Throne of Sand
Desert Nights Book 1
Elm Vince
Helena Rookwood
First published 2020
This edition published 2020
First edition
Copyright © 2020 by Elm Vince & Helena Rookwood
www.elmvince.com
www.helenarookwood.com
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
ISBN: 979-8613543496
All characters and events are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
A sneak preview of Palace of Wishes…
Thanks for reading
Also by Elm & Helena
About the Authors
Chapter One
Today I must leave the palace to marry my sister’s betrothed.
She should have been the one sitting here, surrounded by fussing attendants.
I kept still and malleable as a doll while my handmaids brushed, painted, and dressed me, letting them fuss without complaint. After all, Lalana was the princess who was promised, not me.
It was a scalding hot day, even in the cooler confines of the marble palace. The gauzy curtains strung across the balcony hung limp in the still air and did little to keep the midday heat at bay. Sweat curled the dark hairs around my brow and at the nape of my neck as Mehri raked a comb through my hair. The girl in the large, golden mirror stared back at me, her head jerking slightly with each stroke of the comb as it snagged on the knots.
I already hardly recognized her.
Mehri blocked my view, a small pot of black paint in her hand. “Would you close your eyes for a moment, Princess Zadie?”
I dutifully obeyed and she ran a wet brush across my eyelids.
Today, I would leave the palace, my parents, and my kingdom, Khiridesh, forever. I would journey to the neighboring Kingdom of Astaran to meet my betrothed for the first time, a distant, powerful sultan. It was my chance to become sultanah, my chance to rule.
I just had to live up to my sister’s reputation as the greatest beauty in the twelve kingdoms first.
I kept my eyes closed, letting these facts wash over me like wind over the dunes. Soft brushes stroked my face, some painting my cheeks and lips, another running down either side of my nose. My Khirideshi nose, as Mother always labeled it. Just like my father’s, it was my most prominent feature and I loved it – even if my mother thought it made me look too proud.
To meet my new husband, I had been dressed in a fine silk turquoise dress over pants, embellished with whorls of real gold embroidery at the hem and cuffs. A sapphire from the royal treasury hung at my throat, large as a fig, now part of my dowry. Although it glistened and sparkled, it weighed heavy as a manacle around my neck.
“Done,” Mehri announced, the lick of the brush lifting from my face.
I opened my eyes, staring back at the girl in the mirror.
Black, feline flicks framed my dark eyes, and my thick brows had been tamed. I tilted my face to one side. Even my nose appeared smaller. I looked down at the assorted jars and brushes scattered across the dresser. What sorcery is this?
“Zadie!” Mother’s voice rang out through the chamber.
I stifled a groan. Great.
My mother glided into the room on slippered feet, making a beeline straight for me. At least five different amulets and talismans swayed around her neck. Not a day went by that my mother wasn’t adorned with some kind of magical protection, but this seemed extreme, even for her. Apparently she felt as confident about today as I did.
My father, the sultan, strode in a few seconds behind her. His silk robes and feathered turban, both in royal Khirideshi red, were ones he usually reserved for feast days. His beard was neatly trimmed and oiled, his lips pressed together, his face stern.
“The convoy is almost here to collect you.” Mother glanced toward the balcony, as if she could see them making their way along the streets of Satra through the thin, wispy curtains. “How are we getting on?”
Mehri and the other handmaids fussing around me didn’t answer, instead dropping into respectful curtseys on either side of the dressing table and allowing the sultanah to inspect me.
She gripped my chin between her fingers, tilting my face toward hers. Her long, dark hair was coiled and pinned carefully on top of her head, and in that moment, my heart twisted painfully.
She looked so much like Lalana. More than I ever would.
Sweat beaded on the edges of my forehead, then Mother let go with an inhale that swelled her whole chest. “Leave us.”
The handmaids scurried from the room without so much as a backward glance.
I faced the mirror once more. Mother and Father stood behind me, a parent at each shoulder. I felt even hotter than before.
“You don’t need us to tell you how important today is, Zadie,” my father began. Why did I get the feeling he was going to tell me anyway?
“I know, Father. I–”
“This match with the Sultan of Astaran is an imperative political alliance.”
“I know. I– Ouch,” I complained, flinching as Mother pinned my veil to my head with some force.
“Kassim may be a young sultan, but Astaran is a powerful kingdom,” Father continued, his voice deep and level as he paced behind us. “Through the strength of their army, as well as their strategic alliances, Astaran has kept peace for years. When you marry the sultan–”
“Our kingdoms will be united,” I finished, parroting the words I knew so well. “We’ll become allies in case of war. It will open up the eastern frankincense trade route and Astaran’s port, which will increase the affluence of both kingdoms. I know, Father.”
