“I don’t know why anyone should expect you to be successful,” she said. “What does a lowly village girl know about being a royal princess?”
The droid, ever dutiful, stuck a finger against my neck and zapped me, a sharp electric shock to remind me to sink to my knees before her.
I kept my eyes on the ground—Maram’s moods were as difficult to predict as desert storms. But I remembered my mother’s stoic face, my disappeared crown of Dihya. Whatever Maram thought she could do to me, I could endure. I would endure and survive. I wouldn’t let her break me. No matter how hard she tried.
When I looked up again, she was watching me with a curious look on her face. As if she found my existence as strange as I found hers. Our eyes met and a cold mask slipped over her features.
“Do not gawk, village girl,” she said, voice soft. “It is unbecoming.”
* * *
As the weeks passed and my training continued, my fear did not abate, but neither did my determination. My only hope for freedom lay in excelling in what they asked me to do—a failing village girl would incur their wrath. A successful one might be allowed enough freedom for a chance to escape. As the days passed, my will did to my voice what pride did for Maram: deepened it, made it ring with frigidity whenever I spoke. My vowels firmed, the ends of my sentences turned clipped, the words that might have been raised as questions were now enunciated as demands. I became so used to being shocked between my shoulder blades or rapped on my ankles that my back was constantly straight, my head high. Besides, it was easier to avoid Maram’s gaze if my chin lifted just so, my line of sight falling just over her shoulder.
Together, these things made me into a better copy of her, and as some of the wounds inside me scarred over, I began to succeed.
Maram watched me with mute fascination as I sank to my knees at the end of our daily meeting and flicked the folds of my gown so that they were spread out behind me like a bird’s fanned tail. The droid stood beside her, its eyes hooded, whirring softly in warning.
“You’re quite the little princess, aren’t you?” she said. I remained silent. “Do I ever look so demure, Nadine?”
“Only before your father,” the stewardess replied. “Which is to the good. I imagine she will not kneel for anyone else.”
“Do you think she’ll pass?”
“She should certainly hope so,” Nadine said, and my fingers curled in the folds of my gown. “For her own sake.”
There was a rustle of fabric, and then Maram’s fingers under my chin, tilting my head up as she so often did. She wore an expression I’d seen more and more often on her face of late. Curious, contemplative, with an edge.
“I wonder which of us is more cursed,” she said, soft enough that Nadine would not hear. “You for looking like me, or I for looking like my mother?”
Something strange turned in my chest. For a moment, I saw a younger, softer version of myself in her features. Lonely, sad—she probably had never had a friend.
The softness was gone just as quickly as it had made its appearance. She let me go, and made her way to the exit.
“I tire of watching you,” she said, pausing near the door. “Do what you will with her, Nadine.”
My gaze turned to Nadine after the doors slammed shut behind her. The roc had not moved from its perch, though it had puffed up in size and tucked its head down in preparation for sleep. Nadine made a sharp gesture with her hand, and a droid moved forward and caught the bird to return it to its roosting place.
For a moment we stared at each other.
“You’ve done quite well,” Nadine said. I felt a shameful curl of pride in the pit of my stomach. “And not a moment too soon. We’ve chosen the Terminus ball, in two weeks’ time, for your debut. The king will attend. You must impress him, you understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
“You will be safe at the ball,” she continued. “Dare I say, you may even enjoy it. But do your job well, and all will be pleased,” she said at last. “You will observe court tomorrow, so that you will know Maram’s circle by sight as well as name. For now, you’re dismissed.”
8
The following afternoon, Tala led me up a set of stairs to a screened balcony. There were a pair of gilt droids on either end of the screen, and a couch piled with cushions. She bade me sit and gestured to one of the droids. The screen cleared, its false wooden trellis fading away like smoke.
The garden below was at least the size of my parents’ farm and seemed to me more like a paradise than a garden. Green grass was veined through with white stone pathways, shaded by pomegranate trees, heavy with red fruit. Here and there I could see the glittering reflection of fountains, and on its eastern end a stream wove its way through several small orchards. In the very center was an enormous gazebo.
I watched as Maram’s attendants came in groups and waves. Tala murmured their names in my ear, the final lesson before my final test at the ball. Their voices filtered into our small alcove—even the makhzen in the Ziyaana weren’t free from Vathek surveillance, it seemed. They took their seats at the table inside the gazebo, arranging their gowns and cloaks like petals on wildflowers. Their hair was out, brushed to gleam in the morning light, and threaded with gold and silver and small jewels. They were from all over Andala; only two, as far as I could gather, were from the city of Walili.
I studied Maram as she made her way to the table, glad for my hiding place. Her features were haughtier than mine had ever been. Even after all my training, I could not understand her pride and disdain. What must it be like for her, to find the world constantly at her feet?
She walked at her own leisure, her gown trailing at least three feet behind her, followed by two Vathek girls and flanked by a young man. He was tall, with dark brown hair curled just beneath his ears, green eyes, and olive-toned skin that looked as if it would turn even darker beneath a desert sun. I would have thought him a prince of old, if it weren’t for his face, which was clean-shaven in the tradition of the Vath and bore no daan.
“Who,” I asked, “is that?”
“The amir, Idris ibn Salih.”
I struggled to contain my surprise. The Banu Salih were the largest cousin tribe of the old Andalaan royal family, and the first tribe to oppose the Vathek invasion. In those days, their families had numbered near the thousands, and they’d thrown all their might behind the opposition. But no one survived against the Vath. The Banu Salih had held out until the Purge, until the queen—Maram’s mother—begged her cousins to capitulate. As part of their surrender, Idris, the last surviving heir of the Banu Salih, had been pledged to Maram.
Now, he was her fiancé, permanently bound to the Vathek crown.
As breakfast continued below us, I couldn’t stop myself from staring at him. He seemed so at ease with Maram, nudging her playfully, offering her food from his own plate, leaning down to whisper in her ear. I shivered. They seemed so close. I could not understand it.
“Layaan, you look far too happy so early in the morning,” Maram said conversationally to one of the ladies of her court, and a girl raised her hand to cover her mouth. She had been smiling, I noted, though now she fought to hide it.
“I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness.”