With a curt nod, I cross the dining room, disregarding the menstationed 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.
