I could barely stand to look out at their faces, to see evidence of his triumph. It was a twofold triumph: Najat’s marriage to Mathis all those years ago, and now Maram’s marriage to Idris. The Vath and Andalaans were now more tightly bound than ever.
I hated these people. Even those who had suffered in the war of conquest, even those who had no choice about the people they’d become. Few had known the hunger and disease of a siege, much less understood the terror of the sudden appearance of the Imperial Garda. Here they were, wreathed in finery and jewels, celebrating the seal of our doom. And here I was, a slave, alone, trotted out as a shield. I was in the center of the world and I was alone.
The doors opened again and a herald announced Idris. Maram’s husband.
He was haloed by the brilliant light shining in through the windows like some sort of prince out of legend. His hair was shorter than I remembered, his face clean-shaven. He wore black trousers and a black jacket embroidered in gold, with a tea-gold shirt beneath it. I remained perfectly still and drank him in as if I were a woman denied water all her life. He was as I remembered—tall and broad-shouldered, his face gentle, his mouth tilted into a half smile. I saw the moment his smile faltered when our eyes met—how quickly he recognized me. Electricity zipped along my skin as he took my hand and bent over it, as his mouth brushed over my knuckles.
“Lady wife,” he murmured.
I had forgotten and not forgotten, thought and not thought about Idris and this moment.
I lowered my gaze and folded my ringed hands against my skirt. I was a fool—I’d spent no time preparing for this eventuality, for having to see him again like this. The stakes of our separation were real; I could not risk the safety of my family, nor he his. But it made it no less a bitter pill to swallow, no easier to watch him play the part of a man happily wed to someone else. I’d never felt as if I needed to flee his presence, but today the air seemed to suffocate me, and the reality of my situation came to bear down on my shoulders.
He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. My eyes closed and I inhaled, savoring this one moment in time. The reception continued around us, but for this half heartbeat he was mine and I was his. We had duties to perform and our families depended on our success. I could not wallow or weep or linger. So I steeled my spine and committed this sliver of a moment to memory.
“We have ministers to greet,” I said softly.
His eyes met mine again for a moment, and then he took up his spot beside me.
* * *
The light filtering through the glass was now red—the sun was setting, the day was ending, and the orbs of light strung up high across the ceiling were flickering to life like distant stars. Idris and I had sat through a receiving line of ministers, dignitaries, and directors, then passed a circle through the room, greeting his cousins and friends. Mathis had taken the time to announce with a great deal of gravity that the Salihis would host continuing wedding festivities at M’Gaadir. I had never been, but now my mind was occupied by images of quiet rest at a seaside city.
A chime sounded through the air and Tala tapped my arm gently.
“Wardrobe change,” she said softly. I squeezed Idris’s hand in warning and departed with her a moment later. She led me to a small parlor stocked with a mirrored vanity and a wardrobe filled with clothes for this occasion.
“How do you feel?” she asked as I slid out of my slippers.
“Stretched too tightly,” I said, watching her reflection as she unbuttoned the back of my gown.
She hummed in response. “We have some time before dinner begins. Once you are in your new gown, the orchard is through that door. You can rest.”
I closed my eyes. “Thank you, Tala.”
I shrugged the tea-gold gown off and stood still as she drew a black undergown over my head. Its sleeves were cinched tightly at my wrists, but the rest of it flowed down to my feet. When I shifted this way and that, thin threads of gold glittered in the light. Over it went a gown of ivory lace, studded with tiny champagne-colored beads and silver thread. Its sleeves were wide and its neck was low, so that one saw the black-and-gold gown beneath it. Around my waist was a leather belt, a hand wide, stitched with a tesleet, its wings spread to wrap around my waist.
“There,” Tala said. “I will collect you when it’s time.”
The garden was an orange orchard. I recognized the trees—their fruit was perennial and its scent was sharp in the air. It reminded me of my majority night. There were lights strung through these trees and somewhere in the garden a fountain flowed, babbling cheerily into the silence. There were no birds—no animals at all, and it gave the orchard a still, hushed feeling. I breathed deep and lifted my face to the sky.
When I lowered my face, there stood Idris, framed by the trees and the light of the setting sun. I knew it was only my heart that made him appear more than he was—not just a prince for this moment, but a prince out of legend and antiquity. A man who belonged at the immortal center of the world.
“Amani,” he said softly. He’d crossed the orchard without my hearing, and now slid a hand beneath my chin and raised my face so that he might look at me. The breath I took lodged itself beneath my breastbone like a knife and I couldn’t stop myself from covering the hand now pressed against my cheek with my own.
“You look well,” I said at last, meeting his eyes.
“As do you,” he replied.
A thousand words lodged in my throat. What did I say to him? That I loved him? That I thought of him always? That of all the possible futures I would have chosen—
“You’re safe,” he said, and it was as if some spell had broken. His arms came around me and drew me against his chest. I laid my head against his shoulder, and my hands clung to the back of his jacket. “Dihya—I’d thought—Nadine is a terror, she would not have balked at killing you for so small a slight.”
I choked out a laugh. “I think she considered, before realizing that my family was a better target.”
He drew back, his eyes wide. “Are they safe?”
“I don’t know,” I said and hated the waver in my voice. “I’ve had no news since the coronation. This is the first time I’ve been allowed out. Nadine says … she says that so long as I perform as I’m expected no harm will come to them.”
“Do you trust her?”
Another laugh that sounded too much like a sob. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Amani—”
I shook my head and leaned away from him. He was resplendent in his wedding finery, a vision of Kushaila grace and dignity. Dihya, he was married. I pressed a hand over his heart.
“I did not expect this day to come so quickly,” I said, voice thick with tears. “Even though—”
He laid his hand over mine and squeezed. “Nor did I,” he said. “I thought we might have more time. One more meeting before—”
“Before you were married,” I whispered. “I wish we’d run away when you asked.”
The sound he let out was half laughter, half grief. “You don’t mean that.”
His mouth was curled into a half smile, but grief lay heavy over his eyes. He was right, of course—I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t mean it, not with everything at stake. And yet, Kushaila legend was filled with lovers who cared nothing for the consequences and everything for each other.