Amir gapes. If I were not so uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, I daresay I would find his expression humorous. “You weren’t hurt, were you?” He gives me a quick once-over. “How did you get away?” Every evident point, every curved bone in his face, fixes rigidly with disbelief. “I mean no offense, but you’re not exactly the most, shall we say, athletic person.”
“And you’re not the most, shall we say, tactful person, brother dear.” I offer him my sweetest smile. “I was lucky. It was dark, and they can’t change direction quickly.” And there was Notus, of course. I would be dead if not for him.
Amir demands, “Father knows about this?”
On the night of my attack, I had every intention of informing Father of the infiltration. But I was a woman with her back against the wall, her days dwindling. I feared Prince Balior’s retaliation if he knew the reason for my sudden change of heart. So I said nothing. Not that it mattered. King Halim learned from the men guarding the library what had occurred. Regardless, Notus returned to the library later thatnight to search for additional darkwalkers, after disposing of the body. He found nothing, though the head archivist nearly lost his mind when he saw the extent of the destruction.
“He is well aware, Amir.”
My brother nods. “Good. Though I will likely demand another search of the palace grounds. We can’t have those beasts threatening your intended, now can we?”
Now, I think. Now is the time to mention my suspicions, qualms.
“To tell you the truth,” I begin slowly, “I have concerns about the prince.”
Amir tugs on his beard, eyes narrowing in question. “Prince Balior is a good man. Honorable, accomplished, well-respected. Whatever gossip you have heard amongst the court, I suggest you distance yourself from it. That sort of talk will rot your brain.”
My brother means well, and I do love him. But Fahim was the only person with whom I felt safe enough to share my vulnerabilities. He knew how the palace stifled me, my longing for adventure. Yet I failed to recognize his struggles until it was too late.
But I do what I have always done. I draw my mouth into a curve. I crease my eyes with joy, mirth. Whatever strain I experience, I bury it. “You’re right,” I grant. “Gossip is not becoming of me.”
13
ABEAD OF SWEAT SLITHERS DOWNmy spine, slipping along the notched bones. This was a mistake. Who wears a long-sleeved dress in the middle of summer? I do, apparently. I fear I will melt before the stars materialize.
The ballroom doors lie open to the eastern gardens. Drooping branches and trimmed hedges offer shady reprieve beneath their foliage. Guests wander the garden paths, drinks in hand. I cannot count their number. Visiting dignitaries from neighboring realms, governors from far-flung cities along the Spice Road, aristocrats whose coin purses run deep.
Amir and I loiter near a pillar at the perimeter of the ballroom. Across the vast chamber, Father overlooks the festivities from his throne atop the dais. As afternoon cools to night, he begins to sag into the opulence of his seat.
The palace physician checks on him every so often. He offers the king a draught that is continually refused. I bite my lower lip in worry. Father should not be here in this condition. He is better off resting in his chambers.
Amir seems not to notice. He downs his drink—the second of the evening—with an air of utter woe. Meanwhile, I scan the area for a set of broad shoulders. I’ve yet to spot Notus. I do, however, spy Dalia accompanied by her small entourage. The smirk curling her luscious mouth twists my gut in apprehension.
“To think my days will be spent rubbing elbows with people I despise,” Amir moans. “No wonder Fahim avoided these events.”
I glance sidelong at my brother, Dalia momentarily forgotten. He is right and he is wrong. Fahim was always the most animated of King Halim’s children. But after Father forced him to abandon the violin, he withdrew. His studies grew more demanding. He often skipped meals. In the year leading up to his death, I no longer expected his presence at dinner. I can imagine how unbalanced his life became, forever crushed beneath our father’s impossible expectations.
Angling toward my brother, I ask, “Are you ready?” No further clarification necessary. From the crimp of Amir’s mouth, he knows of what I speak.
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m ready or not,” he says. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” As soon as the words escape his mouth, he frowns, his features tinged with a familiar bleakness. “I suppose Fahim hadn’t a choice in becoming king either.”
I recall such a look in Fahim’s eyes—an overwhelm of responsibilities. That in turn sparks panic, for I do not wish Amir to befall the same fate.
“Amir.” I grip his arm hard. He glances at me, startled. “If ever there is a time when you feel lost or like you aren’t sure who to turn to, please come to me.”
For a long while, we stare at one other, caught in the pain of memory. “I will,” he promises.
As I turn to face the gathering, a slender woman escorted by an elderly man—her father, I assume—greets my brother with a kiss on his cheek. “Hello, darling,” she says.
Amir smiles, gathering Tuleen into his arms. She tucks herself against his side joyfully. I try not to stare. Is it envy I feel? Awareness of my own loss, a happiness I had once lived before all burned away?
“Our Lord of the Mountain shines upon you, Sarai.” Tuleen’s voice reminds me of the desert winds: low and airy.
I brush a kiss to my sister-in-law’s cheek. Her scent, perfumed with night jasmine, clings to my nostrils as I retreat. “And you, Tuleen.”
She glances at my brother, but Amir’s attention has been captured by a group of advisors at the far end of the room. They call him over, and he excuses himself, winding through the mingling, the drinking, the swaying.
Tuleen fiddles with one of the buttons on her elaborate green gown. It is a shade lighter than her mossy eyes. “Congratulations. I hear you are soon to be betrothed to Prince Balior.” She gestures toward me, then drops her hand, as though self-conscious of the gesture.
