Somehow, I manage to plaster a close-lipped smile across my mouth. “And what, exactly, are we celebrating?”That dress makes you look like an old goat.
Dalia bats her eyelashes. “Why, your forthcoming betrothal to Prince Balior, of course.”You don’t deserve him, hag.
My smile wanes. That information has not been publicly announced. Then again, countless cooks, attendants, handmaidens, and stableboys are employed by members of the court to snoop and pry, including Dalia’s family, one of the oldest and wealthiest in Ammara.
“Although, I’m not sure ifcelebrationis the right word,” the woman goes on, easing off the pillar, arm outswept in an absurd display of dramatics. Her followers gaze on, captivatied. “King Halim must be truly desperate for a match if he is selling you off to the enemy.”
My eyes narrow in warning. “That’s not—”
“But who can blame the man?” she cuts in smoothly. “It’s not like you’re getting any younger. A princess in her mid-twenties with zero prospects? Well,” shetsks. “That is a shame.”
A furious blush flames red across my cheeks. What is worse? This poison she spews, or the fact that I cannot deny its verity? In my younger years, I was too busy studying music to make a strategic match.
“I myself had my pick of eligible noblemen.” She glances at her nails. Rich, glossy pink. “My husband is lucky to call himself mine.”
Lucky. That’s not exactly the word I’d use. “Didn’t I hear your husband married you to help pay his father’s gambling debts?”
Our audience titters behind their hands. Dalia grows so red I am convinced she will succumb to fever.
“I’ll have you know that I was tutored alongside one of Prince Balior’s cousins as a child,” she seethes. “So I would take care with your words.”
I offer a wide, toothy grin. “You should have kept in touch.”
The noblewomen’s gasps trail me as I stride purposefully toward the throne room. Two expansive doors painted the pale blue of the midmorning sky open with a groan. It is vast, this chamber—the great belly of the palace. Guards ornament the walls. Archers, unseen but for the points of their nocked arrows, command the second level. Gleaming marble tiles toss light from the high windows onto the mosaiced ceiling.
A long, woven rug connects the entrance to the dais in the back of the room. King Halim occupies the most impressive seat: a deeply cushioned chair that drips with jewels. To his right sits an equally impressive yet slightly smaller throne. It has been vacant since my mother’s passing nearly twenty-five years before. To his left, three additional thrones: mine, Amir’s, Fahim’s.
Upon reaching the dais, I kneel. “Father.”
“You’re late.”
The drop in my stomach is a feeling I know well. Lifting my head, I glance around. The chamber is empty. “Our guests have yet to arrive.”
He stiffens. “Excuse me?” His voice is low, dangerously so.
“So long as I am seated before they are,” I say, “why should it matter that I am a few moments behind schedule?”
“It matters becauseIknow that you are tardy. I have spoken to you about this before.”
I regard Father coolly. King Halim was once an impressive man. The breadth and solidity of his shoulders, arms, and back. The curve of his proud belly. He stood taller than most men, black beard shining and full.
But the man who surveys me now is but a shade of my father. His musculature has wasted with disease. He looks frail beneath the folds of his ivory robe. The skin around his jowls hangs loose with age.
“And what of Amir?” I press. “You and I both know he struggles with timeliness.”
The king is not amused. “Amir is not tardytoday. He is on his honeymoon, as you well know. Do you expect your brother to be in two places at once?” He does not allow me the opportunity to respond before he adds, “Tardiness is unacceptable for someone of your station. See to it that it doesn’t happen again.”
I bite into the soft flesh of my inner cheek. Too easily, my tongue sharpens, its barbs threatening to spew forth. I remind myself of what’s at stake: my kingdom, my life. “Duly noted,” I clip out.
Father grunts in acknowledgment as I rise, taking my place on the smallest throne. Only when I am settled do the doors open once more.
“Announcing Prince Balior of Um Salim to His Majesty, King Halim Al-Khatib of Ammara.”
A man, tall and well-built, strides through the doors. Twelve men dressed in loose, ebon robes flank him, scimitars hanging from their belt loops—his personal guard, I assume.
The prince is young, not yet thirty. Handsome, though even the most pleasing countenance may obscure a rot beneath. Black hair curls over his ears, and color reddens his sharp cheekbones from the sweltering heat. A fairer complexion than I am used to, though if he were to spend considerable time outdoors, his skin would likely turn as brown as mine.
For many years, the realms of Ammara and Um Salim were at war. And who could blame the larger realm for attempting to invade? Ammara is rich with wealth, particularly its capital, Ishmah, though the people of Um Salim do not know just how much this prosperity has waned. Twenty-five years of drought, for which I am to blame. And there is the threat of the encroaching darkwalkers to consider, too.
