by Cate Rowan
The handmaiden flashed her a proud smile, but Varene smacked her own brow and moaned. “The Palace residents are one thing, but I can’t cure all of Kad myself!” Varene grabbed her indigo gown from the footboard.
“But your new clothes, my lady. You don’t wish to wear them?”
Varene stared at the open trunk. She didn’t need any more reminders of what she’d felt in the man’s arms last night, nor did she want to be branded as “his” when she so clearly wasn’t… and couldn’t be. “Those are much too fine for me.”
Priya helped her pull on her gown, then laced her up as Varene muttered. “Another Healer… Bennek might be amenable, if his wife will accept the move. Or maybe Rissa—she has plenty of experience.”
But then Varene scowled. Rissa was much too pretty to be let loose in Kuramos’s palace. Would he…seduce Rissa? Make her his lover? After all, he’d taken six wives…
Well, if Varene couldn’t be sure, it served her right for falling in love with such a man. And that was yet another clue that it was time to go home.
As they moved toward the hall, she reached up to pull her hair into a ponytail, then remembered her hair band was long gone—Kuramos had slid it off her while they’d been alone on his ship. Damn.
She hated to admit it, but perhaps he’d been right about the ponytail being a mask of sorts. She certainly didn’t feel like herself without it.
“Priya, I don’t suppose there are any hair bands lying around? Or perhaps some ribbon, or cord?”
“Hair bands aren’t common here, my lady. I’m sure I could find ribbon or string, though.”
“Wonderful. Let’s do the triage of the patients first, and then… Oh!” She stared at the handmaiden. “What am I doing? You and Sohad are getting married today. Shouldn’t you be off preparing?”
Priya laughed. “Duty first. The sultan promised all the wedding arrangements are being taken care of for us. Besides, Sohad and I wouldn’t leave you to fend for yourself with all those patients!”
Sohad and I. As easy as that.
At least for some.
Priya hadn’t been exaggerating about the numbers outside the gates—in fact, the line seemed to swell even as Varene scanned it to decide which patients to let in under the watchful eyes of the palace guards. She admitted those in greatest need, and noticed that while there were quite a few who legitimately needed her services, many others seemed merely curious.
She’d never expected to become the object of such interest and scrutiny. With a quick word and reassurances, she did her best to mollify those who were left behind, then proceeded to the infirmary with twelve patients, among them a young mother who’d scalded her hands with boiling water and a blacksmith whose anvil had fallen on his foot. She sent Priya back to the gates to help those she could with catgut, needles, and flasks of an herbal antiseptic and anesthetic, since the handmaiden was a neat seamstress.
With her hair held back by a length of string and her patients each waiting on a pallet, Varene strode into the central room of the infirmary to grab extra bandages. To her surprise, Maitri and Mishka entered the doorway.
“We heard about the crowd waiting for you,” Maitri said quietly, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Mishka and I wanted to see if we could help.”
Varene offered them both a grateful smile, then looked down at Mishka. “As it happens, there’s a young girl in there, five or six years old, who could use a distraction while her mother is treated. Perhaps you could talk to her, or even make daisy chains with her, while your mother aids me?” They both nodded, and Varene turned her head, muttering, “Now, where is that jar of bandages…”
“Here it is,” Mishka said.
Varene swiveled back and saw the jar of bandages in Mishka’s right hand and a vase of daisies in her left. The girl hadn’t moved from that spot. Stunned, Varene glanced at Maitri. The sultana’s hand tightened on her daughter’s shoulder and she gazed at Varene. Worry and motherly pride battled in her eyes.
Instantly, Varene recalled the nearly-empty vase of daisies in Maitri’s quarters that had suddenly refilled.
Mishka has magic.
Kuramos’s own daughter has magic.
The two women stared at each other over the child’s head. The culture of Kad distrusted, even hated, magic, but Varene did not, and Maitri knew it. Had Mishka’s display been a fortuitous accident—or deliberately orchestrated by her mother?
Did Kuramos even know of his daughter’s abilities? Who else was aware?