I had read about the Kingdom of Astaran long before Lalana had been betrothed to the sultan. Rumor had it that Sultan Kassim had a female vizier advising him, and that since he’d come to power, he let women enroll in his armies. I hoped he would be a sultan who let his sultanah rule alongside him, like some of the more progressive kingdoms did.
Hope fluttered in my chest, then I scrunched my face as Mother finished pinning the veil in place. It was the same vibrant turquoise as my dress and pants, and while it looked light as butterfly wings, it weighed heavily on my head.
“Now, we don’t need you talking about politics in front of Sultan Kassim’s men,” she said. “They won’t want to hear your thoughts on kingdom relations or trade routes. That’s not what they were promised. We need them to spread word of your obedience, your modesty, and your…beauty. Just act less like yourself and more like…”
Lalana.
My shoulders slumped. “I get it. No political talk,” I grumbled, tugging at the veil. “Unless
it’s appropriate.”
“No political talk, period.” Mother slapped my hand away. “No talk about horses or books or history or wars.”
“Listen, Zadie.” My father’s cheeks turned pink. “Your entire life, you’ve been able to do as you wish. Learn what you want. Read and ride. As second daughter, we let you have that freedom. I now see we let you have too much freedom. But remember, when the Sultan of Astaran was looking for a wife, he chose Lalana, a princess who was interested in etiquette, not education.”
Mother nodded earnestly. “Remember, if in doubt, silence is the best route. And, spirits above, no speaking–”
“Unless I’m spoken to first. I know.”
“And most important of all,” My father walked around so he could look into my eyes. “The sultan must believe Lalana is dead.”
My heart thudded painfully in my chest. “I would never–”
“No, Zadie.” He scolded me like a child. “You helped your sister run away. To abandon her duties and mantle for love.” He exhaled slowly, then moved behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. They pressed down against the flowing veil, pulling it taut around my head. “Now it’s your duty to pick up that mantle. To take responsibility for what you’ve done.” Our eyes met in the mirror and his voice softened. “To become the sultanah she should have been.”
I dropped my gaze first.
Did I regret helping Lalana escape to Yadina, to be with the man she loved? I knew once she’d met Ambar, she would never have been happy with this arranged marriage, despite the fact she’d been groomed for such a match her whole life. It still staggered me that she chose a merchant of magical objects over a sultan, to spend her life peddling amulets and talismans instead of ruling from within a palace.
She had always been the great beauty, the master of all the womanly arts, perfect in every way – except one. She’d fallen in love with the wrong man.
And now we all had to pretend she was dead.
Mother jabbed a heavy gold earring through one ear, then the other. They tugged at my lobes.
No. I didn’t regret helping Lalana at all. She had wanted to marry her merchant…and I had wanted to be sultanah. I’d been given an opportunity I never thought I would get as the younger, plainer, wilder daughter. Here, in Khiridesh, power still passed down the male line, so my little brother, Umar, would become sultan. By seeing through this important political alliance, I would get to become the ruler I never could be if I stayed here.
And I would be a good sultanah. I might have little interest in love or marrying some strange sultan, but I had studied Orhan’s Ethics of Law and Sultanah Bena’s Manifesto on Kingdom Alliances.
I just had to prove myself a passable princess first.
Mother picked up a bottle of perfume and spritzed it generously around my head and body.
“Stop… Ugh.” I coughed, waving my hand through the heady fog of jasmine and oud that made my eyes water. It was a deep, rich scent better suited to an older woman, not an eighteen-year-old girl.
The glass bottle clinked as my mother set it down and stepped back, her hands clasped above her heart. She shook her head as she looked at me, rubbing her lips together nervously.
“It’ll have to do…” She looked up at the sultan with real worry etched across her fine features. “Do you think it’ll do?”
My underarms and the backs of my knees started to sweat even worse than before. I stood up, twisting to check it hadn’t stained.
I swallowed down the lump of anxiety building in my throat. “I need some water or something.” My mouth felt dry as the desert.
Hasita, one of our long-suffering handmaids, burst through the doors.
“Ah, Hasita. Perfect timing,” I called out, a hand covering my parched throat. “Could you get me some water or–”
“Your Majesties.” Hasita hastened toward us, then dropped into a harried curtsey. Her grey hair was damp with sweat, her already lined brow creased further with worry. “I need to speak with you both about a matter of great urgency.” She flashed a look in my direction, but the request was aimed at my parents.
The sultan and sultanah nodded and stepped closer to her, out of earshot.
