by Somaiya Daud
At last, he turned his eyes back toward me. “May I have a dance, Your Highness?”
There was some satisfaction in letting Maram’s smirk settle on my face.
“You may not,” I said.
The bright spots on his cheeks grew brighter in embarrassment, a sight, I thought, Husnain would have enjoyed seeing. All the Vath we’d seen in our village had evidenced a terrifying emotionlessness. To see one so worked up—and at my doing—would have felt like a small, irrational victory.
“Shall we?” I added, turning to Idris, and closed the door on the image of my brother’s face.
Idris tucked my hand into his elbow, his grin barely contained. “Of course. We owe the vak Castels felicitations for their marriage.”
I felt as though I were walking on air as we made our way around Corypheus and to another cluster of young nobles. Theo, the vak Castel scion, held out his hands for me, a welcoming smile on his face.
“Cousin,” I said, and let him pull me close and kiss my cheeks in the Kushaila way, one on my left cheek and two on my right. Theo was seldom on Andala, but he and Maram had spent a great deal of time together on Luna-Vaxor. A younger son, he’d been as at the mercy of their large horde of relatives as she had.
I let Idris take the lead, interrupting only to murmur pleasantries with as much of Maram’s distaste as I could manage. Few of Maram’s Vathek cousins had love for her, though as far as I could tell, they were good at pretending. At one point during the conversation, I looked up to Idris to gauge how I was doing. His smile was warm and open, indulgent, and he brushed a stray curl of hair behind my ear. His fingers stayed there for a moment before he linked our hands.
I said nothing, but my heart beat a fast rhythm. Idris was a practiced actor, that much was obvious. But Maram and Idris’s engagement was a matter of the state, not the heart. He didn’t love her—did he? Did he know her well enough to know an impostor?
I tugged my hand out of his without comment and tucked it into the crook of his arm. He said nothing; his conversation with Theo didn’t miss a beat.
“Another dance?” Idris asked, though it sounded closer to a command than a suggestion. He was already stepping close when I looked up at him. He was very tall, I realized suddenly, more than a head taller than me, with broad shoulders that dwarfed my frame.
I had not realized how much I had missed looking into faces I understood, faces that looked like my kin. Some of Maram’s attendants were Andalaan, but in my new day-to-day life, I was surrounded by droids and Nadine. Save for Tala and the few times I’d listened in on Maram’s small court, I’d been deprived of this—of the comfort of familiarity. Though I knew, viscerally, that there was nothing transparent about him, there was something instantly calming in his features.
Be careful, I reminded myself. There were few within and without the Ziyaana who knew Maram better than Idris. He was engaged to her, and not a dissident but a lord in the Vathek court. He looked like my kin—he was not. He was just as Vathek as the rest.
“Yes,” I murmured, and held myself carefully as he wrapped an arm around my waist and linked our hands with the other.
As we moved through the steps to the complicated dance, I barely heard our conversation, so focused was I on the movement. Any missed step could reveal me. Idris’s hands burned like fire where he touched me, constant reminders that the slightest error would be noticed. But the weeks of lessons didn’t fail me. My body knew its way through the dance, even as my mind whirled.
“Food?” Idris asked, peering down as the dance drew to its end.
At last, I let myself smile. “Please.”
11
Idris tucked my arm in his elbow and together we made our way to the far eastern corner of the room, where tables of food were laid out for us to eat. We were parted more than once—the ballroom was long and vast, and Idris was popular. I should not have been surprised when Furat made an appearance before me.
She sank prettily to her knees, and then rose just as gracefully. She was wearing a gown in the old Zidane style, in shades of gold that came close to red and brown, with wide sleeves and a beautiful waist piece. Her hands were dark with henna, a tradition Maram had never indulged in. She resembled Idris more than Maram with her high forehead and olive skin. Where Maram’s hair—my hair—curled uncontrollably, hers fell in waves around her face, thick and brown with a red sheen in the sun. She had the roundness in face common to the Kushaila, and a hint of rounded cheeks. Her daan must have been striking when she had them, dark black against her skin, impossible to ignore.