Realization dawned. The sultana was entrusting Varene with a precious secret—and given the climate Varene had seen in the market, a potentially dangerous one.
After a moment, she gave Maitri a tiny nod to convey her understanding of the risk. Then she grinned at Mishka and reached for the jar of bandages. “Thank you. You’re a thoughtful girl, indeed. Come with me, please, O Ladies.”
Mother and daughter proved to be able and generous helpers, and their presence allowed Sohad to observe Varene’s healing techniques. And if Mishka also happened to watch—intensely—who would think it odd? Only her mother and Varene exchanged covert looks.
Sohad showed both the kyrra and the aptitude to be an excellent Healer, but Varene was certain Mishka’s kyrra was at an entirely different level. Telekinesis by the untrained, which Mishka had to be, indicated strong abilities. Potent ones, perhaps mage-level, that would most likely augment and manifest over the years. The girl would need good teaching, if her powers weren’t to be wasted. But Varene was no mage, and who in Kad could instruct Mishka, the daughter of the magic-wary sultan?
Toward lunchtime, after the most urgent ills and wounds had been treated, Varene insisted on dismissing Sohad to find Priya and let them prepare and relax before their evening wedding. Two patients remained, both with painful but minor injuries. The ditchdigger, whose shoulder had been struck by a pick-head that had flown off a coworker’s tool, was dumbstruck at being attended to by a sultana and a princess. Then, just as Varene was probing a boatswain’s bloody wound for the shards of a bottle employed during a drunken disagreement, she heard flapping wings.
She glanced up to see Gunjan alight on a dark sconce, looking remarkably officious.
“Greetings, Royal Healer. The sultan requests your presence.”
“Does he, now.” How very like him to summon her. A whole day later, too, in the middle of her clinic. She returned her annoyed gaze to the patient’s torn flesh.
After a few moments the bird spoke again. “Er, aren’t you going to go to him?”
“Not until I’ve finished with my patients, Gunjan.” She pulled a bottle fragment from the wound amidst the patient’s tortured groans.
Gunjan’s head shrank back. “But…I don’t think the sultan is used to waiting, Healer.”
“Oh?” Varene didn’t look up. Righteous anger was boiling in her gut—irrational, she knew, but there it was. “Then he’ll experience something new.”
Maitri gave an amused snort. Varene wondered again how much the sultana knew about Kuramos’s recent dalliance, and what she thought of it. She tried to catch Maitri’s eye, but the sultana’s shimmering mane obscured her expression.
“Where does the sultan wish to meet me, Gunjan?”
“In his quarters.”
Do not blush. Do not blush. Argh, stop blushing.
For Fate’s sake, why did I ask that in front of one of his wives? “Please tell the sultan that when I have finished healing his countrymen and women, I will come find him.” That ought to remind him he needs to hire a physician. She tried to ignore the butterflies flickering under her ribs at the idea of being alone with him again.
Gunjan flew off with a dubious look in his ebony eyes.
When the wound had been cleaned and stitched, Mishka announced that she was “starving,” which brought the gathering to a speedy end. Varene didn’t want them to go, since she’d hoped to speak with Maitri about her daughter—not to mention she would have liked to delay meeting wit
h the sultan. But before mother and daughter walked out, the sultana sent a last glance to Varene. “We’re all attending the wedding, Healer. Perhaps you and I could…chat afterward?”
“I would like that, O Lady.”
“It’s Maitri. Please.” The sultana smiled.
Then Varene was alone at last—on her way to see a man who was breaking her heart without even trying.
When Varene entered Kuramos’s receiving chamber with her glorious hair confined again, he narrowed his eyes and gave a mental growl. All that spun gold, lush and sensual, was still trapped behind the Healer’s facade. And she was wearing her indigo gown, not the Kaddite finery he’d gifted to her, as if asserting that she wasn’t his woman.
But his primal instincts said, Mine. She is mine.
He’d have to make sure she knew it, too. He moved closer. “I thought I told you to stop hiding yourself.”
