Chapter 4 #2
I didn’t know what to say, but I thought about those words all day as we soared over the silver and gold stone buildings of Morysen, flitting from cloud to open sky.
Mihrunnisa called advice on a wind scented of olive trees, rich irises the exact shade of the Saber family, and roses as red as the sunset.
It took me an hour to realise it wasn’t casual flying advice, wasn’t even a gift of her friendship; as we flew, catching swells of wind, soaring past other riders and their mounts, Mihrunnisa instructed me how to fly.
As if she and Kamaal had discussed the skills I would need to survive this city, to survive the family I’d married into, and decided the brother would teach me to fight while she made me a better rider.
I didn’t mention it, and she didn’t acknowledge the way I sat a little straighter on Raheema’s back, leaning with her when she turned and swooped and dove, the movements becoming more natural as the princess led us on the same flight path three times, drilling it over and over.
It would take hours to become as proficient as even a child, but the progress was clear, and obvious.
Raheema’s joy mingled with my pride after a while, and I had to physically rein her in, keep her from zipping over the parks and broad avenues and towers of Morysen, roaring her happiness.
When Mihrunnisa was satisfied, she brought Layla down in a slow arc. She made sure I had a clear view of how she landed in the violet square, a much larger version of the wolf mosaic we passed in the palace like a beacon calling us down from the sky.
“Slowly,” I warned Raheema as we copied the angle and wing beats, taking a wide arc around the square, getting lower and lower with every pass.
The princess’s quiet smile as she stood beside Layla and watched us touch the ground with only a shallow bump felt like loud praise.
And luckily, I was better at dismounting than mounting, even if I gathered so much speed that my ankles barked complaints, and my feet stung.
Even if I fiercely missed my husband's hands catching my waist to stabilise me.
Mihrunnisa linked our elbows when I found my footing, her gold eyes aglow. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” I admitted, surprised she couldn’t hear my stomach rumbling. I gave the young handler who rushed over to guard our wyverns a warning look. If anything happens to Raheema, I’ll let her eat you.
Raheema made a low sound. Too thin. Too much gristle.
“Perfect,” the princess said, towing me towards the square’s vast wooden gates. “I know just the place.”
In fact, Mihrunnisa knew several places.
First, there was a little bakery where we ate shebakia and johwara at a small table outside, gorging ourselves on the pastries.
Then we washed them down with a cup of qahwa sweetened with honey, cinnamon, and milk, a delicacy only found in a beautifully tiled qahwa house endorsed by the royal family (they had a painting of Mihrunnisa on the wall inside, holding a cup of steamy qahwa.)
Then came a bowl of beboush from the food market on the other side of the square, followed by fruits from the best vendor in Ithanys. By the time we reached the broad, shop-lined avenue I was so full I could barely walk, but Mihrunnisa was far from done.
With her elbow linked with mine and pure glee on her face, she towed me into the medina that had won awards for its intricate ceramics, where we purchased an enamelled jewellery box, and then to the jeweller that made the finest gold and enamelled pieces to fill said box.
After that, I was strongarmed into a souk that specialised in textiles, where bolts of glittering satin and beaded cotton sat alongside gleaming hides of leather, and where a warren of golden stone cubbies each housed a seamstress toiling over custom garments, with elaborate beadwork and embroidery so intricate it made my own fingers ache to watch them.
Then, as the soles of my feet pleaded for mercy, came a bookshop with towers of leather-bound tomes lined up outside the narrow, leaning building, and an interior that smelled so divine I had to pause inside the doorway and fill my lungs with a deep breath.
There was hardly any room for customers among the looming, double-stacked shelves of mystery, murder, and adventure books, but we squeezed through where we could.
No romance books, unfortunately, but Mihrunnisa sneakily bought a gold-foiled journal I’d admired.
She handed it to me on our way back to our wyverns, looking mightily proud of herself.
I planned to write a series of scathing letters to my husband in its pages. That thought kept my mood high as we wandered back through the golden streets, but my steps faltered at the poster that had been pasted to the cracked door of a disused pottery.
There was a sketched drawing of a hooded man with a square jaw.
He looked nothing like my husband but that didn’t stop my blood running cold at the bold words.
Anyone associated with the lightning soul will be put to the most gruesome death.
Save your community by reporting any suspicious behaviour to the church.
Mihrunnisa let out a heavy sigh beside me, frowning as she struggled under the weight of bags and boxes. And this wasn’t even half of what she’d ordered—the rest would be delivered to the palace throughout the next week.
“It’s getting worse,” she said quietly, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what will happen if there’s a sighting in Morysen.”
Neither did I. It didn’t matter, I supposed, whether the true lightning soul was spotted here or whether it was all hearsay and lies.
It only took a rumour to cause chaos. Which made Varidian a fool for sending me away.
Danger would catch up to me everywhere. I would be writing that in my new journal.
“Let’s get back,” Mihrunnisa said, leading the way back to the square. In the skies, she took the time to correct any mistakes I made and any boisterous behaviour Raheema displayed.
It was only when we landed in the aviary yard beside the palace, our wyverns ladened with trinkets and luxuries and sweets, that I realised they were our excuse for spending so much time away from the palace. A cover up for the flying lesson.
But I couldn’t fathom why we’d need to hide it.