These thoughts plagued her as they left the fields and entered the trade district, where incense and fire and sweat made the air thick, where stucco facades squashed together, and the world became a symphony of life and color and dust. Lanterns festooned across the narrow streets like garlands strung with stars. Merchants guarded stands overcrowded with baskets of spices and fruits, while Sol Velorians bartered for their masters, and a maze of textiles swayed in the evening breeze. Notes from a mizmar wove through the din, giving melody to the percussive staccato of chatter. The musician was also Sol Velorian, and a few coins glittered in a woven basket at his feet.
“Get back, damned scab,” Tarq snapped.
Imari glanced over to see Tarq kick back a Sol Velorian woman who had ambled close. The woman—who’d been holding a basket of figs—cried out and stumbled back, and tripped over a textile stand. The basket flew from her hands, and figs rolled everywhere as she scrambled to gather them up. No one offered to help.
Tarq met Imari’s gaze.
That is what you deserve, his expression seemed to say.
Imari squared her jaw and looked decidedly ahead, her hands flexed. Tarq’s sentiment toward the Sol Velor was nothing new, nor was it surprising. Istraa might not be as cruel to the Sol Velor as Corinth had been, but they still viewed the Sol Velor as less. Less important. Less valuable.
Less human.
And Imari felt shame—shame that little Imari had not spared it a thought before.
Imari’s shame and frustration simmered as Ricón urged their mount away from the crowds and into the quiet side streets. Perhaps he wanted to spare them the extra attention. Already, people looked over, curious and straining to get a better view. Plain clothes did little to hide a prince in his home—especially a prince traveling with three famous saredd.
Or, perhaps, Ricón had seen what Tarq had done, sensed the subsequent shift in Imari’s mood, and wanted to spare more kindling from feeding the slow fire of her anger.
Whatever his reasons, they drew steadily closer to Vondar, and the buildings crowded tighter and taller as the wealthiest huddled around their crown. Where her papa waited, completely unaware that Imari was coming home.
That she was already here.
Ricón rested a warm and reassuring hand upon her arm. “Try to relax,” he said over his shoulder.
Imari realized she was squeezing his waist, and relaxed her grip.
Too soon, they reached Vondar’s high walls, which ran a perimeter around the palace, abbreviated by a handful of heavily guarded archways. Towers crowned every crest—the largest situated above the main gate—and city guards stood watch. She spotted a few saredd amidst the guards, distinguishable by their black cloth and the harness of weaponry strapped to their torsos. Black scarves veiled their faces, leaving only eyes visible—eyes that fixed on their group as they approached.
Jenya stopped and spoke with one such saredd who stood near the gate.
“Do not speak,” Ricón warned Imari, though he did not need to. Imari had left her voice somewhere on the edge of the Majutén.
“Mi sur,” said an approaching guard. He was not saredd, but a basic city guard, dressed in loose brown pants and a red tunic accented by an embroidered waistcoat. Two sheathed scims dangled from his waist.
Ricón dismounted and helped Imari down.
“I’ll take him.” Jenya gestured to Ricón’s gelding.
Ricón and Jenya exchanged a glance. Ricón nodded and turned his attention to Imari. “Ready?”
Never in a hundred years. “Yes.”
Together, they walked past the curious city guards and watchful saredd, who now stood over the gate to get a better view of Ricón’s mysterious guest. Imari proceeded through the thick archway and out the other side, pausing to gaze upon Vondar’s wide stair.
Maker’s Mercy, she’d never thought she would see those steps again. They were shorter than she remembered. Narrower, too.
“It’ll be fine,” Ricón whispered beside her.
Imari hoped he was right. She ascended with unsteady legs while her insides tied in knots. More city guards waited on the landing above, and the massive bronze doors hung open, giving a glimpse of the grand atrium beyond.
Of the past.
Her gaze trailed the gilded columns to their dizzying arches. The mosaic floor glittered in the brazier light, like the flecked patterns of a kaleidoscope, and a fountain of Nián stood at its center, her marble hands pouring water into the glittering pool at her feet. During the day, Istraa’s wealthier citizens occupied this space, seeking council with their sar, or to conduct business with one another. The atrium was mostly empty now, save two kahar—temple priests—talking quietly off to the side.
“Sable.”
Ricón waited ahead. For Imari’s safety, they had agreed to use her Wilds name until they’d spoken with their papa.
Papa…
The mere thought was like a beacon, luring her steadily forward, through the broad archway in back. The public wasn’t permitted beyond the atrium without escort, and to emphasize this, two saredd guarded the entrance. They bowed to their sur, looked curiously at his charge, but she and Ricón were through the archway before their attention could linger.
And they stepped into Vondar’s private halls.
Over the years, Imari’s memories had faded and blurred, and she’d wondered—no, feared she’d forgotten Vondar. Its beauty, the way it welcomed the desert but kept out the fire. But as she followed Ricón through those wide and airy halls, past the painted pots and desert blooms and waving palms, her heart remembered what her mind had not. The lingering scent of jasmine, the heat radiating from the stucco, always keeping the palace warm. The breeze was like a constant and welcome guest, weaving through the open windows and wide colonnades, and when Ricón turned up a stair, Imari knew immediately where he was taking her.
“We’re going to your room?” Imari whispered.
“For now,” he said, glancing about conspiratorially. “I need to find him first.”
They reached Ricón’s door. He pushed it open, and Imari stepped inside.
By the wards.
She remembered every inch of this room. The plush cushions in the corner where she’d read, when she’d wanted to avoid Vana. The animal-skin rug still lay before the wide hearth, compliments of a wildcat that had almost killed Ricón first. And then she spotted that hideous tarantula, now dead and on display in a glass case upon the stone mantel.
Ricón had found the tarantula on a hunt and kept it as a pet for years, much to Imari’s chagrin. And in exchange for keeping her hiding spots secret, Imari had begrudgingly helped him catch poor and unsuspecting beetles for that tarantula to eat.
Ricón followed her gaze and smirked. “He didn’t last long after you left. I think he missed you.”
“Or he starved.” She smirked. Even for a tarantula, it was big. She touched the glass. She’d hated spiders as a little girl, but they didn’t seem so terrible now.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Ricón said, then added, “Please don’t climb out the window while I’m gone.”
“Don’t worry. I can’t reach the roof from your balcony.”
Ricón eyed her. “You’re a lot taller now.”