Chapter 5
5
“A NNOUNCING P RINCESS S ARAI A L -K HATIB .”
The double doors to the dining room open simultaneously, revealing a long table laden with silverware, which sparks stars in the low candlelight. King Halim and Prince Balior have already arrived, the latter rising to his feet upon my entrance. The prince has donned a pale gray robe intricately threaded at the collar, and a matching headscarf. Father dictated that I wear red: the national color of Um Salim. Thus, I am draped in cloth of rich scarlet, heavy as clotted blood.
“Princess Sarai.” The prince bows low, a lock of mahogany hair falling across his brow.
I dip my chin in greeting. “Prince Balior.”
Father’s disapproving glare cuts toward me. Do not disappoint me, it warns. Inwardly, I sigh. “Thank you for joining us this evening,” I manage to say. “I hope the food will be to your liking.”
“I’m certain it will be.” Catching my eye, he smiles tentatively. “Though I admit I’m more eager for the company than the meal.”
My smile sours before it has the chance to form. “Then I hope I will not disappoint.” Despite my attempt at pleasantries, my irksome encounter with Notus this morning has refused to loosen its grip on me. Even now, my blood continues its prolonged simmer.
With a curt nod, I cross the dining room, disregarding the men stationed along the room’s perimeter. The bell tower tolls the seventh hour as I settle into the cushioned chair. Right on time, as promised.
King Halim, who sits at the head of the table, appears sunken in the low light. His violet robe hangs like bands of old skin from his arms. The sight pains me. Though having not yet reached his seventieth year, the king has failed to fully recover from a recent illness. For months, he was bedridden, liquid flooding his lungs. Despite the royal physician’s remedies, his strength has continued to erode. I notice the effort this attendance costs him, and I worry he may overtax himself.
But Father would only dismiss my concerns if I voiced them, especially in front of the prince. So I brush my unease aside and focus on the matter at hand as the attendants begin serving our meal. Prince Balior. Thirty-two years of age. The eldest of King Oman’s sons. And, if negotiations are favorable, soon to be my betrothed.
There was a time when I fought against fate. But it is a sacrifice I must make. Ammara will benefit from Um Salim’s vast army, its rich, fertile grounds. Once I am gone, it is my hope that I will have made a deep-enough connection with Prince Balior that he will do everything in his power to protect my realm and its people.
King Halim begins to cut into his spiced lamb. “I hear you are an accomplished horseman, Prince Balior.”
Our guest appears wryly amused. Shy, even. “I would not go so far so as to call myself accomplished, though I have ridden since boyhood. Father and I would often venture into the mountains for days at a time. They are among my most cherished memories.”
Well. At least the prince is humble.
“Perhaps you are unaware, Prince Balior, but Ishmah boasts some of the fastest horses on this side of the desert.” Father slides a sliver of meat between his teeth. “I guarantee you will find no swifter mount.”
And just like that, he has commanded the prince’s attention. “Do you breed them?”
“We do.” King Halim is too proud a man. “The herd is small, yet healthy.”
Prince Balior dishes a spoonful of date-studded rice into his mouth. The motion draws my eye, and I watch the darting of his pink tongue. When his gaze catches mine, I immediately look elsewhere, fearing I have overstepped.
After a moment, he clears his throat. “I would be interested in seeing the herd. I’ve a stable at Um Salim. Perhaps, once negotiations are over, we could discuss crossbreeding our species.”
“Crossbreeding?” King Halim sounds appalled. “Absolutely not. The bloodlines must remain pure.”
One of the attendants refills the prince’s wine before returning to his station along the wall. “Pardon my ignorance, Your Majesty.” It is a solace, his voice, the sedate response of one who seeks to cool that which has begun to spark and burn. “I only thought we might both benefit from the transaction. The strength of my horses paired with the swiftness of yours. Could you imagine such a creature?”
It is compelling, his vision. What is the harm, truly? Then again, Father loathes change.
“Perhaps,” the king concedes.
“What about you, Princess Sarai?” Prince Balior turns his curious gaze onto me. “What do you think of this enterprise?”
The unexpected shift in attention takes me aback. I haven’t the time to spin my words, soften them into something more palatable. “Seeing as I know little of horse breeding, I’m probably not the best person to ask.”
The prince appears even more intrigued. “But you are familiar with horses, no?”
I do not glance at King Halim, though I certainly feel his gaze on my face, likely warning me to mind my tongue. “I am, yes. My mother was fond of them, or so I was told.” Even after all this time, the reminder stings. “She would know better than I.”
Prince Balior suddenly stiffens, having realized his misstep.
“I apologize.” He looks to King Halim, whose expression possesses a smooth blankness of which nothing can penetrate. “It was not my intention to stir up painful memories, Your Majesty. Forgive me for my blunder.”
No one is more surprised than I when the king gifts it. The exception is likely circumstantial.
As a child, I often prodded Father for information about my mother. The color of her hair, the scent of her skin. What sounds she loved most in the world. But he refused to offer me the smallest crumb. According to Amir, her death destroyed him, for he loved her as the sun loves the earth. My heart breaks at the thought.
As I spear a glazed carrot, I catch sight of a shadowed figure out of the corner of my eye. My mind blanks. I’m not sure how I could have possibly overlooked the South Wind’s presence. I know his shape like no other.
