Chapter Four

Laleh is lining my eyes with kohl in my bedroom, and I stare at my best friend’s face in the mirror, my heart twisting into knots at the prospect of not having her to talk to. “I wish you were coming with me.”

“Me, too,”

she says, pausing midstroke. “Honestly, I’m tempted to hide in one of your trunks.”

“You would suffocate,”

I point out.

“We could poke holes in it, and you could feed me treats like a baby monkey. I’m small, and if I pull my knees to my chest, I could fit.”

I snort at her serious expression. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Honey, I considered sedating you, locking you away, and taking your place before I remembered you’re my best friend. And my lady bits needed to take a breather.”

“Thanks, I think,”

I say with a burst of laughter, for which I’m scolded because I’ve marred her perfect lines. Holding my chin gently, she sweeps the pencil upward, correcting the slight smudge, and then dusts a shimmer of gold powder over my cheekbones. “We have very different opinions about going to Kaldari.”

“Yes, yes, I know you’re obsessed with forges and absolutely all the wrong kinds of pointy things.”

She shoots me a wicked smirk. “Though even if you don’t fancy the prince, keep your options open.”

I giggle. “You have a problem.”

“You need a good sticking with a manly sword. A real one. Not these imaginary fictional lovers you like to talk about.”

Laleh is the only one who knows about my very visceral dreams, dreams of a faceless figure who appears when I feel alone. Or scared. Or in need of care. Sometimes he feels more tangible than anything I know, though I’ve never confessed that part. She’ll think I’ve lost all reason, but in recent years, after my majority, my dream lover has become my safe space . . . my safe harbor. Real men, like Cyrill, come with too many problems to be worth any effort. Fictional men never disappoint.

“Book boyfriends are simply better,” I say.

She shrugs. “Anything’s better than the selection here in Coban. Who knows, you might even find your soul-fated.”

I roll my eyes. “I thought you don’t believe in romance and fate bonds.”

“But you do,”

she says. “Those books you read have utterly corrupted you.”

My skin flushes. The idea that there’s someone out there who’s your perfect match in every way is an intriguing one. The romantic tales I love paint pictures of days when soul-fated pairs were more common, chosen and blessed by the magic of the gods. But I know those are only stories.

“There,”

she says. “All done. As much as you don’t want to be a princess, you look like one.”

I glance up. She’s made me look . . . nice. My eyes are glowing within the frame of dark kohl, and my round cheeks have more definition. A pale rose stain on my lips accentuates their shape, and she has artfully curled my unruly locks into a shiny black waterfall. I squint at the tiniest group of white strands near the left corner of my crown and curse. “Sands, when did I get more gray hairs?”

Laleh peers down. “They’re more colorless than gray. I think it looks badass.”

She would think it does, given her obsession with hair dye. For me, the much-too-persistent strands need to be plucked. Not that I have time now, however. My best friend would flay me alive if I destroyed her court-worthy work.

Sands, I can’t believe I’m going to Kaldari!

“I still think someone got this wrong,” I murmur.

“Why?”

she counters.

I lift one arm to gesture limply at myself. “There’s no logic behind it.”

“It’s hardly random,”

she scoffs, resting her chin on top of my shoulder. “The monarchy doesn’t do something like this without a plan. They chose you, Sura.”

For some reason, her words hit harder than anything from Amma or my father, or even Cyrill. Do they know about my work with jādū? Is this all some intricate ploy to get me to Kaldari to put my head on a spike? “Yes, but why?”

“Why not?”

she stresses, her eyes wide within their own rim of kohl.

“You’re very irritating, you know that?”

She wraps her arms around me from behind. “Good thing you adore me. Get up and let’s get you outside before you miss your portal. I can’t wait to see the king’s runemasters in action. Do you think they’ll be hot?”

“No. Those men are all old and decrepit.”

With a half groan, half snicker, I stand and grimace at the silk fabric of my tunic clinging to my thighs. “Maybe the crown made the selections based on ample, heir-bearing hips. That I can understand.”

“Thick thighs save lives,”

Laleh says sagely. “But you’re wrong. Parvi’s hips would snap in a strong wind. You just have to accept the fact that you’re special, Suraya Saab, and a sexy prince probably thinks you’re marriage material.”

“I can’t think of anything worse,”

I mutter as we make our way downstairs. Just before we reach the bottom stair where my father and Amma are waiting, Laleh pulls me into a hug.

“Promise me you’ll try to have a good time?”

she whispers. “Stay out of your own head and live in the moment. And for the love of all things holy, please do not bring up the Dahaka or anything political. I don’t need to be breaking anyone out of a palace prison. Channel me if you have to. What would Laleh do?”

Chuckling softly, I exhale and return the squeeze. “I promise.”

Amma’s face crumples as I reach her. With a choked sound, she flings her arms around my waist and hugs me tight. Before I can say a word, she growls that she loves me and then releases me and scurries to the kitchen.

I bite my lip, fighting back my own sob.

“You know how she is,”

my father says gruffly. “Come, it’s time.”

The main street of the village is filled to bursting with well-wishers—our neighbors are out in droves, throwing rice and petals toward me as if it’s such an honor to have been selected. I suppose it is, but I close my eyes, swaying unsteadily.

