by Somaiya Daud
“Now,” she said, sitting in her usual high-backed chair. “You shall walk to and fro on this walkway.”
I stared from where I was sitting.
“Are you deaf, girl?”
I hastened to my feet. “No, my lady.”
I’d taken three steps when something sharp snapped against my ankles. I stopped and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
“You are not a village girl,” Nadine said when I opened my eyes. “You are no longer prey. I should see neither fear nor hesitation.”
No longer prey, she said, as if I hadn’t been exactly that from the moment of my arrival. “I don’t understand.”
“Walk with a straight back”—she snapped the thin whip at my back—“with your shoulders and head high”—another snap at my neck. “Again.”
And again and again.
* * *
With my physical transformation complete, Nadine doubled down on my training. In the days that followed, I spent my mornings being tested by Nadine or being taught to dance by a droid, then retreated to my quarters in the afternoon to study. I spent hours frantically memorizing names and facts and histories. After lunch I met Nadine again for behavioral lessons. More often than not, Maram attended these sessions.
This morning, it appeared, I wasn’t worth either of their attention. Perhaps Nadine was too impatient to deal with me and my painfully slow progress. In any case, I was being trained by nothing more than a droid.
“Let us begin,” it said, “with the old families of the Ziyaana. Recite.”
“There are five great houses who have resided in the Ziyaana for four hundred years,” I began.
It rapped a hand against the wall. “No,” it said. “As Her Highness. We have no interest in your knowledge; only in how well you can imitate.”
I swallowed around an angry reply. I had been at these lessons for two weeks now, and I still could not affect the haughty tone the princess used, despite my life depending on it. Despite everything I felt no closer to being a stand-in for Maram. I lacked something that resided so deeply in the princess—her arrogance and pride rendered her voice as it was. I had none of that—and I didn’t even know where to begin pretending that I did.
I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and continued. The sun was high in the sky, and I could see the heat wavering in the air outside the palace dome. Most of the Ziyaana was taking its midday slumber.
“There are four houses,” I began again. “Ziyad, of whom I am a direct descendant. Pledged to them are Agadaan, Ouij, and Fars. There are the Banu Salih, of whom my fiancé is the last. Pledged to them are Mellas and Azru.”
The droid rapped against the wall again, a horrific tic-tic-tic that reminded me of spiders rushing their way across the floor.
“You have failed to meet her vocal register,” it said.
“I don’t know what that means,” I snapped, finally giving in to anger.
A giggle rent its way through the air. It made my whole body stiffen in fear.
Maram carried her bejeweled slippers in one hand. Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, a gorgeous torrent of curls threaded with gold. Today she wore a deep blue gown, and, like her hair, it too was threaded with gold. Between the two of us, I realized with a churn of envy, she was the more beautiful. Logically, I knew we were now identical. But round-cheeked, flushed with delight, the corner of her mouth turned up just so, she seemed leaps and bounds above me.
“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 g
rass 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.”
Princess Maram raised a dark eyebrow. “You should know better than most,” she said. “Every secret outs itself in the Ziyaana.”
Whatever response the girl might have made was cut off by the sound of the enormous doors opening. For a moment, it seemed as though the courtiers were all frozen, staring at the woman who made her way through the doors. Then Idris shot to his feet, and ran at her with a cry. Her arms opened up, and even from across the garden, I could see the light in her eyes and her smile at the sight of him. He swept her up and spun her twice. The trail of her gown, a dark burgundy, whipped through the air behind her.
I turned to Tala to ask the woman’s name, but Idris’s voice cut me short. “May I present to you,” Idris said, coming to stop in front of the princess, “the Lady Furat—”
“Of the Wattasi clan,” Maram finished, her voice flat. “We are much acquainted, yes.”
I shot a look at Tala, but her eyes were fixed on the scene in front of us. If Furat was of the Wattasis, then she was Maram’s cousin—a member of the former queen, Maram’s mother’s, extended family. They were Zidane, not Kushaila, and had held strongholds in Qarmuta, to the south. Their alliance with the Ziyadis and Salihis hundreds of years ago had brought stability in a time of civil war. Morbid fascination jogged my memory; Furat was the last of the Wattasis. The king had executed her parents, and her elder brother. Like Idris, she was their last surviving heir. What had made him spare one small child at the start of the occupation? And why would she ever willingly return to the Ziyaana?
“Isn’t—wasn’t she in exile?” I whispered.
“Look,” Tala replied. “Her daan are gone. Likely the price for being welcomed back.”
A chill came over me—she had bargained away what I would have given anything to keep.
