“Out,” Javed commands. “Everyone.”
The guards and handmaidens scurry away, the queen following at a slower pace. The door shuts with an ominous click behind her.
I shouldn’t be alone with him in his quarters without a proper chaperone before the wedding, but Javed won’t care for propriety. His eyes wander down the length of my body as if he can read my thoughts. I fight the urge to yank the counterpane over myself. “What are you staring at?” I snap.
“My property.”
My jaw clenches. “I am no man’s property.”
“I am your king,” he says, his fingers fluttering to my silk-covered kneecap. The light touch makes me cringe, and his eyes harden. “Or perhaps my bastard brother has already stolen that which is mine.”
Stolen, no. Happily received what was openly given, yes.
Javed’s palm creeps upward, and I stop it with the heel of mine, midthigh. “That doesn’t mean you own me, and king or not, you and I both know what I can do.”
“But you won’t.”
My smile is cool and vicious. “Sometimes my magic defends itself, don’t you know that by now, Your Majesty? One wouldn’t want to risk the falsehood of beauty you cling to underneath that mask. Or the very cock you require to procure an heir.”
At that unsubtle threat, he flinches, snatching his hand away, andrises to walk to the foot of the massive bed. His teeth bare in a snarl. “One day we will address that mouth of yours. Tell me what happened in the throne room.”
“It was hot. I fainted.”
His mouth curls downward. “It was more than that. Your runes were glowing.” At my look, he continues. “Don’t worry, I took care to keep them concealed.”
Waiting for my explanation, Javed taps his toe impatiently against the polished wooden floor. I don’t have a ready excuse, so I opt for the truth. It’s not going to matter either way.
“I have visions.”
Searing ice-blue eyes hook on mine. “What kind of visions?”
“Celestial ones,” I say, enjoying the look on his face more than I should. “Visions of the old gods in all their glory.”
“What do these visions tell you?”
“That I am a vessel.”
I’m unprepared for the fanatical smile that Javed sends my way. In fact, I’m downright disturbed by it. He looks thrilled. Elated.
“You know, my ancestors were shortsighted fools. And my mother enjoys culling the weak from our ranks. Calling the worship of the old gods heresy is as good an excuse as any to do so, and it ensures only the strongest and the most devoted will endure.” He studies his fingers, brushing his polished nails against his embroidered shirtfront. “The magi have foretold the rise of a new god.”
I’m lying on a bed, but it feels as though I’m falling, sinking into a space that is dark and suffocating. “And you think that’s me?”
Javed comes back around the bed, sitting beside me. His fingers stroked the side of my face in a caress and then tighten, grasping my chin hard so I meet his gaze. “No, my silly little brainless bride, I think that’sme.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The door of my gilded prison is locked, with a half dozen armed guards standing beyond it. I don’t even have the luxury of my handmaidens. Javed has decided that I need time to reflect before the wedding, which is his thinly veiled way of saying I have to decide whether Amma will live or die. If I resist, she’ll be tortured. If I retaliate, she’ll be tortured andthenkilled. The idea of my sweet, innocent aunt being subject to Javed’s sick brand of cruelty leaves me cold.
My father was not off the mark when he’d said that Kaldari was full of monsters and deception. The thought of him makes my stomach clench with worry. I hope beyond hope that he’s still alive, but Laleh had said that he and a few others, including Cyrill, had fled into the desert. I’ve lived in Coban my whole life and know that chances of survival there are slim.
Sitting in my empty bedchamber, I study my palms—the five-pointed stars with the M shapes so easily distinguishable now. They glow faintly, humming beneath my skin. My captive, detestable magic... caged by threats and blackmail and bound by a divination as old as the stars.
I ball my fists and stare at the four walls of my chamber. Like Javed’s bedchamber, this room is grandiose, covered in colorfultapestries and plush carpets, but it makes my skin crawl. This entire palace is a mirage.
Sighing with frustration, I collapse cross-legged to the center of the carpet in the middle of the room. I place my hands on my knees, palms up, and close my eyes. I’ve never been a disciple of meditation—I’m a doer, not a thinker—but I’d rather aim for tranquility than be chewed up and spit out by resentment and bitterness.
I start with my happiest memory.