I ground my teeth. Why would I need to be involved in any of these conversations? I’m only, you know, the bride.
I exhaled through my nose, trying to compose myself. I couldn’t stand comfortably, my fine outfit prickling where it touched my skin, but I couldn’t sit, either, because I was sweating like a market pig in the midday heat.
I paced the warm, marble floor, the material of my skirts rustling, my jeweled slippers click-clacking with each step as I stomped and whirled back and forth in front of the dressing table.
Surely someone could get me something to eat or drink. I could nibble on a date without disturbing all the carefully applied makeup. Spirits, I hadn’t eaten all day, and I was so thirsty, my tongue felt like it was coated in sand.
A persistent fly buzzed around my head, probably attracted to all the sweet-smelling oils and lotions glistening on my skin, and I swatted a hand through the air in frustration. I’d never felt more uncomfortable. I scratched at my hairline underneath the veil. This day couldn’t get any worse.
Mother shrieked and my head snapped in my parents’ direction, the earrings batting against my neck. Father held my mother upright as she half-slumped against him, clutching at her amulets and swooning as if in a faint.
“What’s wrong?” I took a step toward them.
“Light the incense braziers in the throne room,” Mother muttered in a daze, ordering no one in particular. She still sagged heavily against my father. “Fetch Umar. Polish the silver, and…and kill a bird. Kill five. We must prepare the finest…the finest…”
Father looked back at me, as if only just remembering I was in the room. “It’s the sultan.” His brow furrowed. “He came with the convoy. He’s here.”
Chapter Two
“He’s outside...”
The murmur rippled through the servants as Mother hissed orders to prepare the throne room. They threw open the shutters to let in thick shafts of golden light and lit the braziers, filling the room with wafts of heady incense.
I had been told to sit on one of the cushioned thrones and not move, an order I was only too happy to obey as I watched the last of the flustered servants and guards darting about like ants, dragging out chests of gold and jewels to display.
The dowry.
I draped the veil over my face. The sheer, turquoise material turned the golden-hued room cool and hazy, like diving deep underwater.
Two handmaids rushed in with my younger brother, Umar, and sat him down beside Father. The throne was far too big for him, his five-year-old legs dangling over the edge without touching the floor. He gave me a happy wave, and I waved back. He was too young to understand what was going on, but seemed excited to be involved. I only hoped he wouldn’t mention Lalana in front of the sultan.
Mother fussed with Umar’s hair, then slowly sank into her chair, casting one last glance around the room to make sure everything was in place. Father, sitting on the grandest throne between them, nodded to the guards. The vast doors groaned as they were opened.
Immediately, the noise of the Astarian convoy flooded into the room. The grounds of the palace were filled with trumpeting elephants and whinnying horses. The sound of hollering guards and gasping spectators from the city was deafening.
The soft cushion slid around beneath me as I shifted in my seat. Two guards dressed in traditional white-and-gold Astarian livery appeared in the doorway, then a third man strode in between them. His silhouette cut an imposing figure, and the babble of the crowd outside fell to a hush.
“The Sultan of Astaran,” announced one of his guards. The words echoed across the smooth, marble surfaces of the throne room.
Flanking the marble columns, our guards stood at attention, a long line of red turbans and glinting scimitars lining the way from the door to the thrones. Th
e Sultan of Astaran strode past them, his shining boots ringing out with each step.
I held my breath. This was the man I was to marry.
He stood before my father and removed his jeweled turban, letting shoulder-length dark hair fan out around his face.
I almost gasped, but caught myself at the last moment.
Even through the veil, the sultan was beautiful. Lalana levels of beautiful. And young. Far younger than I’d expected. My stomach gave an involuntary flip as I took in his clean-shaven face, his impeccable robes of rich sapphire blue.
Would my sister have changed her mind if she’d met the sultan first? Would she have been bewitched by those famous royal Astarian eyes that glowed amber in the sunlight? What a pair they would have made.
But he was here to marry me, not Lalana. I was not some giddy girl with dreams of love and handsome princes.
My heart swelled with hope once more that he would be the kind of sultan to embrace a wife who ruled beside him.
“Sultan Shapur.” The Sultan of Astaran inclined his head to my father, an unnecessary display of respect considering they were both sultans and he was a guest.
A bead of sweat edged its way down my neck, itching my skin as it went. I reached under my veil and brushed it away under the guise of readjusting my necklace.
“Please, Sultan Kassim.” My father stood from the throne and stepped down level with him. “It is our honor to welcome you to Satra and to Khiridesh.” He introduced my mother, who stood and swept into a low and gracious curtsey. The kind I could never quite muster.
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