19. Drowning in Silk and Self Loathing #2
I blinked. That was… unexpectedly beautiful. And deeply romantic for a king who sentenced people to death by fire.
Scanning the crowd, I found Mali standing beside King Faisal on the steps on the opposite side of the sundial. They had their eyes closed as they chanted, faces turned toward the rising sun. The king had his hand resting on her lower back with an intimacy that spoke of genuine affection.
His queen.
Not a mere consort or his favorite concubine. My queen under the sun. The distinction felt important, though I wasn't sure why.
As night softened into day beneath creamy early-morning clouds, their arms rose in praise toward what I could only assume was the rise of the phoenix. I lifted mine too. But less out of devotion and more out of self-preservation. When in Solis, great the sun like a Solisian. Or something like that.
The sundial cast its first shadow of the day as the sun cleared the horizon.
Their chanting reached a zealous crescendo, swelling, before cutting off all at once.
The crowd paused for a beat in reverent silence and then finally dispersed, moving toward their daily duties, content in witnessing their god’s faithful return.
I stood by the sundial, reading King Faisal’s words again and again, trying to reconcile that man with the one who would burn Griffon alive.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
I turned to find the older woman I had observed during the meal last night.
Salma had told me she was Zara, King Asad’s former queen consort.
Her ebony hair, dusted with fine strands of silver, was tied back in a loose knot at the base of her neck, revealing a face worn by years that had not been kind.
Her kaftan and robe looked black at first glance, but shifted under the morning sun into an ink-deep aubergine.
“The sundial?”
The woman gave me a small smile, but her steel-gray eyes remained in shadow. “Our king had it commissioned for his love when he first claimed the throne.”
“It’s utterly stunning,” I admitted, because it was.
“He has always had a tender heart,” Zara continued softly, her gaze lingering on the engraved words. Her skin was etched with fine lines that spoke more of sorrow than of time. “Despite everything he must do as king, he finds ways to remind her she is loved.”
Despite everything he must do as king. Like ruling a kingdom that believes darkness harbors evil. Like upholding harsh laws against foreigners. And like seeking justice for regicide.
I ran the tip of my finger along the scrolling letters, feeling the grooves worn smooth by five years of weather and touch.
As it finds truth between the light and shadow…
The sundial can’t function, couldn’t tell time without both light and shadow. And neither could a king rule. Was that what King Faisal was doing? Finding truth between light and shadows? Making hard but necessary decisions?
He saw Griffon’s execution not as cruelty, but as justice. As truth.
I looked up to find Zara gone, and only Laith looming less than a meter away. My gaze found the stairs where the king had stood only minutes before. Executing Griffon wasn’t right. But maybe King Faisal was more complicated than the simple villain I wanted him to be.
That evening, I found Salma sitting in a corner alcove in the Seraglio with an easel in front of her.
Perched on it was a partially finished illustration of a man in billowing robes playing a long-necked stringed instrument.
He sat poised with a bow over the bowl-shaped resonator propped on his knee.
The rendering depicted a vibrant, mosaic-filled room in pigments of cinnabar, saffron, and lapis lazuli, but the man’s robes were unfinished, and no more than charcoal lines.
“Barbad graced us with his presence during last moon cycle’s festival. He played the kamancheh with such grace—it was a feast for the ears! If only I could convey the way he swayed so fluidly in time with the melody of the music.”
“Salma, it’s beautiful.”
With careful strokes, she applied the pigment to the papyrus.
The ink flowed from the pen’s surface, leaving vivid marks between the charcoal lines.
“I have had a lot of practice,” she laughed.
“For the last five sun cycles, I have illustrated the historical codices. I’m hoping one day to be chosen to contribute to the Everlight manuscripts.
Our religious texts are filled with the fire of Helios and burning phoenix feathers.
I have been working to improve my variations in blending crimson and ochre to portray the living flames.
” She shook her head. “It is a skill I struggle with.”
I’ve met many highly intelligent people at the Citadel who have expanded our understanding of the universe and pushed the very boundaries of knowledge, but I’d never experienced this type of creativity.
As each stroke of her pen danced across the porous surface, the colors brought the papyrus to life.
A small, bemused smile pulled at my face. “You don’t seem to be struggling to me. I can scarcely imagine creating such stunning work.” Especially when my artistic skills peaked at stick figures.
“Oh, little bird,” she admonished, “like everyone else, you will eventually find your place here. It is written that idleness breeds stagnation. We believe that without purpose, even the strongest of realms will falter. Everyone has some sort of talent, can learn a skill, or just help where needed. No contribution is too small.”
“Take Mali.” She continued, “Regardless of her station, her cunning and strategic thinking make her a powerful figure in the political dealings of the royal court. Zahra,” she pointed to a group of women on the other side of the room, “is amazingly patient with the children, and Simin’s attention to every detail makes her one of our most sought-after weavers. ”
That reminded me. “Speaking of weavings, what’s the story with that gray tapestry with the circle in the Great Hall? It seems a bit out of place.” Which was putting it mildly. It was like hanging a funeral shroud at a wedding.
Salma’s eyes darted around in alarm. She leaned toward me and warned in a hushed voice, “We do not speak of that.”
My eyes widened in surprise at her admonishing tone. “Why?” I whispered back.
Her eyes swept the room again to be sure no one was listening. “That is the symbol of our greatest sorrow. It has hung there for sixty-five years to remind us of our failures.”
“What—“ I started, but she cut me off.
“That is enough. No more talk of that.”
In all our conversations, Salma had never been reluctant to talk about anything. Until now.
I leaned back against the cushions as my gaze found the lattice screen set into the arched window beside us. Through its geometric openings, the night sky revealed itself in fragments. Tiny pockets of darkness stitched together with stars.
“Ah!” she exclaimed suddenly, the sound snapping my attention back to her. “There is news of a surprise from the King at dusk during this moon cycle’s Festival of Light.” She delivered it with the unmistakable air of someone wielding a conversational escape hatch.
I cringed. The word surprise never felt so aggressive. The unveiling, after all, was a state-sanctioned murder. So festive. They’d probably serve refreshments.
“You will enjoy the festival. There is feasting, music and dancing! It will be a wonderful day. You’ll see,” Salma insisted, her eyes bright.
“What’s this festival even for?” I was having a hard time joining in Salma’s enthusiasm. Probably because my definition of “wonderful” rarely included public executions.
“Every moon cycle, we fast to prepare ourselves for the Night of Darkness, when Lux is gone and we face the dark alone. And then, the next day,” she continued with a smile, “we celebrate the Festival of Light when Helios rises again.”
The new moon was in three days—that must be what they call the Night of Darkness. “You mean Lux is the moon?”
“Yes, he is the spirit sent by Helios every night to protect us until he rises again at dawn. The festival is to celebrate our victory over the one night that the great Lux is not there to chase away the evils of the darkness for us.”
And celebrate the death of my friend. I wanted to crawl into a hole and never return.