune on her ribs. “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, a couple of weeks.”

  “That long ago?” Disappointment hovered in her throat.

  Essam spoke up. “You lose track of time when you were sleepin’, Jubayr? It was a week, maybe.”

  She whipped around to the fowlkeeper, but before she could speak, he exploded with ire. “Why are you asking about the fowl? I do my job well, you know!”

  She simply eyed him with an upturned brow. “Nipun, I wasn’t going to ask you about them.”

  “Huh? You weren’t?”

  “No. Actually, I wanted to know if you’ve seen a parrot.”

  “Pah!” He looked like he was going to spit on the floor. “Damn bird. Always getting into the grain bin.” He gave her a suspicious look. “Why?”

  “By Fate, that’s everyone!” She clamped her hands on her temples. “They’re all accounted for. It fits.” Then she stared at the fowlkeeper until he began to fidget. “Your fowl have to be slaughtered. All of them.”

  His eyes nearly leapt from his scrawny face. “You can’t go around killing good fowl just because you don’t like me. I say—”

  She sped toward him. “They’re the cause of your illness, Nipun. Of the illness of everyone here, and those who have already died. Well, those birds and the parrot.”

  “The hell are you yammering about, woman?”

  “Everyone who’s sick has been connected to either the fowl or the parrot. Princess Mishka’s parrot, as you’re aware—” and she narrowed her eyes at him— “got out last week. Did you get any new shipments of fowl recently?”

  “Well, yes, but I don’t see how—”

  “Were those new birds ill when they arrived?”

  “Only a bit dowly. Just off their feed a bit. And how did you know?” He shot up in his bed, gnarled hands waving in the air. “You ARE a sorceress!”

  She held up a hand. “Just deduction, my friend. Because when your new birds and the parrot met, their native illnesses—influenzas—met and intermingled. The resulting plague infected those who came into direct contact with them, and was far more lethal for the humans who contracted it than for most of the fowl themselves. That’s why the disease didn’t spread to anyone else, either—your caregivers, those whom each of you came in contact with—no one. To become ill, a person had to have been near the parrot or the fowl. And by the way, whoever’s taking care of your birds while you’ve been ill, I must examine him, too.”

  Nipun dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “He only tosses the grain over the fence, anyway, the lazy sod. He’s never ailed a day in his life.”

  Ferran was counting on his fingers. “But what about the guardsman? The two maidservants? The Grand Vizir, the children’s head teacher, the royals who ailed?”

  She whirled back toward him. “The guardsman helped to recapture the parrot after its escape to the fowlery, and the sultanas Maitri and Zahlia were there. Both handled the bird in the cage. The maidservant Sezen then carried the parrot to the schoolroom to display it for a scheduled lesson on avians—infecting, by chance, all those who chose to touch the bird: Prince Tahir, the children’s teacher, the maidservant who cleaned the classroom and took a quick moment to pet the parrot, the sultana Taleen and the Grand Vizir, who had both come by to look in on the children. By Fate’s grace, Princess Mishka did not touch the bird that day.” She closed her eyes in thanks.

  “The following day, the parrot died—and the second maidservant disposed of it and cleaned its cage. And Nipun,” she said, spinning to him, “the fowl themselves are the link for you four in this room. Plus two others who died—a fowl cook and your own first assistant.” Her voice softened with her final words, wondering if that death had affected the cranky man.

  He turned away, his jaw snapping shut as if with iron hinges.

  Varene sank to the edge of Ferran’s pallet.

  Priya knelt at her feet, her eyes shining, and touched Varene’s hem. “You did it, my lady.”

  Yes, she had. She
’d solved the puzzle. But so late… Kuramos’s household had borne grievous losses.

  At least now she knew there would be no more cases—as long as the fowl were all killed off, just to be sure. And she’d warn Gunjan to stay well away from the fowlery.

  But Priya’s soft words rebounded in her head. She’d discovered the genesis of the outbreak, and it was just nature at work. A harsh nature, a cruel result, but explainable.

  And not a curse.

  She smiled. A certain someone needed to hear that news.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When she arrived at the Throne Room where Kuramos was judging grievances, the aristocrats were just pouring out of the room. Their expressions displayed a spectrum from pompous gloating to stuffed rage—until they saw her.

  Several nobles halted in the doorway, obstructing the progress of those behind, who immediately launched complaints. A handsome blueblood strolled toward her, questions gathering on his well-shaped lips. His bold crimson kaftan and the emeralds gleaming on his coronet seemed to indicate not only his wealth, but the high regard in which he held himself.

  The last time she’d spoken at Kuramos’s court, things had gone all wrong, and she’d unknowingly released a secret into listening ears. As the blueblood drew closer Varene found herself angling her body away from him. What had the sultan told his court after she in her fury—her justified fury, of course—had revealed his family’s illness? Should she answer the lord’s questions? Feign ignorance? Walk away?

  “Royal Healer.” The words boomed not from the advancing noble but from inside the room, where Varene spied the sultan on his raised throne. “Come here.”

  His first two words had gotten her attention; his second two words, here at the scene of their first altercation, narrowed her eyes to fierce slits.

  The courtier slid a glance at Kuramos, then revealed gleaming teeth as his lips parted to speak to Varene.

  “Firoz,” the sultan growled. “I’ve called the Royal Healer into my presence. You are welcome to delay her—at risk of your life. Choose.”

  Firoz’s chiseled jaw snapped shut. He glared at the sultan even as he folded into a graceful bow and backed out.