“What brings you back to court, cousin?” Princess Maram said.
Furat sank to her knees elegantly. “I come to serve,” she said, her eyes on the ground. “As is my duty.”
Maram pressed her lips together, eyes flashing. “We shall see.”
* * *
After several days of such observation, I was called again by Nadine for testing. If I were to be successful, I would need to understand the complicated relationships Maram had formed with the rising makhzen—Andalaan nobility who were folded into the new world order—and High Vathek class. Maram stood with her in the courtyard today, her features hard.
On days like this it was easy to feel small. Maram’s hair was threaded with gold chain, her mouth rouged, and her bejeweled slippers dazzled in the light. She was rarely serene, but today there was a calm in her, a surety. I knew what it was she felt, could feel it in her gaze. Today she was sure she was my better, that despite our looks, she was the future queen, not I. It was easy to feel small when she felt this way, but it was also easy to feel safe. When Maram was sure, everyone was safer.
“Let us see what she has learned, then. Can she name the members of my circle?” Maram said, not looking away from me.
“Ask her,” Nadine said.
Maram said nothing, though she raised both her eyebrows as if to prompt me.
Her silence sparked annoyance in me, and I spoke almost before I thought. “Your Highness, there’s Furat of the Wattasi clan, heiress to the Dowager Sultana’s estate on the moon Gibra,” I began.
She moved so quickly, I didn’t see it coming. Today she’d worn no fewer than four rings, and they each made themselves known against my cheek as she backhanded me. Pain radiated through my face, and I tasted blood. My heart beat in my chest so fast I could scarcely draw breath.
Still, despite the pain, a grim satisfaction rose inside me at her response. I was the Andalaan, I was the Kushaila girl with Kushaila features. That she had been born with my face, my same brown skin and twisting dark hair and dark eyes—the same forehead and cheeks and mouth … It was the height of cruelty, remarkably unfair. If not for this link, I would never have been kidnapped out of my village. I might still be living with my family.
I didn’t break my gaze with Maram.
“Why,” Maram began, taking an angry hold of my face with one hand, “do you start with her?”
“I remembered her—” I started, and she struck me again on the other side of my face.
“Furat,” she spat at me, “is a disinherited lesser cousin, with no holdings and no prospects. There is nothing to remember.”
Her eyes were wide, her face flushed, and there was, I realized in a moment of disembodied horror, my blood on one of her rings. It was strange to feel calm flow over me like water. I was still frightened, I still understood that Maram could hurt me. But something inside of me had changed; I knew now that she could change my body but she had no power over my spirit. And more satisfying, I knew that she had a weakness—she was not so different than me. She was not untouchable.
“You should not let her bother you so,” Nadine said, her voice even and calm. She meant Furat, not me, I realized; my presence was too insignificant to register. “She is, as you said, a disinherited lesser cousin.”
“Why? Why does he allow her to live? Why does he allow her to live with my grandmother?” The weakness in her voice both satisfied and frightened me. I’d learned that it was in moments of weakness when Maram was her most cruel.
; “There is misery for her in the absence of all she could have been and had,” Nadine said, as though she were reminding her. “You should pity her, not fear her.”
I realized, too late, that I would have been better served lowering my gaze. When Maram turned to look at me again, something still and eerie settled in her face.
“Are you enjoying this?” she asked me, her voice finally under control. “Do you like seeing the object of all your hate upset?”
She caught me by the throat, her rings pressing down so hard I could barely breathe. “Don’t worry,” she breathed into my ear. “You will understand soon enough.”
She pushed me away, hard enough that I stumbled back and fell. When I had gathered myself again, she was already making her way to the exit, the train of her gown billowing out behind her.
9
Every morning the dome over my courtyard brightened to mimic the light of the rising sun. Shut away as I was deep in the Ziyaana, there were no windows, no glimpse of a real sun or breeze. Only the dome and its hollow sun and the humming orbs that came to fill the courtyard at night. I sat in the gazebo, a mantle around my shoulders, and cradled a glass of tea in my hands. Across the way a droid hummed softly as it pruned a tree. It had neither flowered nor borne fruit, and I wondered if the droid would decide the tree wasn’t worth saving.
My mother said my brother had once had such a tree, a sapling he’d saved all through the occupation, intending to plant it when it was over and watch it flower to life. But like all our hopes and dreams at the end of the occupation, the sapling had withered and died.
“Amani!”
I jerked my mind back to the present and found Tala standing directly in my line of sight, hands on her hips.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Some time,” she said. “Be quick, if you please. We’re on a schedule.”
“Why?” I asked as I followed her to the bath chamber.