Her hand rose to her ponytail and she frowned. “I was working, as I’m sure Gunjan mentioned.”
“Ah, but in here, you aren’t. Loosen your hair.”
She fixed him with a glare. “That sounded remarkably like a command.”
It had been. He wanted her to obey him…sometimes. But she’d never truly submit, and that was one of the things he loved about her. The eternal challenge. Her indomitability. The battle of wills.
That he’d finally met his match.
A tap sounded at the door, and he recognized his chamber servant’s deferent knock.
“Enter, Jatan,” Kuramos said. “Ah, here’s our lunch. Please put it in the Heavens Chamber.”
“O Lord?” The short man’s small, pea-like eyes widened above the silver tray he carried.
“As I said, Jatan.”
“Certainly.” The servant kept his gaze discretely averted from Varene and disappeared behind the velvet curtain screening Kuramos’s bedchamber.
Varene glanced at Kuramos, perplexed. “‘The Heavens Chamber?’” she whispered. “And why did he look so surprised?”
Jatan re-emerged and backed out, closing the door behind him.
“No one goes past that curtain,” Kuramos said, eyeing its concealing folds, “but me and my chamber servants.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “What about your wives?” Her lips tightened and she brushed a piece of lint from her dark sleeve.
He spoke matter-of-factly. “I’ve visited my wives in their own quarters. None has been to the inner rooms of mine.”
Her eyes swerved away. Clearly, his relations with his wives was not a happy subject for her. The realization pleased him. She was jealous.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he held his hand out to her. “Come.”
Warily, she crossed the tasseled rug and slid her fingers into his. As he led her toward the curtain, she wondered why he kept a place so private even his wives weren’t allowed there.
It seemed the sultan was doing some hiding of his own.
But the question that sped her heart was why he was letting her in…
He parted the heavy wintergreen velvet so she could enter. She found herself in a small room, twelve feet by twelve, that was a thorough contrast to the lavish appointments in the main room behind them. The stark walls held no decorations of any kind. The only furnishings were a small bedside table of dark mahogany and a matching canopy bed that soared to the ceiling, enclosed by curtains of forest green like the ones screening the room. Even his bed has walls for seclusion…
The receiving chamber from which they’d come befitted a sultan—opulent splendor, gracious and not subtle, designed to impress and intimidate as needed. But his bedroom was austere, almost ascetic, except for the sensual accent of the curtains.
Breath caught in her throat. “I understand,” she said softly, and looked upon his beloved face. “You hide this from everyone because this is the heart of you. The domain of Kuramos the man, not the sultan.”
He twitched in astonishment. Heat ignited behind his eyes. His hands flexed as if he might throw her onto the bed at any moment and ravish her. Very, very thoroughly.
She kindled at the thought.
With effort, he seemed to restrain himself, then gestured to his right, toward another set of curtains already open.
She moved past him, stunningly aware of his raw sexuality. It tugged at her, made her want to halt in front of him and press herself against his bare chest, run her fingers over every hard muscle.
Averting her eyes from his body, she entered another room, rectangular, with stars painted across the ceiling around a huge, domed skylight. The Heavens Chamber. Unlike in Kuramos’s bedroom, the chamber’s walls were tiled with mosaics in gold and snow and various shades of sky. On the right side, a wall fountain tinkled with water. On their left, azure pillows surrounded a low, half-circle table holding their gleaming lunch tray—but what fascinated her was the tall window that ran the length of the room.
The city spread out below them, sparkling in the early afternoon sun. A sigh escaped her as she looked over the soaring spires and whitewashed walls. She shifted her gaze to the right, to the river and the fields…
Gasping, she stumbled back as the scene before her turned. It turned as she stared out.
The view was no longer centered on the city, but the river, and as she gawked, the desert dunes seemed to rush toward her, allowing her to see beyond them to the high, snowy peaks bordering Kad to the east. She glanced back to the left, where the city had been, and again it came into view, more and more detailed as she peered out, as if through a spying glass. She found herself staring at a man hawking ripe fruit as if he were just beyond the frame, so close she could have picked up a melon.
