Tariq’s voice was steady as he answered, ‘I swear it before the gods.’
Jamil turned to the pedestal beside him, where the iron crown rested on blue velvet, and lifted it carefully. ‘Then, by the authority of the temple and the will of our forebears, I name you king.’
The crown was placed on Tariq’s head, and he could feel his mother exhale. Every noble in attendance bowed their heads in a silent nod of allegiance.
Jamil stepped back and lowered his staff. ‘Rise in fire and rule in light, Tariq of Gruisea.’
Guests rose from their seats, responding in a unified cry, ‘Long live King Tariq.’
Nothing moved on Tariq’s face. Nothing moved inside him either.
It was his turn to speak. They were the same words spoken by every king before him. Assurances of peace, loyalty to tradition, and the promise of strength and prosperity. The nobles applauded politely, no doubt trying to figure out how much of his father lived on in him.
His mother was the first to approach, kissing the back of his hand, then touching her forehead to it. ‘Your Majesty.’ She straightened with what appeared to be pride in her eyes. ‘Well done.’
Tariq bowed his head, his gaze drifting to the arched doors where sunlight was pouring in. Aisha should have been standing beside him. His queen.
‘Your Majesty,’ Kaidon said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
His mother looked towards the exit. ‘As will I.’
Next came the procession from the temple in the heart of the capital to the castle. It wound its way through stone streets, which were lined with pennants and banners. People gathered, cheering and tossing petals in his path. Tariq sat atop his horse, waving at them. It was muscle memory more than spirit.
When he finally dismounted at the castle, there were more displays of obeisance and well-wishes as he made his way to the feast in the great hall. The room hadn’t been used since his wedding day. Long tables overflowed with meat, rice, pomegranate stews, and honey-soaked pastries. Cups were filled and refilled, servants moving between the guests with military precision. Laughter rang out. Cups clinked. A musician played.
Tariq sat at the head table, his mother on one side and Jamil on the other. He barely ate but sipped frequently from his cup, welcoming the numbness the wine provided. He responded politely when addressed and accepted every blessing with gratitude. And when dancers entered the hall, veiled and spinning, he watched them without seeing.
One thought persisted through the numbness.
Aisha.
It should have been a day for both of them.
Aisha.
He sat through the first toast.
Aisha.
Then the second.
Aisha.
He was finally free to leave.
Farrah reached for his hand as he stood. ‘Stay a little longer. They will notice if?—’
‘Let them notice.’ He gently pulled out of her grasp and walked out of the hall, Kaidon a few paces behind him.
They passed through the corridors, where guards bowed and servants stepped aside. Tariq slowed as they neared his quarters, waiting for Kaidon to catch up.
‘Tomorrow, I get to work,’ Tariq said.
The guard nodded. ‘I figured as much.’
‘We start with the mines, as planned.’
‘Remove every child under the age of sixteen.’
