Life had been simple back then. Even during the rebellion, life had been easier. Nalini had been responsible for running the castle while her father and brothers had been away. But, somehow, back then, her responsibilities had not pressed down on her like a boulder slowly crushing her. She had more luxuries and a more beautiful home now. Yet, the softer and lighter her possessions, the heavier they weighed on her. There was a joke in there, somewhere. But Nalini was too tired to put her finger on it.
The wind blew, softly stroking her cheek like a lover. Nalini craned her neck with the wind, watching as it pushed back the drapes to reveal her bedchambers, with Emilio snoring in their bed. Nalini chuckled to herself. At least with all the workloads she had on, she had reason to spend less time with her husband. That was a mercy, if only a backhanded one.
Nalini yawned again and decided to go to bed. She had an early morning and a long day of work coming up. She would need all the sleep she could get.
Nalini went back inside and took off her black, mourner’s veil. Her dark tress flowed down her shoulder, before she placed her veil onto her dressing table, next to her tiara. Nalini smiled at the tiara, wanly. Wearing it had always made her feel like a princess. If there were one thing that she looked forward to wearing again after her mourning was over, it was the tiara.
A knock banged at the door. Nalini’s heart thumped and she spun round as someone knocked at the door again. It was loud, continuous and had urgency to its rhythm.
“At this hour?” Emilio said, sat up and fully alert. “Who could that be?”
Nalini ignored him. The knock sounded again, and she pulled open the door. Wumla stood on the other side, eyes bloodshot and face ashen. A sense of foreboding grabbed Nalini’s throat. Wumla had been sitting by Razilan’s bedside every night since the fever had set in, frequently sleeping in a chair in the room. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Razilan,” he said, struggling to force the words out of him. “He’s coughing up blood!”
His words cut through her like a scimitar. “Since when?”
“J-just now. He coughed up phlegm, then he coughed up blood. This isn’t good, Nalini. He’s going to die. It’s the curse! We’re cursed and-”
Nalini stepped past him, cutting him off mid-sentence. “We’re not cursed,” she said, wanting to believe it, as she charged down the corridor. “And while Razilan is alive, you will not speak this way.” Abyar, may he live!
“I have woken Mother,” Wumla said, following behind her. “She has gone to find Grand Cleric Faas.”
Nalini nodded to conceal her thoughts. How had Razilan’s condition deteriorated so rapidly? He had been in robust health until he caught a chill in the marketplace the other day. What was happening to her family?
Nalini blinked and seemingly found herself inside the royal bedchambers. Sultana Olella sat next to Razilan’s bed, sobbing, while the Sultan lay in bed, shivering and sweating feverishly. His bedcovers had splatters of blood on them, with lined dribbles linking one splotch to the next.
Nalini walked over to her brother and sat on one of the two stools opposite the sobbing Sultana. Nalini clasped Razilan’s hand and her throat tightened. It was all so horribly familiar. Like her father, her brother had been an impressive specimen of a man: tall, muscular and strong, with a personality to match. But now ailment had weakened him to the point of wreckage, almost unable to speak amidst the shivers. “You will come through this,” Nalini said. But the weakness in her voice betrayed her words. “I will…” she stopped and forced down the lump blocking her voice box. “I will still be arguing with you in the years to come, to stop you from going on your holy war.”
Razilan chuckled. “I would expect nothing less from you,” he said.
Nalini smiled. It was good to see that he had not lost his sense of humour, even though his fever was burning up. There was still hope.
Razilan coughed nastily. He spat out a gob of dark, bloody phlegm into the chamber-pot beside him, and Nalini’s mouth tasted of ash. No-one could cough up blood like that and survive-
No, Nalini refused to go down that line of logic. Razilan would pull through this, and she would do all she could to make it so. Nalini picked up the canter, poured a cup of water and handed it to her brother.
“No,” Razilan said, flicking the air with his wrist. “There’s no point.”
“You will die of thirst if you don’t-”
“It makes no difference anymore. It just tastes of blood and makes me cough. I cannot bear the pain in my chest and shoulder anymore.” Razilan then looked at their brother, standing next to Nalini. “Wumla,” he said. “Can you lead the holy war in my stead?”
Wumla’s his red-rimmed, oval-shaped eyes protruded from their sockets and he shook his head. “I-I don’t know,” he said, stuttering. “I don’t want to make any promises.”
Good. Don’t make promises that will bring ruin to the Kingdom, even if you intend to do it out of honour.
Razilan puffed out a lungful of air. “It is the only way you can remove the curse afflicting our family,” he said. “It is the only way you can stop aunt Ríma.”
Nalini’s blood went cold. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Razilan, tell me, please: what did that witch tell you when you walked with her in the gardens?”
“She is no witch,” Razilan said, faintly. “It is not what she said. But what she didn’t say. Aunt Ríma is a devout, ambitious woman, who wants…”
But then his voice became inaudible. His lips moved wordlessly, before his shoulders slumped into the pillows. His head flopped to the side and his eyes rolled forward; only, their usual twinkle of vigour had gone, giving way to dullness.
“Razilan?” Nalini asked.
He did not respond. Nor did he breathe.
“No, no… he can’t be,” Prince Wumla said. “I can’t be-”
Sultana Olella’s sobs loudened. Then, Mother came into the chamber and burst into tears. “My son is dead!” she cried, tears streaking down her cheeks. “The Sultan is dead!”
Nalini’s heartrate increased. Her body shook and water filled her eyes. She to say something comforting and hug her mother, sister-in-law and brother, to console them. But Nalini couldn’t move. Razilan’s death seemed to have frozen her.
Wumla sat down on the stool next to her. He hunched forward, with his hands over his face. He quivered as tears leaked through his fingers, and dripped onto the floor.
Nalini’s back ossified, and she retook control of her wits. News of Sultan Razilan’s death would sweep through the palace like a sandstorm. Courtesans and the Grand Cleric of Flourish would enter the royal bedchambers to pay the late sultan their respects soon. Wumla could not be seen crying, or to have been crying, when they arrived. Otherwise he would lose his authority before he’d had a chance to assert himself. “Wumla, you must not cry,” Nalini said. She pulled her stool toward him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You are the Sultan now. No-one but us can see you cry. Do you understand me?”
Wumla wailed. “I can’t do it! I can’t be Sultan. I’m not like Father or Razilan. Or you! Father made you a vizier at court, not me, because he knew that I am unfit for court, let alone rule.”