Chapter Seven Amunet
SEVEN AMUNET
When I was around five years old—just before I’d learned Shaya was my real father, just before I’d lit my first candle in his honor—the king had taken me to the Ketopolis Market for the first time. He’d carried me on his shoulders and pointed out each stall to me.
The market had everything. Textiles in all different colors, which were strung up between booths over our heads, created one long, consistent canopy down the aisle.
Exotic foods from all over the empire, filling the narrow aisles with a heady mixture of smells.
Sugary sweets, seasoned meats, all of it cut through by the bitterness of incense being sold with sculptures and paintings of the Seven Monarchs.
The stalls were a never-ending strip of shouting merchants and happy customers.
“Look!” I pointed, feet kicking with excitement beneath my father’s grip. “Baklawa!”
“Aye, aye, little one.” He veered sharply in the direction of the stall as if he were a ship and I the captain. I used to love when he did that.
The merchant took one look at Father, and her eyes lit up.
There were portraits of Father all over Ashorah, but even without them, it would have been easy to deduce the king’s identity, what with his extravagant robes made of the finest linens stitched through with diamonds, and the massive crown atop his head. “How may I serve you, my king?”
“Two squares of baklawa.”
“Of course, my king.” The merchant produced the dessert quickly, and Father steered us toward a nearby bench. “Careful,” he warned as he offered me both pieces of the pastry. “It’s messy.”
Heedless of his warning, I dove right in. The thin filo pastry flaked all over my lap, but I didn’t care. I’d always adored baklawa, but I’d never had any that delicious. Sweet with just a hint of savory from the almonds in its center, the crust practically melting in my mouth.
Father chuckled at my expression. “Good?”
“So good! The best baklawa I’ve ever tasted!”
“Do you think so?”
I nodded enthusiastically, honey making my lips sticky.
Father looked at the merchant. She was watching us with a soft smile from the stall but quickly straightened under the king’s gaze and scurried to his side. “Was there something else you needed, my king?”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nena, my king.”
“Can you bake anything else, Nena?”
“Yes, my king. My family owns a restaurant a few blocks over. We bake and cook most dishes.”
“Can your restaurant manage without you?”
Her brows furrowed. “No, my king.”
Father considered her, the sunlight catching in the jewels of his crown. “And if you were to earn double the wages, would it be able to spare you then?”
The merchant’s eyes flew wide. “I… yes.”
“Excellent. You are the new chef of Khada Palace, Nena.”
The merchant’s eyes widened. She lowered into a stunned curtsy. “Th-thank you, my king.”
I hardly paid attention to her shock, preoccupied with my own. I gasped hard and gazed up at my father with pure delight. “Really, Baba?”
He smiled warmly and stroked my hair, which had yet to be shorn. “You deserve to be happy, little one.” A sheen coated his green eyes.
Tilting my head, I asked, “Why are you crying, Baba?”
He wiped his eyes, though it did little to get rid of the watery look.
“I have made many mistakes in my life. Promises that must be kept. Promises that will change every—” He drew a deep breath and shook his head, plastering a smile on his face.
“They are not important right now. Today, you are happy. Right?”
I grinned and took another bite of the baklawa. “Right!”
“That is all that matters.” Father lifted his robe and cleaned up the mess around my lips, not caring that it was staining his expensive fabrics.
Funny how it took hiding in a cramped room at a random inn in Ketopolis for that memory to resurface.
The king had always treated me with contempt and violence, which had bred my own disdain and hatred. Except he hadn’t always.
And now he was dead.
I rubbed my chest, where I could still feel that strange emptiness. It was irritating… and unexpected.
The door opened, and my muscles locked up. But it was only Jasim. “The camels are waiting downstairs,” he said as he entered, shutting the door behind him.
Pushing aside the old memories, I rose from the rickety bed. “And you spoke to the innkeeper?”
