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“Remember, girls, there will be many men here today. Men who can bring support to Our Sun and Light. Men who can help lead this desert into a better future,” says Ofara.
No wonder they call her the Dealmaker.
Giddy smiles break out on my sisters’ faces. They are eager to join any of the households of the empire, no matter how bloodthirsty their leader is.
“I’ll be watching you,” my mother adds. The anger simmers in her deep ocher eyes brighter than the jeweled ring on that finger she points straight at me. “By the grace of Evanae, if you even dare to think of something stupid to say or do…”
I bow low enough for her to find it acceptable. When I stand up straight again, she has already turned away.
Her eyes cast down, one sharp nail tapping on that jeweled ring, Ofara is reciting a prayer to the Maker and his bride, and even though I have never cared to learn the words, I want to join her. Before I can scramble my thoughts together, my mother straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and motions for the servants to open the door the corridor bathed by the morning sun.
3
Ajingle of bracelets and click clack of Ofara’s heels accompany each of her strides as she guides us through the maze of corridors that form the bowels of the palace.
“Don’t look him in the eyes,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s talking about my intended husband or my father. “Keep your mouth shut. Unless he asks you anything. Even then, keep it short. Men don’t like it when women speak out of line.”
The rules keep coming, but I’m busy counting turns and recalling where each passage leads. Old habit, learned after years of nocturnal escapades when I feared getting lost in the palace and its countless halls. I don’t dare to think about anything else. If I do, a storm that is brewing might spill from my prickling eyes.
A group of guards marches through the hall in their burnished armor of gold and black, bowing their heads to Ofara but meeting none of our gazes. None of them want to lose their head.
We turn another corner, and our procession comes to a halt. A few steps away a long queue of guests lingers next to the double doors as tall as the ceiling. The artist has marked the entrance to the Throne Room with the symbol of the Empire of Usmad. Metal roses so beautifully carved they seem real peek from under thorns so sharp they would draw blood if only one dared to touch them. They rest on a simple circlet my father has never actually worn. He has never needed a crown to command over his subjects. Fear runs deep enough in the sands without it.
A servant detaches from our group and dashes toward a squad of guards. Their ornate armor is polished to a shine, their swords bear gems bigger than the jewelry of the nobles waiting for their announcement. They are as much part of the decorum as anyone else in my entourage, but they still are a deadly force. My father wouldn’t have it any other way.
With a profuse bow and a string of words, the servant directs the captain’s attention to our group. I curse my luck as I recognize the guard with the green sash over his arm and a smirk on his lips my father hasn’t managed to erase. He doesn’t offer even a speck of attention to the servant, but calls for his squad and crosses the corridor in a few large strides.
Siro only glances at Ofara. She would have him clobbered for such sign of disrespect on any other day, but nothing is to spoil my betrothal and that means even my mother will have to behave. The captain looks me up and down with an approving nod. I must finally look like something he expects from a princess. Although last night, he unceremoniously patted me down, today his bow is as profuse as of any other guard below his station. I itch with the desire to see if he would trip and fall with a flicker of my finger. As if knowing what I’m thinking, Tylea grabs my hand, and I have to swallow a rasping ball forming in my throat. She won’t be able to keep me out of trouble any longer. Not with the endless desert and my father’s will keeping us apart.
The captain turns on his heels yet to utter a word, and we resume our march toward the Throne Room. Guests waiting in line follow our passage with hushed whispers of exquisite gossip. The future bride has arrived, and they’ll talk about every single detail of my attire for at least a month.
We stop in front of the engraved doors, and, with one last squeeze, Tylea’s fingers leave mine.
An eternity passes, or maybe just a second, before a loud bang ripples through the hall and stifles even the lowest of murmurs. The doors glide open of their own accord, and all the gazes turn to us. A shrill voice from somewhere deep in the hall announces our names, and the soldiers click their heels together.
Ofara is already walking, my sisters following close behind, but my feet feel as heavy as lead.
As soon as I cross that threshold, everything will change. Forever.
And if I don’t force my feet to move, my mother might change her mind and send me into oblivion by her own hand. Yet this is a battle I’m not eager to win.
“If you want to make a run for it, Nel, this might be the worst time you could pick.” Tylea’s soft voice breaks through the spell when she utters that nickname. She had used it when we were kids, and she couldn’t properly spell my name, and it stuck. I dare to look at her even though my mother has already turned, waiting. Even though all the guests have directed their attention at us, and the ones closest can hear every word. “Believe me when I tell you, no matter what happens, you are strong enough to get through this.” Tylea turns away, and, as if nothing has happened, starts toward the hall. She doesn’t wait to see if I’ll follow. She doesn’t have to.
Taking one last deep breath that tugs on my bruises, I lift my chin and step into the hall.
Beads of water roll down glasses of cooled drinks servants carry under stars of gold and diamonds painted on the metal dome rising high above us. Heavy columns carry its weight with vines of metal descending upon us with precious gems bursting out of man-made flowers.
My father has yet to make an appearance, and the guests cluster around their acquaintances, gossip flowing from their lips in a steady stream.
My sisters have drifted across the Throne Room to flaunt their charm and beauty in front of the nobles, leaving me girdled by the servants. Even my mother is nowhere to be seen. She must have dug her nails in a governor of a household or a grand general, ratifying details of another marriage with one of my sisters.
Gold and black of armor dots the ever-rearranging mosaic of coats of vibrant dyes and kaftans of shimmering gems. A chord of golden thread adorns the edges of the green sash on the guards’ arms. Some are my distant brothers, too old to remember me, others had climbed the ranks from poverty and anonymity, but they all bear the mark of a general of Our Sun and Light’s armies. These are the men who drench the sands with the blood of my father’s enemies.
All of them except for one man.
With cheekbones that could split my skin if I only dared to run my finger along them, the guard stands as alone in the sea of men as I am. His armor is a darker shade of black with no gold to glimmer under the light spilling from kerosene lamps and melting candles. His gaze is cast on a governor with a thick beard dusted with gray and fingers bulging around jeweled rings. As if feeling my eyes on him, the guard tilts his head and brings the whole depth of a starless night on me.
My breath caught in my throat, I cast my gaze to my feet, counting the emeralds dotting my sandals. No man—not even a general—would dare to meet my gaze without fearing my father’s wrath. Yet when I glance at him through my glimmering lashes, he’s still observing me. A hint of a smile tugs on the corner of his lips, softening those hard features.