I eyed her warily, trying to make sense of what I knew. If she had given up her daan, why choose to dress so? Why not blend in?
I could see, suddenly, why Maram disliked her so. She was effortlessly poised, fearless, despite all she’d lost and all she still had to lose. Maram clung to her Vathek gloss like a shield. Furat, on the other hand, was fully Andalaan despite being stripped of her daan. And she managed to produce the same hard shine as any Vathek courtier.
Maram, I imagined, would hate her twice over—first for effortlessly embodying our dying traditions, despite Vathek mandate, and second for her calm.
Me, I envied her. She was everything I wanted to be—free, despite being completely under someone else’s control.
“Cousin,” she said when she was standing again.
“I didn’t think you would come,” I said. “You seem to enjoy your provincial traditions far more.”
“I was invited,” she said. “And I thought I should see such a celebration at least once. You cannot judge what you do not know.”
I hummed, thoughtful, then moved around her.
“We should learn to be around each other,” she said as I passed by.
“I don’t see that we should,” I replied, voice flat, and tried to continue on.
Instead, I ran headlong into a servant.
“Are you alright?” I asked without thinking, then realized my mistake. Her head jerked up, eyes wide and face white.
Maram would never ask such a thing.
“Maram?” Idris said from behind me. He did not spare the serving girl a look, and instead held out an arm to me. I held my breath, but he said nothing.
Idris and I were led to a table on a dais, raised up over everyone else. There was a single large plate between us, along with a tea set, the glasses etched with feathers in silver. The food itself was from various regions, all of it finger food. Small Vathek biscuits, Kushaila briouat stuffed with lamb, Norgak vilgotzi. Ringing the edge of the plate Kushaila chebakiyya, a favorite of Maram’s. To our right and left were other tables, a little below us, but the seating arrangement had effectively closed us off into our own little bubble.
He bent his head toward me when he wanted to speak, mouth close to my ear, as I’d seen him do with Maram. I stiffened, unsure what he would say, but he merely wanted to gossip. He pointed out dignitaries and their children, telling me the latest news from far-off places.
“The king has confiscated all of House Dion’s holdings,” he said to me, and set a piece of honey-drenched chebakiyya on my plate. “They’re not penniless, but none of them want to go back to Luna-Vaxor.”
I resisted the urge to pick up the chebakiyya, lest the honey drip onto my dress. “Why not? It’s home to them.”
“Oh, my dear,” he said, and I fought the instinct to raise my eyebrows. “They wouldn’t be half as wealthy on their moon mining excelsior as they would be here inheriting lands that were liberated in the occupation.”
His voice dripped with sarcasm. Did he really speak to Maram in such a way? I struggled for a moment, casting him a sidelong glance. Was it his security as a lord at Maram’s side that allowed him to speak so, or was he taking a risk?
I’d never considered what it might be like, to be a makhzen and hostage of the Vath at the same time. I wanted to know where his loyalties lay. Did he want to be a king among the Vath? Or did his status as hostage necessitate play-acting as mine did?
I was unsure how Maram would respond to such a statement and settled on saying nothing at all. I looked out over the ballroom and the mix of people—Vathek and Taifa and Norgak and every tribe and culture across all of Andala and its moons were gathered here tonight.
He was still smiling, but there was a sharpness to it now, as if my cold reaction had put him on the defensive. We fell into an uneasy silence until he lay a hand on my shoulder.
“Another dance?” It felt like both a challenge and a peace offering. Did he placate Maram like that? Did she enjoy dancing so much? I let him lead me onto the dance floor as the music started up again.
“Would you like to hear a story? It’s a Kushaila one. An old one.”