“I did. All he knew was that the Kaldfolk infiltrated the palace. No mention of the king.”
A small blessing, that. The tunnel Jasim had taken me through had let out onto the streets of Ketopolis, where havoc was already in full swing.
If they realized the Kaldfolk had succeeded in assassinating the king, there was no telling what further chaos could be unleashed.
Not to mention what bright ideas the antsy jinn-descended princes might think up.
There was nothing more dangerous than a vacant throne.
My throne now, it seemed.
“The Kaldfolk are crazed animals, my queen,” Jasim said, repulsion evident. “They must have found a gap in our defenses and taken the opportunity without any thought for what comes next. It won’t be long before they’re dealt with.”
Jasim had been with the Khada Guard for nearly thirteen years. He’d fought the Kaldfolk before, had seen their lust for battle firsthand, but I didn’t think it ever got easier to watch a man be torn apart. I shuddered at the memory.
Jasim took a step toward me, a line of concern forming between his brows. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” I adjusted the new cloak around my shoulders.
I’d found it hanging in the wardrobe, apparently forgotten by the last guest. My mother’s old dress was indeed unremarkable in a castle full of wonderful clothes, but just a few moments running through the streets told me it was still too noticeable.
Hopefully, the hideous gray thing I now wore would be enough to keep me from being recognized.
“We’ll head to the Temple of Shaya. It’s too dangerous to return to the palace with the Kaldfolk so close, and I need to speak with my father anyway, and we can—”
“Amunet,” he said softly, and I stalled at the casual use of my name.
At the gentle caress over the syllables—Ah-moon-et.
The scratching noise in my head returned at full volume.
Jasim’s eyes shone in that way they always did after a roll in the sheets, with too much emotion, with too many unsaid words. “You know you can talk to me.”
Sometimes it was truly a pain in the ass that he knew me as well as he did. “I am talking to you. I just told you that we should—”
“Your father is dead.” My eyes snapped up to his face.
Jasim’s years of training with the Khada Guard had chiseled him into a man who looked far older than his twenty-one years.
The thick beard framing his jaw certainly added to the illusion, as did his size.
He’d ditched his white uniform and instead managed to procure a threadbare tunic—possibly from the innkeeper himself—which was entirely too snug around Jasim’s strong frame.
Not abnormally bulky like the Kaldfolk, but properly muscular from days upon days of rigorous training.
But more than all of that, it was that gods-damn knowing look in his chocolate-brown eyes. A look filled with decades’ worth of wisdom that shouldn’t belong to a man so young. A look that said he saw me, understood me, and cared anyway.
A lie. No one ever saw me.
He said, “It is all right to be sad.”
“Well, thank you so very much for the permission.”
“Amunet,” he said again, voice unfathomably gentle, not at all fazed by the bite in mine. The scratching grew louder. My molars threatened to shatter. “I know your relationship was… complicated. But he was your father. Of course you would—”
“He was not my father.” My voice was a lash between us.
“The king and I shared no blood. I do not feel sad that he is dead—in fact, I wish I had been there to witness the event myself.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
A lifetime of bitterness for a man who had loved me once and then abruptly decided to stop.
Jasim’s shoulders lowered, as if he heard the hurt behind my violence. That infuriating tender look. The walls started to push in around me, the scratching so demanding that I wanted to slap my hands over my ears. My control was slipping.
“Amunet—”
I smacked him across the face, the sharp crack seeming to echo around the room as his head snapped to the left.
The racket in my brain quieted. Just enough to let me think.
The tension bled out of me, replaced by an ice so cold, I half expected my breath to fog in front of me. “A few nights in my bed seem to have clouded your judgment, soldier,” I said with deadly calm. “Allow me to rectify that. I am your queen. Not your lover and certainly not your friend.”
Slowly, he turned back to me, brows low. His cheek glowed red even in the dim candlelight, a rosy counterpart to the purple bruise along his other cheek.
