“I—”
“Our families would pay too high a price,” he said, giving voice to my thoughts. “And we would neither of us be able to live with that. We both have family being held hostage by the state. Neither of us would take that risk.”
“No,” I replied softly. “And yet, I dreamed of it.”
His expression sobered. “You don’t dream of it anymore?”
I blinked back my tears. “How can I? You are someone else’s husband now.”
His thumb stroked my cheek and I closed my eyes as a shiver rolled through me.
“You are always in my mind, Amani. And in my heart.”
“As you are in mine.”
He pressed one last kiss against my forehead, squeezed my hands, and then we parted. He walked to his dressing parlor, and I to mine. Our paths would not cross in this—in love—ever again.
01. Maram
STARDATE 4393, FORTY-ONE DAYS TO THE IMPERIAL WEDDING
Maram’s grip tightened in the folds of her gown as ocean winds buffeted the cruiser for the hundredth time in the four-hour flight. It was only wind, she reminded herself. Not an assassin, not a gravity beam meant to reel her ship in. Powerful late-summer winds were the norm in this part of Andala, and so close to the surface of the water there was bound to be turbulence.
She had not left the Ziyaana in the weeks following the attempt on her life. She’d made appearances among the makhzen and Vathek courtiers, smiled as if nothing were wrong, and expected a knife in the dark every moment. Eventually, she’d had enough and, without warning or permission, packed her bags.
The cruiser shuddered again, but for once this shudder was welcome. Outside she saw the ground rushing up to meet them. She came to her feet, smoothed her hands down the folds of her qaftan, and took a deep breath.
This place, this estate, was safe. It was well guarded, and no one made it past its boundaries without passing through a bioscan. The wall to her left hissed and detached, then lowered into a ramp.
Waiting for her beneath a linen canopy were twelve servants all dressed in green and white, the Ziyadi crest embroidered on their right sleeves. Heading them up was an elderly Kushaila woman.
As a group they knelt. Maram made a quick motion with her hand and the woman—Fatiha—stood.
“Welcome, Your Highness, to Dar at-Tuyyur.”
* * *
“The last stone was set almost a month ago,” Fatiha said as they strolled down the path. The cruiser had landed in one of the flower meadows east of the main estate. “All the flowers you requested have been imported, and half the fields have been planted.”
“The orchards?”
“Coming along,” Fatiha replied.
“It looks so different,” Maram breathed.
Twenty years ago, the estate and the surrounding lands had been rubble. Bombed out of existence by air raids during the Vathek conquest of Andala, almost nothing had survived. But Maram had pictures—holos of her mother’s visitation to the falconing retreat, recordings of hunts from the years before the Vath ever darkened Andalaan skies. And in the six months since Maram had decided to rehabilitate it and rebuild, it was transformed into something close to what it might have been in antiquity.
The first time she’d set foot here there’d been green, but it’d been the wild untamed greenery that sprung up after wildfire. Now, in the distance, she could see the aviary tower, gleaming in the early-morning sunlight, and the flags with her mother’s crest, whipping in the wind.
“Yes,” Fatiha said with a smile. “We have come a long way toward your vision. And we are all quite proud of the result, Your Highness.”
“What remains to be done?”
“The aviary is empty,” she said, her voice clipped and efficient. “We’ll need to hire a falconer, which I’m working on, and implement a breeding program.”
Maram wandered from the beaten path and into the fields. She’d seen pictures of what this part of the estate looked like prior to the work she’d ordered. It was chaotic—beautiful but unordered. The grass was knee-high, but a few feet away from where she stood the dirt was overturned, and stacked neatly on small benches were flower bulbs. The world was in chaos and on the brink of civil war. Maram couldn’t fix that—she couldn’t fix the world. But she could do this, she could instill a little peace and beauty in these twenty square miles.
When she turned around, Fatiha was watching her, her dark eyes soft, as if she didn’t see Maram when she looked at her. No one looked at her as Fatiha did, not on purpose.
“What is it?”
She’d expected her to avert her eyes or look embarrassed, but the old woman met her eyes. She forgot, ofttimes, that Fatiha had been nursemaid to queens. She’d raised her mother Najat and served her grandmother Itou. There was very little that cowed her.
“You look very much like your mother, Your Highness,” she said when Maram returned to the path. “You remind me of her.”
Her gut twisted, half pleasure, half unease. “Children often resemble their parents.”
“Few could emulate a will such as your mother’s,” Fatiha replied, and then began to walk again. “Shall I show you the main palace?”
* * *
Maram watched as the great iron doors to the palace groaned open on their own power. The walls of the palace were high and sturdy, the stone a pale gold. She followed Fatiha inside and they in turn were followed by the twelve servants who’d greeted Maram at her landing. The walls were hung with thick tapestries; the floor a brilliant white stone.
“The palace is almost an exact replica of its pre-conquest predecessor,” Fatiha said. “Your assistance in providing holos and film from your mother’s cultural archive were a great asset, Your Highness.”
Maram fought the feeling of pride that unwound in her belly. This project—she loved and hated it with equal measure. It was her respite, as it had been her mother’s, and yet it was wholly alien to everything Vathek in her life. She should not have come, she should not have built it, and yet she followed Fatiha through the palace as if a string were tied to her breastbone and drew her through its bright and high-ceilinged halls.
“The courtyard,” Fatiha continued, leading Maram out into sunlight, “is the crown jewel of the palace.”
Her eyes widened as she took in the verdant center of the palace. It seemed to go on forever—nearly the full length of the palace. They were on a rise—several steps would take them down to the floor level—and from the rise she could see the tops of orange trees, the gleam of water winding its way through. A sharp cry echoed through the air.
“You’ve introduced peacocks?” she said, trying to hide the delight in her voice.
“Your mother loved them,” Fatiha said. “I imagined you might like them too.”
“Should I be on the lookout for other wildlife?” she drawled.
“A small family of gazelles,” Fatiha said.
Maram stared at her, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I am,” Fatiha said, her voice perfunctory. “Now come along.”
Maram followed quietly as if she were a young child and not the Vathek heir. Her eyes remained wide as they swept over vegetation and wildlife—aside from the peacocks and gazelles she saw pheasants, and the air was filled with birdsong. Every few minutes she’d see a brilliant flash of jewel-toned feathers as a small bird darted from one branch to the next.