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“Why are you so determined to marry me? You could just put me in your personal harem.”
He knew she loved him and that her refusal was because she worried about hurting him. But in the end, she gave in to his demand.
She became widow Qynn’s daughter, rescued on the road by the King, who’d gone on a secret mission to fight monsters.
A plausible story that Asharee didn’t mind, although she did ask, “Aren’t you going to tell people about Zuun?”
He shook his head. “I think my ancestors were right to hide the information about the ifrit. We were lucky to escape victorious.”
That luck held on their trip back, on a road that suddenly connected the First Jewel to the main road that led them home. No one questioned its appearance. They’d seen too much oddity the past few days to care.
The first thing Daksh did—right after moping with a jug of ale because Asharee was wearing a veil and staying with her “mother” until the wedding—was to visit his waterfall. From his pocket he’d pulled a large orange shard. The voice in it was faint. Making promises.
He ignored it and tossed the piece into the basin. It hit with a splash and sank. He thought of it as hedging his bets, and he probably only imagined the butterflies in the conservatory getting larger.
As the dinner waned, his wife returned to his side, her belly not yet showing the swell of life, but he knew. He suspected she did, too, but waited to be sure.
His lineage would continue, and maybe, one day, when they were old, he’d have the bards write them a song of how a desert king fell in love with a spy.
