He shook his head. ‘A few seconds. Everything’s fine. You’re doing great.’
She looked down at his tunic, and her eyebrows came together in confusion. ‘Did you say the tunic was made for this feast?’
He looked down at his clothes. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
When he lifted his gaze, her expression frightened him. He leaned in. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
She took a nervous look around and tried to relax her shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I saw you,’ she said, looking back at him. ‘With Zahvik Barakat.’
It took him a moment to place the name. ‘Slevaborg’s sectarian?’
She nodded. ‘Wearing that tunic.’ She reached up to touch his hair. ‘Your hair at this exact length.’
He stared at her. ‘What are you saying?’
The doors to the hall swung open, and every head turned. Framed in golden torchlight stood a tall figure in a white thobe. As he stepped inside, he lowered his hood, steely eyes sweeping the hall.
‘That’s him,’ Aisha whispered. ‘The man who killed my mother.’
Chapter 22
Aisha couldn’t breathe.
The light behind Zahvik made him burn gold at the edges. It was really him. There were more lines on his face and grey in his hair, but everything else… Same height and build, same slow, measured way of walking.
A loud clatter broke the silence. Someone had dropped something, a goblet maybe. A servant hurried over to clean up the mess.
Aisha’s pulse roared in her ears as memories of him flooded back in. That day was branded on her soul. Her mother’s screams. The primal noises coming from her father. The exact shade of Zahvik’s eyes when he addressed them.
She flinched when Tariq took her hand under the table. Only then did she realise she was shaking. Her eyes met Lilah’s across the room. A servant was mopping up wine on the table in front of her. She looked as though she had been slapped.
Safiya had never laid eyes on Zahvik before, but judging by her glare, she knew exactly who it was.
‘Look at me,’ Tariq said.
Aisha dragged her gaze to his.
‘Whatever this is, you and your sisters are safe. Understand me?’
She nodded.
King Hamza rose from his seat, a welcoming smile on his face, suggesting this was not a surprise visit. Queen Farrah, on the other hand, looked from the sectarian to her husband, then back again. Her fingers had tightened visibly around the stem of her cup, the only indicator of her internal state.
Everyone watched as Zahvik made his way to the royal dais, flanked by two holy warriors. Their synchronised, armed presence was designed to intimidate.
Zahvik stopped before the king and queen and bowed his head. ‘Your Majesties.’
That voice. How many times had she heard it in her mind? In her dreams? Smooth as silk.
‘Your Holiness,’ Hamza replied. ‘I must apologise. I had no idea you were arriving today.’
The queen managed to smile. ‘We would have sent a carriage.’