I couldn’t stop my head from jerking up at that. He was playing with me, I was sure—though whether it was because the statement would annoy Maram, or because he had a notion something was off about me, I couldn’t tell. He smiled just a little, with an edge of triumph. My fingers tightened painfully on his shoulder without thinking.
“Now you’re interested,” he said.
I held my tongue, though he deserved a tongue lashing. I was angry—at myself for being so easily baited with the mention of home, and at him for gaining this small victory.
“It’s about Massinia,” he continued. “And her marriage.”
I restrained myself from closing my eyes. I knew the story—most people knew the story. But I had memorized the poetic forms it had taken, the formalized prose by Ibn Saj’, the varying anecdotes in biographies. I didn’t want to hear the story. Not tonight. But if I stopped him, he’d grow suspicious.
He lowered his head to mine while we danced, his voice even and melodic.
“Massinia was of the Tazalghit, horse masters of the desert,” he began. “They were tribal, and all their tribes were ruled over by women.”
His voice was strong and even, though hearing the story in Vathekaar was not ideal. Kushaila had a rhythm to it, and the stories were told in verse, so by the end you felt you were hearing a song you’d heard all your life. Idris’s telling of the story brought me no comfort. Instead, nostalgia for home rose up in me, bitter and hard. I didn’t want to hear the story in this cold, alien tongue. I wanted Ibn Saj’s prose or the poetry I’d kept back in the Ziyaana.
“She fell in love with a shepherd,” he continued. “And for a time she was happy.”
“But?” I prompted.
His hand tightened on my waist. “But Massinia’s heart did not belong to her,” he said. “It belonged to her tribe and her family. And their discovery might spark a war.”
“Did it?” I asked. I knew the answer, but Maram likely didn’t.
“Her sisters discovered her and killed him,” he answered. “And a war with his family followed.”
I shut my eyes and allowed Idris to guide me through the last steps of the dance. Likely I would never find a love like Massinia’s. When I was younger I’d dreamed of such a thing—quiet moments that built on each other into something lasting. But I lived in the Ziyaana now. Though my heart belonged to me, my body no longer did. Finding such love would be impossible.
“What a sad story you’ve told me,” I said at last, looking up at him.
He grinned. “She gets a happy ending.”
“Oh?”
“Do you know what happened to her? At the end of her life?” he asked.
I did know, but by all accounts Maram was not religious, so I waited for him to continue.
“She disappeared,” he said.
I was hard put to not snort. She hadn’t disappeared, at least not in the way historians meant. The tesleet who’d first saved her, Azoul, returned to her—after the wars of unification, after the transcription of Dihya’s Book, after her love died—and offered her a feathered cloak.
Return, oh mourner, he said to her. Set your feet in our Citadel.
And she’d donned the cloak and slipped out of the hands of everyone who’d ever wanted to make use of her and her legacy.
I was pulled out of my reverie by Idris’s voice. “The Stewardess is here to escort you away.”
Idris and I finished our dance with one last twirl. Then without another word he escorted me across the floor to Nadine, who stood in her customary black, her ever-present droid at her side.
“The king requests an audience,” she said when I reached her.
I forced myself to stand tall and not waver. If I couldn’t pass muster with His Grace, then all was lost. I heard Maram’s voice again, her comment to me during our very first meeting: your very life depends on it. Yet she needn’t have said the words aloud for me to understand what was at stake. I knew how the Vath worked; we all did. Failure was not an option.
Idris brushed a kiss over my cheek, then let me go.
My heart beat erratically as I let her lead me away, toward the throne at the far end of the chamber—it had long been unoccupied as the night wore on, but now I saw that the king was indeed in his place. King Mathis, Maram’s father. King Mathis, Conqueror of the Stars.
I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone.
“You are in fine form tonight,” she said as we walked through the crowds, which parted as they saw us approach. “I hope you are enjoying the ball.”
“Thank you, my lady, I am.”
