I feel the water in my memory. I smell the bath oils. I see Laleh’s face.
A barrage of riddles, balls, and battles descends all at once, a few of the blank gaps in my brain filling in. Prince Javed, now the king of Oryndhr, had chosen me because of an Elonian prophecy and the divination of my star chart that I was a weapon of the gods. A prize with starfire in her veins. Frowning, I lift my palms and turn them over, seeing the five-pointed stars etched there and acutely remembering the warm glow saturating them.
A gift from the four Royal Stars.
My blood roars between my ears. Sands, Idohave magic. Powerful magic. Magic anyone would kill for. I stare at the cuffs.Coerceme for.
The thought is inconceivable, and yet I know it to be true.
A surge of power inside of me undulates in heady confirmation, making me dizzy as the stunning vision of a gorgeous simurgh flexes her wings. The recognition is instant as I see her in my mind’s eye. Stars, is she what my magic looks like? Like divinity in earthly form, all fiery energy, fierce, shimmering wings, and a proud canine face.
Hello, friend.
Her gaze is adoring, her approval flooding me in a tsunami of warmth.
Then my cuffs light up, two of the runes flaring red at the same time, and a dulling ache starts to spread. Within seconds, the bright image fades and leaves me with a bereft sensation that my beautiful creature—the very essence of my magic—has been trapped and silenced.
Heart sinking, I glare balefully at the cuffs. Someone had put the bracers on to contain my magic... to containme. King Javed?Why?
To keep you leashed and in your place.
Bitterness lashes through me at the brutal honesty of my simurgh’s barely audible answer. It reeks of exploitation, of manipulation.
Did Imarrythe crown prince turned king, only for him to use me?
Am I a queen? I wish I knew.
In a stupor, I lift my left hand to look for any indication of a ring imprint—even a pale strip of skin on my finger—but there’s nothing there. Deep down, I know I would have fought tooth and nail against marriage, because Javed, of all people, is a self-absorbed despot who would have craved only one thing:power.
He would have abused any magic I had without hesitation to subjugate and rule his kingdom. Does his greed extend to conquering the other realms? Like Everlea? Is that why I’m here? To spy on his closest enemy? Destroy him from the inside? It doesn’t seem like something I would do, but then again, I hardly know who I’ve become. Who Iam.
When the water cools again, I step out of the tub and wrap myself in the fluffy toweling. Maker above, it feels good to be clean. Even my despicable cuffs are gleaming. They’re another critical piece to the puzzle I’m trying to make sense of. If my musings are correct about my supposed magic being weaponized, then why would Javed send me hereunableto access or use any of it? Unless hedidn’tsend me, and I was escaping...
Now that sounds a lot more like me, given what I think of him.
Wrapping the towel around my torso, I shove my churning thoughts aside and go to where Ziba is waiting in my bedroom. She exits the closet with folds and folds of embroidered fabric gathered in her arms. I stare at the dark indigo ensemble that she eventually holds up for my inspection, and blanch.Thatis a bloody ball gown.
“The king had this dress made for you, my lady,” Ziba says softly, noticing my expression. “You are his honored guest for tonight’s dinner with the court.”
There’s a stubborn part of me that wants to refuse, and another, much smaller part that wants to wear the stunning gown. It would be churlish of me to not accept, so I nod.
It doesn’t take Ziba much time to lace the back of the dress over undergarments that are so sheer and utterly useless that I wonder why I’m wearing any at all. The corset style of the two-piece gown is different from the loose, voluminous styles that I’m used to. The heavily pearled bodice is fitted and slightly cropped, so that a sliver of my bare stomach is visible, and the skirt is long and heavy with intricate hand-stitched embroidery and seed pearls along the hem. Similar designs adorn the fabric in a scattering of silver thread. Elegant silver slippers complete the ensemble.
When she finishes all the fastenings, Ziba directs me to a mirrored vanity where she combs my thick hair into a topknot of curls, securing it with glass-topped pins. I squint at the iridescent silver strands weaving through the inky mass. They seem more pronounced than ever. Bronze powder is lightly dusted on my cheeks, kohl applied to my eyelids, and a swipe of plum stain goes over my lips.
“There,” Ziba says with a pleased expression. “Perfect, my lady.”
I stare at my reflection and admit that Ziba isn’t wrong. The rich color of the gown uplifts my complexion, which is flawless under the translucent powder. I reluctantly admit—on the inside—that the king has excellent taste. I spin, watching as the full skirt flares out. With a gasp, I realize that the scattered embroidery reminds me of a constellation of stars set against a backdrop of a twilight sky.
Does the symbolism have some meaning to the king, or am I reading into it? Because how wouldheknow that my magic was gifted to me by the Royal Stars?
Someone knocks on the bedchamber door and Ziba goes to answer it. She glances back over her shoulder after exchanging a few short words with the visitor. “His Majesty sends his regrets that he is late,” she explains to me. “Today is court day, when citizens bring their grievances before him.” She pauses with a grimace. “This week there were more than usual.”
“Is the dinner canceled?” I ask, feeling oddly disheartened.
She shakes her head. “No, His Majesty has suggested that you may wait here or go for a walk in the gardens. He will send for you once he’s finished.”
I must admit, I’m more curious to see the supposed nightmare king in action than to take a stroll in the garden. The idea of observing him, of gaining insight into how he rules his kingdom, is an intriguing one. So much can be learned about a monarch in the way that he deals with his subjects and how those under his care respond to him. Ziba’s lack of fear is yet another indicator that the terrible stories I’ve heard about the ruler of Everlea might be exaggerated.
