PROLOGUE
THE CHILD WAS BORN INTOsilence.
Initially, the midwife believed her to be stillborn. No cry cracked the gold-tinged dusk, no almighty declaration of arrival. Dense lashes fanned her round cheeks, which appeared to have been sapped of all color and warmth. Yet there was a subtle stirring, the weak flutter of a pulse. Alive, but only just.
The child required immediate healing. But her mother, sickly and frail following that long, laborious birth, lifted a trembling hand and gestured for the midwife to approach. The child was passed into her mother’s arms.So slight, my daughter.It would be the queen’s last thought, for she took one final breath and was still.
When the king learned of his wife’s passing, he screamed, and tore the window drapes from their rods, and pleaded with the highest deities, and wept. The child was rushed to the palace physician who, despite his best efforts, failed to stabilize the flagging newborn. The blue tinge to her skin, the sporadic hitch of her chest—she would not survive the night.
The king was powerless. He did not understand why misfortune had befallen him, of all people. Was it fate? Retribution? Why should his child enter this world, only to be snatched from him on the heels of her mother?
And so, he went to Mount Syr, the holy site that stood watch over Ammara’s blistering sands. Upon summiting the bare, rocky peak, hefell to his knees before the dais, atop which rested an empty throne. It was there the king called upon the Lord of the Mountain, the mightiest of those primordial gods.
When a cloaked man materialized before him, the king prostrated himself. The Lord of the Mountain was as vast as he was broad, his face shielded by the cowl of his cloak. In the hours that followed, the king bargained for his daughter’s life. Wealth, power, even the realm itself—the king offered all that he was worth. But the Lord of the Mountain was merciful. He agreed to save the child’s life—for a price. In a rush of desperation, the king accepted the deal without question. And thus, the trap was set.
Later, after the bargain had been struck, the king entered his children’s bedroom. His sons slept soundly, unaware of their mother’s passing. He kissed their brows, then approached the crib where his newborn daughter lay. She was awake. Color had returned to brighten her brown cheeks. Her small mouth pursed as she gazed up at him with wide, dark eyes.
Believing himself to be alone, the king began to weep. He failed to notice a shade of a figure hovering over the crib alongside him. Nor did he witness the phantom’s shadowy hand press onto his daughter’s brow.
Sleep, crooned the voice.
Sleep, my beauty.
PART1THE BUD
1
FORTY-SEVEN DAYS.
My stomach cramps at the sight, yet I carefully mark anxthrough the number, one of dozens recorded in the pages of my journal. Tomorrow, day forty-six will follow, then forty-five, forty-four. I wonder if I might not end it now, in the small study attached to my bedchamber. Topple the candle wavering atop my desk. Surrender to the smoke. Defeat the curse before it defeats me.
A bell clangs. Its echo leaps from the shining rooftops of the city’s prosperous upper ring to the stately, wind-eroded pillars of the Queen’s Road. I smooth the wrinkles from my dress with a trembling hand, for the time has come sooner than I wished.
Pushing to my feet, I move to the window. An enemy approaches Ishmah’s border. From my vantage point overlooking the Red City, I observe the line of soldiers snaking across the raw, sunburned earth. Sunlight glints against a thousand hammered shields.
The gates will open at Prince Balior’s arrival. There will be a feast held in his honor. The streets will swell with citizens, oleander blooms plucked from the public gardens and tossed onto the cracked, dusty roads. For this enemy is welcome.
My palm lifts, pressing flat against the windowpane. For twenty-four years of my life, my left hand has lacked the opal rune that would identify me as a married woman. But my twenty-fifth namedayapproaches. If I am to do my part in securing my people’s survival, then I will wed this prince, whom I know nothing of.
We must all make sacrifices.
Returning to my desk, I spot the journal lying open, rows of numbers etched in blackest ink. A rush of despair consumes me, wholly and completely. Forty-seven days seems like an age, but chill mornings will bleed into stifling afternoons. Time, unable to alter or slow.
I hurry toward my wardrobe, hauling open the doors to reveal a collection of brown, gray, and black dresses. Utterly lackluster, painfully drab. I brush them aside to reveal a smaller collection of jewel-colored gowns. I am Princess Sarai Al-Khatib of Ammara, yet I am not even allowed a bit of color or sparkle. Father’s word is law.
Reluctantly, I tug two colorless dresses from the wardrobe, accidentally knocking my violin case from where it had been shoved in the back corner. It topples onto the rug with a muffled thump.
I wince, kneeling to pull the leather case onto my lap. Fahim would scold me for my carelessness. But Fahim is not here.
My throat tightens, and after returning my instrument to its place in the back of the wardrobe, I hold up both dresses in the mirror. Linen of dull brown, which blends into the mahogany of my skin, or ivory, which promises purity? My mouth curls bitterly. Brown, most definitely.
Gathering my heavy locks of ebony hair, I weave a ribbon through the plait that begins at the crown of my head. With a steady hand, I apply kohl to the corners of my dark eyes. A threadbare cloak drapes my shoulders, sandals strapped across my oiled feet.
After a slow, calming exhalation, I head for the door, murmuring, “Duty to one’s kingdom is duty to one’s heart.” I must, of course, fulfill my duty in greeting Prince Balior. But not now. Not yet.
I cannot escape the palace quickly enough.
The immense edifice engulfs a hill amidst the stately homes of the upper ring. Despite Ishmah’s moniker—the Red City—its palace walls are alabaster pale: glossy marble, weathered limestone. They curve into hollowed ceilings and deep, romantic archways, everything exquisitely tiled in mosaics.