“This window…Kad does have magic!” Shock surged through her, followed by fury. She swung toward Kuramos. “You lied to me!”
“Lied? No. Concealed, perhaps.” He sighed. “It isn’t strictly true that Kad has magic…it’s more that…I do. A little, that is.”
Fury swarmed up her throat and propelled her toward him. “How could you allow your people to believe that magic is evil? I was nearly murdered for it, and yet here’s their sultan, using magic in his very palace. Hypocrite!”
His green eyes narrowed and his words emerged in clipped bites. “My intention was not to anger you. I showed you this as an apology. An admission, of sorts.”
She folded her arms over the hurt coiled in her chest. “An apology.”
“For some of the…difficulties you have faced here.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Varene, magic’s been spurned in Kad since long before I took the throne.”
“But you have allowed that to continue.”
“My forefathers made a choice—to rule!” He took a deep breath, then clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window. “My people’s prejudice against magic is far older than even the dagger of Ayaaz you’ve held. Ayaaz himself had several wives, and the mother of his youngest child came from a tribe in the hills where power still flowed in the blood. She kept her magic secret, and her son Sefar’s as well. If the truth had been known, Ayaaz would never have chosen Sefar.”
He gave her such a candid glance she felt like she was delving into his soul. “Sefar’s descendants have likewise hidden our power, our kyrra as you call it, to keep the throne. My realm is complex—held together by the sultan’s force of will and by the belief and fealty of those he rules. Here, machinations and treacheries grow in the thinnest of soil. I’ve not been willing to risk my rule and the fate of my people on their willingness to change beliefs they’ve held for millennia.”
She stared at him for long seconds as his words sank in. “How much do you have?”
“Of what?”
“Kyrra. Power to do magic. How much do you have?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. No one’s ever tested me.”
“Then give me your hand.”
She watched the play of emotions across his face—refusal, unease, yearning. Her anger cooled as he shared himself, let her see behind hi
s own mask.
His hand fisted, then relaxed. “I was jealous, you know,” he said gravely.
Amusement curled her lips. “I’ve noticed that. But of which occasion do you speak?”
“When you held Sohad’s hand. You were teaching him.”
She inhaled a soft breath as a new layer of him clicked into place. The sultan had picked a fight with her not just for touching Sohad, but about her magical powers. Because all the while, he was hiding his own, concealing them for fear others would shun him.
The Great Sultan, always alone.
She stepped toward him, her voice lower now. “I’m not a tester by training, nor a kyrra tutor. But my power can call to yours, and perhaps we can discover how much you have.” She held her hand out and waited.
At last he raised his own and let her cup it in hers. Warmth flowed between them, and with it came the now-familiar hum she felt when they touched. “Close your eyes and think of your kyrra. Call to it. Feel it inside you.”
His brow furrowed in concentration above his closed lids.
A harmony of sound exploded into Varene’s mind. The intensity of it, the richness, rocked her onto her heels. She stared up at the sultan.
When his dusky eyelashes parted and he observed her reaction, a thoroughly pleased grin lit his lips. “That good, eh?”
“That much.” She let her hand fall to her side. “You could have been a mage, Kuramos.”
His smile lessened and he clasped his hands behind his back again. “I am a sultan.”
She turned away, laughing at herself in disbelief. “Such an idiot I’ve been, not to notice it before. I just…didn’t expect this depth of power. Not in Kad. Not from the Great Sultan.” She whirled back to him. “What do you feel, when you do that? I hear, in my mind, wonderful music. I want to sing along, dance with it…” Make love with it resounding in my ears. The erotic nature of kyrra was well known in Teganne, but here?
The green of his eyes glittered into emeralds, and his voice became a lion’s lustful purr. “As Sohad said…it feels good.”
Her body quivered in response, and her mind called out a wordless warning. “How unfortunate, how sad it is that your culture, one so deeply sensual, would eschew magic! This heightening of feeling, of the senses—your people are suppressing their inborn gifts.”
