Chapter Fifteen
The woman at my chamber door is unfamiliar.
She holds herself like someone who has power in the castle—head housekeeper, perhaps?
—her eyes keen and her bearing proud. “I am Ziba, and I’ve been assigned as your primary lady’s maid and companion.
The king has sent instructions for you to join him for the evening meal. ”
I blink at her, bewildered. I haven’t seen the king in days, not since the first training session and his bizarre reaction.
I’ve continued practicing with Maxur, but His Majesty has been noticeably absent, and the general has been tight-lipped about his king’s whereabouts, only alluding to quashing an incursion at the Oryndhrian border.
When I asked whether the king was worried about war with the neighboring kingdom, Maxur’s expression had gone frustratingly blank.
“A meal?” I ask, frowning at Ziba.
“That is what he said, yes,” she says, walking in briskly. “But first let’s get you cleaned up, my lady.”
“You can call me Suraya,” I say softly, when she disappears without preamble into the bathing chamber.
Collecting my scattered thoughts at the notion of a private dinner with the king, I walk to the enormous glass-paned window, which looks out onto rolling green fields as far as the eye can see.
Below the ledge, brilliant, manicured plots of blooming marigolds—sunburned orange and summer yellow—catch my eye, and I sigh at the natural beauty.
Marigolds were my mother’s favorite flower, and the sight of them in full bloom makes my chest suddenly tight.
How had I not noticed them before?
“Lady Suraya,” Ziba calls, and I obediently hurry into the next room. “Come now, before it gets cold,” she says, moving to help me undress.
I shake my head. “I can do it.”
She tilts her head in deference and waits quietly near the tub. When I remove the last of my grimy leathers and my underclothes, she eyes my wrists, brow scrunching. “And those?”
I shake my head. “Permanent fixtures, I’m afraid.”
The layered scents of jasmine, rose, and vanilla waft into my nose when I approach the bath. Ziba offers me a hand as I step into the deliciously hot water and sink down into the velvety depths all the way to my chin.
Stars above . . .
It feels heavenly. In fact, I could quite happily die right here at this very moment in complete and utter bliss.
I’ve washed in the bathing chamber before, but my cleansing routine has been quick and perfunctory, mirroring how I bathed in Coban, where water is a scarcity—a quick splash with emphasis on the important bits.
Nothing like this kind of decadent luxury.
This feels like an extravagance fit for a queen.
Ziba moves to stand behind me and undoes my sweaty braided hair over the side of the tub, where there’s a convenient lip for me to comfortably rest my neck.
Water from a pitcher soaks through the strands before she lathers up the tresses into a thick froth that smells divine.
Strong fingers massage my scalp, and I almost moan out loud with how good it feels.
Ziba rinses, then repeats the process once more before coating the locks with a softening cream.
She rinses again after a few minutes, then approaches me with a soft-bristled pad and a cloth, which I take quickly.
While I enjoyed the hair wash, I don’t need her tending to my body as well.
With another of those benevolent smiles, she bustles away before returning with a thick, soft toweling cloth that she hangs over a nearby chair.
I take my time cleansing myself from head to toe and scrub until my skin glows with radiant health.
When I’m done, I wrinkle my nose at the bathwater, which has grown tepid, but Ziba only nods as she walks by and touches her fingertip to the surface.
The water clears and turns hot in seconds.
I inhale sharply and grin in stupefied awe.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to people practicing magic so effortlessly.
She shows no surprise at my wondrous expression, so someone must have informed her about my lack of magical affinity. “Water numen,” she says. “Mestial rank.”
“Amazing,” I say, and her cheeks pinken with pleasure.
“I’ll be in the next room,” she says. “We have plenty of time, so soak as long as you like. I can always make it hot and clean again.”
Any elemental magic is in the aether category, I remember Ani explaining.
Ziba doesn’t seem disappointed that she’s at one of the lower-ranking levels.
Ashes, I’d be ecstatic with basic proficiency at this rate.
Being able to manipulate water and ice? People in the desert back home would idolize me and crown me queen.
I let out a soft snort just as a blast of homesickness hits me.
I miss Coban. I miss the dry desert heat. And I miss Papa, Amma, and Laleh.
By the maker, am I ever going to get back?