I had managed an entire room full of courtiers, I thought to myself. Even Idris, who seemed to know Maram best of all, didn’t appear to suspect I was a stand-in. Surely I could brave one more trial.
My breath did not come any easier, but I stiffened my spine despite that. I could go without breath if it meant I would live to see the next morning.
A man in a high-backed chair spoke urgently to the advisor next to him. At our approach, he turned and waved the advisor away.
Mathis, son of Hergof, High King of the Vath, Emperor of the Outer Ouamalich System, Protector and Inheritor of the Stars of the Inner Reach, sat before me.
I had seen his face before, of course. It was impossible to escape our king. His profile graced our new currency and most administrative buildings. He was taller than I expected, his chest and shoulders broad, hard beneath the black of his military jacket. His silver hair gleamed in the torchlight, cropped short and close to his skull. His eyes, blue, seemed to glow, and every story about the Vathek alienness rushed to the forefront of my mind.
I sank to my knees slowly, as I had done before Nadine not so long ago, and cast my gaze to the floor. I could feel his eyes on me.
“Your Eminence,” I breathed.
Silence.
I forced my hands to relax in my lap, though I heard the sound of the king turning back around to his advisor, whispering something. My life depended on the outcome of this meeting. My world had narrowed to this moment and all the steps leading up to it.
“Nadine,” he said after a moment. “Notify my servants. I go to Rif tomorrow, once this festival has ended.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“And Maram?”
My head jerked up and I met his eyes. I felt nearly blasphemous looking at him. My face, I hoped, was blank. I willed my heart and my thoughts to calm. His eyes seemed to knife through all my pretending to see inside me. For a moment my mind was blank with fear that he’d seen through me.
I wrestled myself into calm, and forced myself to continue.
“Yes, Your Eminence?”
He held out a gloved hand. For a moment, I stared at it, uncomprehending. Nadine said nothing, but I could feel her behind me, berating me for my slowness and stupidity. I slid my hand into his and let him help me gracefully to my feet.
“What do you intend to do about securing your confirmation?” he asked me.
“Your Eminence?” I felt like a glitching holoreel.
He frowned, a fearsome, angry expression. He was so unlike my own father, who even in his angriest moments never frightened me.
“Last we spoke,” he said, “you agreed to produce a plan to handle the senate and confirm your status a
s heir. I ask so little of you already—”
Nadine, at last, coughed softly. “Your Eminence, we discussed the small matter of…” She never finished her sentence, and I was not foolish enough to turn my back on the king, but his expression smoothed as he understood. He turned a new gaze on me, critical and sharp, as if he meant to peel away all the layers of my self.
“Come here,” he said, his voice soft.
I stepped forward.
His gloves were soft against my chin. I did not know if it was the Vathek way to touch those below you, turning them this way and that to see if they met the measure they’d set. I felt like a bauble, constantly held up to the light to determine clarity. At last, he leaned back and rested his hands on the armrests of his chair. I hadn’t lowered my gaze and watched him almost as closely as he watched me.
“We are curious to see if you will survive the Ziyaana,” he said, whisper-soft. Then he raised a hand and waved me away.
I sank to my knees gracefully, my mind still, rose to my feet again, and walked away. But I could not resist a glance over my shoulder—he had turned his chair so that he was facing the wide picture window. The last I saw of him was his back and too-broad shoulders, outlined by the moonlight.
Nadine delivered me back to my table, whispering a few words of approval. Nerves still singing, I sat and watched the dancing couples as they stepped and spun. The night had taken on an otherworldly feel, and the lights seemed to reflect off the ice sculptures and windows in strange ways, making shapes on the floor out of shadow and iced flame.
I had succeeded in the impossible. Pride swelled inside me. I’d succeeded where everyone had expected failure. And my success meant that I would live. Long enough, I hoped, to escape. Long enough to find a way out of the Ziyaana, and to another life.
Return, oh mourner, return.