Dressed in indigo robes and an ochre headscarf, he stands motionless against the wall. The small copper pin adorning his chest signifies his position in the Royal Guard. When his dark eyes meet mine, my chest hollows out.
“… and an accomplished violinist.”
Wrenching my gaze from Notus, I glance at Father in surprise. He regards me expectantly, eyebrows raised.
“Do you still play?” Prince Balior studies me over the rim of his wineglass.
It is an effort to hone my focus on the conversation, rather than the god swathed in indigo. Accomplished violinist . Father truly uttered those words. I have graced Ammara’s most esteemed concert halls, toured with the realm’s preeminent orchestras. Yet I have never heard Father express pride in my achievements.
With surprising serenity, I reply to Prince Balior, “Not in many years.”
“That is a shame.” He takes another sip. Red droplets sheen his mouth. “May I ask why you stopped?”
My chest pulls taut, like a network of strings. The prince cannot know the burden this question carries. No one ever explained to me that when a loved one passed, pieces of you died with them.
“I suppose I lost interest,” I murmur.
Prince Balior continues to regard me inquisitively. His interest draws up my guard. I smile blandly in response.
“I confess that I knew of your musical triumphs long before our introduction,” he continues. “My mother once acquired tickets to one of your concerts. You were scheduled to perform the Jerashi Violin Concerto with our National Symphony Orchestra.”
At the time, I was performing five nights a week. Ibramin encouraged me to explore opportunities beyond Ammara’s borders, including competitions. She was born for this , he’d told Father. You cannot keep her small .
Unfortunately, talk with Um Salim soured due to political differences. King Halim was too stubborn a man to set aside his opinions for the sake of my career. He could not have known how heartbroken I’d been to learn the opportunity had been dashed. I cried myself to sleep every night for a month.
“Tensions were high between our realms at the time,” I explain. “Father believed it best that the tour be contained to Ammara.”
Prince Balior coughs uncomfortably, then sips his wine. I down the remainder of my drink, my skin prickling under the South Wind’s scrutiny. King Halim ogles me as though I have gone mad.
“You will have to forgive my daughter,” Father eventually grits out. “She has… quite the imagination.”
My lips curve bitterly. “I was simply explaining to Prince Balior the reason I was unable to perform.”
“That’s enough, Sarai. When your opinion is requested, I will call on you. Kindly return to your meal before you spoil the rest of the evening.”
I hold the king’s enraged gaze. He is pale—too pale. Sweat dots his brow and upper lip, and I am reminded of his deteriorating health. I swallow my shame, for I did not mean to cause him additional stress. My hands tremble as I slice into my lamb. The knife shreds the meat’s soft pink center.
A wave of hot air brushes my nape, almost like a caress. My head swings toward Notus. He clasps the hilt of his scimitar in one white-knuckled hand. For once, he is not looking at me, but at Father. The chill of his expression makes my hair stand on end.
As one of the servers piles another scoop of rice onto my plate, I consider the best means of escape. I could feign illness: a sudden fever, perhaps, or wooziness. But I fear the consequences of an early departure. Though I hold no love for this prince, I understand the importance of our union.
Discussion veers toward current events. Prince Balior is aware of our drought, though he does not realize it is the work of dark forces rather than nature running its course. Apparently, Um Salim does not have darkwalkers to contend with, though the prince has heard of them. Both men discourse on how best to distribute resources and aid Ammara’s struggling farms.
Eventually, conversation turns to our courting. King Halim dictates how our time will be spent. Breakfast in the mornings. A ball in three weeks’ time. Trips to the public gardens and aviary, so that Ishmah’s citizens will grow used to Prince Balior’s presence.
Lifting my glass, I quickly sip my wine before I do something rash, like toss the liquid into Father’s face. Unsurprisingly, he does not ask my opinion on the matter.
“And how many children do you desire, Princess Sarai?” the prince inquires.
My throat spasms around the liquid, and I choke, spewing wine across the table. Ruby droplets stain the white tablecloth.
A babe in my belly. A child yanking on the hem of my dress. The heaviest stone around my neck. How many children do I desire?
None.
I have always known this. Whatever maternal instincts the noblewomen at court claimed would surface, I never experienced them. Perhaps, if my mother were alive, or if I had not developed in the shadow of my early demise, I would think differently. But I know the grief of growing up without a mother, and I would not wish that pain on any child of mine.
“You must produce a male heir, of course.” Father’s iron tone, edged in denial. He is hopeful Prince Balior will find a way to break the curse. I am not so sure. “You will make that a priority once wed.”
I swallow down my protest. Nothing can break me. “My will is Ammara’s will.”
A small sound draws my attention to the South Wind, who continues to stare at me without attempting to hide it. I’m almost certain it was a scoff. As if he knows anything about the trials I face.
“Prince Balior.” I offer our guest my warmest smile. “Since you are so fond of horses, would you care to accompany me on a ride tomorrow? The weather should be ideal.” Granted, the stretch of desert separating Ishmah from Kir Bashab—Ammara’s largest oasis—will be brutal, but once beneath the cover of dense forest, the temperature will be downright pleasant.
Prince Balior grins in return. What pleasing features he has. Had I not been so distracted by the South Wind’s unwanted presence, I may have noticed sooner. “I would be honored, Princess Sarai.”
At this, my smile widens, a bit too brittle, a bit too bright. “No need for formalities.” I look to the South Wind as I say, “Just ‘Sarai’ will do.”