But I wasn’t finished. “You will only address me as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘my queen.’ To do otherwise is an insult to the crown and the gods. You accompany me not because of our romantic entanglement but because you are the only guard here.”
He huffed a humorless laugh and dully repeated, “Romantic entanglement.”
“Watch yourself, Jasim.”
He gazed down at me, face now devoid of all emotion. He gave one curt nod. “Apologies, Your Majesty. It will not happen again.”
“Good.” That feeling in my chest splintered wider. I ignored it. “To the Temple of Shaya, then.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He pushed his shoulders back and led me silently through the inn to the back door, where a pair of camels idled. Jasim helped me onto mine, fingers stiff around my waist, before swinging up into his saddle.
King Zaid had used violence his entire reign.
To conquer, to hold on to his power, sometimes simply for the fun of it.
Besides my own beatings, I’d also witnessed him strike advisors, emissaries, anyone who stepped even a single toe out of line.
As queen and Gods-Chosen, it would be natural for me to strike those who disobeyed or disrespected me as well.
The Gods-Chosen was where Jasim’s devotion rested, anyway.
The same was true for my maids and the palace nobles and everyone who looked at me with love instead of disdain.
Those who didn’t fear or hate me loved only the divine figure they saw.
Not me. And yet they were surprised when I acted as one.
Hypocrites and liars, the whole lot of them.
But knowing that didn’t lessen the burn of guilt that tried to rise. I pushed it down, down, down. The Gods-Chosen didn’t feel guilt; she didn’t need it.
“May I have permission to speak, my queen?”
I fought a wince at the overly proper words. “Yes.”
“The Temple of Shaya is technically considered part of the Wastelands. Perhaps it would be safer to travel to Wethai. That far south, there will be no chance of the Kaldfolk finding you. Sacrifices to Shaya can be made there.” He kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the horizon.
He wasn’t entirely wrong. It was why I had not personally been to my father’s temple before. Too dangerous, the king always claimed. Given that his venture into the Wastelands had been a heaping shit show, I hadn’t entirely disregarded that bit of advice.
But Shaya had not saved me tonight. He always saved me.
From assassination attempts, from bullies during my training with the Khada Guard, from choking on an olive pit or tripping over a stair.
I was his beloved daughter. I burned countless candles for him, prayed to him multiple times a day.
More than once, I’d developed bruises on my knees from how long I’d sat in communion with him.
There was a reason he had gone suddenly silent. I needed to find out what it was.
Maybe I had upset him somehow. Maybe he resented me for not going to his temple before he bestowed me with such power. Or maybe it was something else, but whatever the case, I’d beg forgiveness. Accept his penance. Reinforce our connection ahead of my birthday.
I could not go through the Igniting without him. Because I wanted him with me—and because I was not sure if it would physically work without him. He had to bestow the power on me. If he was not there to do it…
I needed to get to the temple.
I sighed tiredly. “Not Wethai,” I said to Jasim. “Before the Kaldfolk stormed in, Hamadi made it sound like Prince Ilias wasn’t to be trusted. But we’ll stop in Reeda to collect supplies. Prince Nasir has been a friend to the crown since my birth. He will help us.”
Not to mention I wasn’t exactly drowning in options at the moment: Prince Ilias Bata of Wethai to the south and Prince Anwar Lotfi of Haisab to the west would probably parade me naked through the streets for a good laugh—and Prince Sen Almassi of the Dry Lands would kill me on the spot.
They were of the persuasion that Shaya’s daughter was more spawn of evil than savior.
But Nasir. He was loyal. Or as loyal as a jinni-descended prince could be.
Plus, he was on the way.
“And if word of the king’s passing arrives before we do?” Jasim asked.
Well, then we’d be walking straight into a trap. There would be no friends of the crown if they could don the crown themselves.
“Let us pray that doesn’t happen,” I responded before digging my heels into the camel’s sides and lurching us into movement.