I turn my attention toward Ibramin, who sits on the other side of the large, woven rug gracing the floor. It hurts to meet his wizened eyes. To see how far I have fallen. The King Idris Violin Competition was mine to claim. And I failed. Could not drag myself out of bed. Could not motivate or encourage or inspire. I never showed.
“Can I ask you something, sir?”
Ibramin studies me in concern. I wish he wouldn’t. I do not deserve it. “Anything,” he says.
For the last three months, I have been unable to place the violin at my shoulder and draw my bow across the strings. First, Notus’desertion. Then, my brother’s life cut short. If I had paid more attention, could Fahim’s death have been prevented? Could I have eased whatever burden he carried?
“You mentioned that you once stopped playing,” I say hoarsely. “Why was that?”
Ibramin glances down at the violin in his lap. A most generous donation from Ammara’s Council of Arts. The instrument itself is nearly two hundred years old. “My wife and I married young, before I gained recognition throughout the realm. We were happy, then.” A long, weary sigh, drawing forth a memory having grown brittle with age. “As the years passed, however, and my popularity grew, I spent less time at home. My rigorous touring schedule would not allow it. By the time I was twenty-four, I was gone for most of the year. It was then that I saw my wife for what would be the last time.”
Silence trickles out. I swallow once, twice, before I’m able to speak without my voice cracking. “She passed?”
He plucks the E string. Its pitch fades, enfolded in a breeze unfurled. “She left, having decided our marriage wasn’t worth the effort.Iwasn’t worth the effort.”
“Oh.” My mouth pulls. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. The fault was mine.” At my confusion, he explains, “She approached me many times requesting that we spend more time together. I failed to listen.” A cloud of sadness drifts across the old man’s features. “After she was gone, I didn’t touch my violin for over two years.”
Again, I glance out the window. The distant storm has since dissipated. No clouds. Not one. “What made you pick it back up?”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t a choice, in the end. Music called to me, and I answered.” For an uncomfortably long time, Ibramin gazes at me. “One day, you will rediscover the urge to play. And your soul will know peace.”
It is a lovely sentiment, truly. But I am tired. I wish only for the forgetful veil of sleep. And so I return my violin to its case, where it will rest for the remainder of my days.
25
AMIDEAD?
The ground blazes a line of cold down my back. I blink. Darkness. It neither lifts nor lightens, this perpetual stretch of black across my vision. My rough exhalation hits the air, so cold it steams silver before dissipating. Then: more darkness.
I’d pondered this moment for many a year. I’d questioned what I might find on the other side, how I might feel. What I might say to the god who granted me but twenty-five years of life. I did not expect to feel pain: a throb up my spine, coiling tight around my neck.
In the passing moments, however, the dim begins to lift. My limbs move easily enough. I sit upright, glancing around. Bare earth. Its gray dust coats my fingers, reminiscent of ash.
No lamp, no candle, no fire to drive back the encroaching shadows. There is, however, an ambient glow, though I’m not certain where it originates from. There are walls I see now: curved, cut from pale stone, carved with symbols. The light appears to be coming from around the corner. It beams toward me, snagging my bewildered curiosity until I push to my feet and drift forward.
It’s a mirror. The same mirror I gazed into when I last spoke with the Lord of the Mountain.
A woman fills the looking glass. Her sharp, mistrustful gaze meets mine, slitted beneath swollen eyelids, cheeks tracked by the salt of driedtears. But there is more: the defeated dip of her chin, the crimp of displeasure shaping her mouth. That layer peels away, makes room for another. The determined jut of her jaw, the stretch of her spine, mistrust shedding into some cold, hard, shining heart of strength. This woman is not defeated.Iam not defeated.
I pinch my cheeks, the motion reflected back in the mirror. The sting makes me wince, and I drop my hands. I don’t look dead, nor do I feel dead. I always imagined death to be burdenless. I would not feel hunger as I do now. My finger would not smart with pain where it was pricked by the small spine of a deadly blossom. But who can really know death’s face? As far as I’m concerned, the curse was correct. On my twenty-fifth nameday, I met my demise.
The mirror’s surface wavers then. It resembles a shallow pool of water rather than reflective glass, for my reflection bleeds out, reshaping itself to reveal a vast chamber, marble floors, opulent chairs atop a raised dais: the throne room.
A large audience fills the hall. They are seated on long benches arranged in rows, a blue rug unfurling down the aisle. In the mezzanine above, archers have drawn their bows, deadly iron points catching the light. The head advisor stands at the bottom of the dais. Slightly behind him, there rests a luxurious velvet cushion, and on that cushion, the crown.
Understanding dawns. This is Amir’s coronation.
“Presenting Prince Amir Al-Khatib of Ammara.”
As the audience rises to their feet, the doors open, and there my brother stands, resplendent in emerald robes, the sleeves and collar adorned with a painstaking weave of silver thread. There is no hunch to his posture, no inkling of grief. It is the most convincing mask.
His every footfall is deliberate. Ishmah’s nobles and dignitaries and merchants and bakers—people from every walk of life—bow as he passes. Tuleen stands at the front, dressed in violet, eyes shining with love and pride as she looks upon her husband. No sign of the South Wind. I frown. Does the mirror show me what is, or what will be? Does Amir grieve me now that I am gone?
My brother kneels. The crown is lifted.
“All hail King Amir Al-Khatib of Ammara.”