Exhaling, I lay my head back and stare up at the gorgeous mural on the ceiling of peacocks with brightly colored feathers. My eyes drift closed for a handful of seconds. A vision of a white marble room with a pool at its center flashes through my brain as clear as day.
Is it another memory?
It has to be, because I can see myself immersed in bubbles, Laleh bustling around at my side, and then it hits me .
. . it’s for my wedding day. I nearly swallow a mouthful of soap suds and sit up so quickly that a wave of bathwater careens over the edge.
I’m gasping for air like a fish out of the sea.
Betrothed to the king.
“Lady Suraya?” Ziba rushes over with a concerned look. “Are you well?”
I shudder in place, trying desperately to calm my erratic breathing. “Yes, sorry.”
There’s no starsdamned way I was engaged to the king of Oryndhr.
But the conviction of the memory doesn’t go away.
So if it’s real, then which king? King Zarek is already married to Queen Morvarid.
Desperate for clarity but fearful to lose momentum, I don’t force it.
Instead, I try to relax and let myself ease into the recollection.
I feel the water in my memory. I smell the bath oils. I see Laleh’s face.
A barrage of riddles, balls, and battles descends all at once, a few of the blank gaps in my brain filling in.
Prince Javed, now the king of Oryndhr, had chosen me because of an Elonian prophecy and the divination of my star chart that I was a weapon of the gods.
A prize with starfire in her veins. Frowning, I lift my palms and turn them over, seeing the five-pointed stars etched there and acutely remembering the warm glow saturating them.
A gift from the four Royal Stars.
My blood roars between my ears. Sands, I do have magic. Powerful magic. Magic anyone would kill for. I stare at the cuffs. Coerce me for.
The thought is inconceivable, and yet I know it to be true.
A surge of power inside of me undulates in heady confirmation, making me dizzy as the stunning vision of a gorgeous simurgh flexes her wings.
The recognition is instant as I see her in my mind’s eye.
Stars, is she what my magic looks like? Like divinity in earthly form, all fiery energy, fierce, shimmering wings, and a proud canine face.
Hello, friend.
Her gaze is adoring, her approval flooding me in a tsunami of warmth.
Then my cuffs light up, two of the runes flaring red at the same time, and a dulling ache starts to spread. Within seconds, the bright image fades and leaves me with a bereft sensation that my beautiful creature—the very essence of my magic—has been trapped and silenced.
Heart sinking, I glare balefully at the cuffs. Someone had put the bracers on to contain my magic . . . to contain me. King Javed? Why?
To keep you leashed and in your place.
Bitterness lashes through me at the brutal honesty of my simurgh’s barely audible answer. It reeks of exploitation, of manipulation.
Did I marry the crown prince turned king, only for him to use me?
Am I a queen? I wish I knew.
In a stupor, I lift my left hand to look for any indication of a ring imprint—even a pale strip of skin on my finger—but there’s nothing there.
Deep down, I know I would have fought tooth and nail against marriage, because Javed, of all people, is a self-absorbed despot who would have craved only one thing: power.
He would have abused any magic I had without hesitation to subjugate and rule his kingdom.
Does his greed extend to conquering the other realms?
Like Everlea? Is that why I’m here? To spy on his closest enemy?
Destroy him from the inside? It doesn’t seem like something I would do, but then again, I hardly know who I’ve become. Who I am.
When the water cools again, I step out of the tub and wrap myself in the fluffy toweling.
Maker above, it feels good to be clean. Even my despicable cuffs are gleaming.
They’re another critical piece to the puzzle I’m trying to make sense of.
If my musings are correct about my supposed magic being weaponized, then why would Javed send me here unable to access or use any of it?
Unless he didn’t send me, and I was escaping . . .
Now that sounds a lot more like me, given what I think of him.
Wrapping the towel around my torso, I shove my churning thoughts aside and go to where Ziba is waiting in my bedroom.
She exits the closet with folds and folds of embroidered fabric gathered in her arms. I stare at the dark indigo ensemble that she eventually holds up for my inspection, and blanch. That is a bloody ball gown.
“The king had this dress made for you, my lady,” Ziba says softly, noticing my expression. “You are his honored guest for tonight’s dinner with the court.”
There’s a stubborn part of me that wants to refuse, and another, much smaller part that wants to wear the stunning gown. It would be churlish of me to not accept, so I nod.