Chapter 11
Rami
The palace was buzzing with excited guests, and one of the most important occasions in his daughter’s life was about to begin. Yet the Sultan’s obsession with the Heart of Eternity took precedence over all.
“Rami.” He stood before the hidden chamber, wearing an extravagant gold kaftan, a gold fez, and gold jewelry, his usual red cape replaced by a sparkling golden one. “Let’s proceed with the plan.”
“Are you sure, sayyidi?”
With a scowl, he stabbed a finger toward the shelf. “Do it!” The sharp order sent a jolt of pain through me, culminating in my fingertips as I moved forward, pressing my hands against the bookshelf.
I’d sprinted from the first-floor library to the Sultan’s chambers, expecting to discover him under attack or on the verge of death. Yet, upon my arrival—sword drawn and powers at the ready—I found him not in peril but clutching the tome tightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a child-like eagerness.
“What happened, sayyidi?”I asked in confusion as I dismissed my sword.
“Rami, I’ve had a premonition!”
“A premonition,”I repeated, dread pooling in my stomach.
“Yes! Hurry and get ready for the festivities, and then return immediately,”he instructed excitedly. “We must drop all the wards except for the one around the tome!”
I’d stared at him in disbelief as he shared the firm conviction he held that by lowering the wards around his rooms, the tome’s call would lure in the Heartseeker.While the notion was absurd, I was bound by duty and had no choice but to undo decades of carefully laid wards.
While I worked, he paced back and forth, fantasizing about capturing this Heartseeker. In his benevolence, he would offer them a choice first: their life spared for the Heart of Eternity’s retrieval. And in case they refused, he was prepared for that as well.
After twenty painstaking minutes of listening to his ramblings, the last of the wards finally broke. “It’s done,” I announced.
“Excellent! Notify me the moment the Heartseeker touches the tome,” he ordered, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Be vigilant, Rami. This is our chance.”
“Will you be seeing Yasmeena?” I asked, hoping to steer him toward a sliver of fatherly duty. “She”ll need your support.”
He brushed off the concern with a wave of his hand. “Yasmeena doesn’t need her father overshadowing her moment,” he stated, his attention already drifting back to his precious tome. “I will join when the zaffa begins.”
His indifference struck a chord of disapproval within me. He may not feel the need to support his daughter, but in her mother’s absence, I felt compelled to be there.
The staccato rhythm of dozens of bendirs pulsed through the walls, signaling the beginning of the procession.
“Are you ready?”
In response to my question, Yasmeena shook her head. “No. I think I might be sick,” she confessed.
Her fear drew a fond laugh from me, and, taking her hand in mine, I reassured her gently, “You will be magnificent, and I will be right here with you.”
Her eyes, wide and brimming with unshed tears, met mine. “At the front?” she whispered; her voice nearly lost amidst the crescendo of the drums.
”Right at the front, where I belong,” I nodded firmly.
She drew in a deep breath, gathering the shards of her composure. “Okay,” she stated, almost to herself, “I can do this.”
“Of course you can,” I said with a smile, extending my hand to help her into the amaria. I drew the golden curtains closed before allowing the other four staff members inside. Hoisting the palanquin onto our shoulders, we began the trek from her room.
Joining the procession was like stepping into the heart of a storm, one wrought with unbridled joy and excitement. Sultan Ghazi led the way, his claps—once, twice, thrice—setting the beat of our march. Prince Haytham, two steps behind, matched his father’s pace, his smile broad and infectious. In my promised position, two steps behind the prince, I bore the front of Yasmeena’s amaria with pride.
Musicians on either side played with an intensity and zeal that brought the air to life. The bendirs’ deep thrum intertwined with the mijwizs’ high-pitched melodies, the gimbris at the rear laying down a rich bass. Guests who’d eagerly accepted the offer of qraqebs were attempting to sync their enthusiastic clanks to the professional rhythm, their faces alight with joy. Others—without the finger cymbals—lent their hands to clapping.
As the ballroom neared, the anticipation in the air thickened, the combined sounds of music and cheers from those inside swelling to greet us. As we passed through the golden doors, the crowd parted, creating a path for the Sultan to lead us forward.
Despite the raucous noise, my fae hearing picked up the distant cheers from outside the palace walls. Our domain’s citizens were eager for her formal ascension, as Yasmeena would step into the void left by her mother. Sultana Sadeea was a beacon of hope and kindness, the perfect counterbalance to Sultan Ghazi’s eccentricities. In her absence, those obsessions had deepened, casting a shadow over his reign and leaving a vacuum in the hearts of Nephria and her people. Today marked a turning point, with Yasmeena eager to usher in a new era of transformation.
Sultan Ghazi seated himself with a contented smile, and as we lowered the amaria onto the dais, I stepped back, my duty fulfilled. Haytham moved forward eagerly, opening the curtain facing the Sultan, further keeping the room in suspense.In that fleeting moment, only Yasmeena’s arm was visible as she gripped her brother’s hand. When she emerged fully, the crowd’s excitement erupted into a deafening roar of applause and ululations, a unified chanting of blessings and well-wishes.
She stood before the assembled guests, smiling shyly, her hands folded in front of her. She looked regal and confident, even as her cheeks reddened from the attention, and pride filled my chest.When Haytham led her toward the Sultan—who rose to greet her with a kiss on each cheek—my attention inadvertently drifted across the room to the furthest table, where, against all odds, my gaze found the golden-eyed enchantress.