Despite my so-called silver lining of visiting the palace and the royal forge, my nerves have seen better days. Amma and Papa had quarreled for hours . . . and finally it had come down to one thing: we could not risk angering the king with a refusal. Eventually, Papa had conceded with great reluctance, but with so many rules I could hardly keep track. Keep my head down. Speak only when spoken to. Don’t touch anyone. I’d raised my eyebrows at the last one but agreed all the same. Contrary to my best friend’s hopes, I don’t plan on touching anyone at all.

“Sura, wait,”

Laleh says from behind me, making me jump. “I forgot to give you this. I made it for you.”

In her outstretched hands is a beautiful, jeweled headpiece woven from intricate lace. I feel my eyes start to sting. “Laleh.”

“Don’t make a scene.”

She wrinkles her nose as she reaches up on tiptoe to place it over my curls. “Just promise to find out how enormous the library is, and we’ll call it even.”

I can’t help but laugh and whisper under my breath, “Again, your fixation is unhealthy.”

“And you need to fixate a little more,”

she says with a wink. “Wear the teal outfit, and I guarantee your life will change.”

My brow furrows. What teal outfit?

A part of me wonders if I should regret letting Laleh take charge of my wardrobe, but it’s far too late now. She squeezes my arm and darts away for a better view of the square before I can thank her, and I’m left trying to ignore the whispers and glances of the crowd. I can imagine what they’re saying: Why was someone like me chosen when I’m nothing compared with Parvi or Fatima? Or worse, even Simin, who is glaring at me with the force of a thousand suns?

“What’s the matter?”

my father asks quietly, noticing my agitation.

“Nothing, I’m just hot,”

I say quickly. I tug at the soft collar of my bodice—an embroidered tunic with matching trousers made from pale lilac muslin. Laleh had insisted that the color made my gray eyes look like polished moonstone.

My father’s arm comes down around my shoulders, hauling me against his side, and he leans in, his voice low and urgent. “You can change your mind.”

“We talked about this, Papa. You know I can’t.”

Fanning my cheeks, I frown at him. “Why do you sound afraid?”

“I am afraid,”

he says. “Kaldari is a pit full of vipers.”

“As is nearly every large city. But we’re talking about the palace, the place with a million guards,”

I say, and force a smile for his benefit.

“Kaldari is not what you think it is,”

he says after a long, fraught beat.

“You speak as if you know it.”

He sighs at my sharp stare. “Your mother and I lived there for a time when you were a baby.”

I gape at him. “You never told me that!”

“You were just two when we left.”

He rakes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. His voice drops even lower. “I had hoped it would be a part of our past, but things have a way of coming back to haunt you when you least expect it. And now with this summons . . .”

He releases a measured breath, one that doesn’t help relieve the renewed knots of tension in my belly. “But perhaps I’m overreacting.”

Overreacting or not, my mind is whirling at this information. People in Kaldari lack for nothing. Why would my parents choose to come here to this desolate desert town in the middle of nowhere when they had once lived in the jewel of the kingdom?

“Why did you leave?” I ask.

“That’s a story for another time. Perhaps when you return.”

He peers down at me, taking my sweaty hands in his, callused thumbs brushing across my skin. “Maybe I can decline the invitation, on account that you are already betrothed. Cyrill will—”

“Don’t even think it,”

I grind out in horrified haste, and step out of his reach as if he’ll act on those words. “Papa, I will be fine. I’ll be back before you can even miss me, I promise.”

It’ll take a miracle for me to make any sort of impression with all the other prospects, and while the thought of spending an evening or two feasting and exploring the palace is an exciting one, flirting with Prince Javed is not. If I stick to the plan of being inconspicuous, I will be fine. Safe and fine.

The crowd shifts, and my eyes hitch on a haggard old woman. My heart immediately begins to pound, my palms hot against my sides. But the next moment, she turns to speak to her companion with a grin, and I see she looks nothing like the crone from the alley. I sag in relief, but my heart is still racing, and I feel as though sand beetles are hatching and crawling around in my stomach.

Something isn’t right . . .

A strange haze fills my vision, similar to the shimmery bands of heat that rise above the desert sand on a scorching hot day. I look at my clammy palms, at the sheen of sweat dampening them. Two luminous Ms stand out against my skin, and I inhale sharply, recalling the crone’s skeletal finger tracing the same pattern.

My father turns, touching my shoulder, and as suddenly as it had arisen, the hallucination is gone.

The crone is a bumbling old fool. I fist my fingers and fasten them to my sides.

Tingles cross my palms, and I rub them against the soft fabric of my trousers.

“Papa, what do you know of the old gods?”

His gaze sharpens. “Why do you ask?”

“Just something Cyrill said.”

“Cyrill is too free with his opinions.”

“He said that the prince—”

“There it is!”

someone shrieks, and a crash of applause erupts from the waiting crowd, cutting me off. A sparking sphere forms at the center of the square, small at first and then increasing in size to accommodate a full-grown man. The glimmering oval looks like a pool of vertical water, and I can’t help but notice that the iridescent colors of the portal match the hues of the finished dagger tucked into the sheath at my thigh.

Jādū.

I probably shouldn’t be taking an illegal blade to the capital city, but leaving it behind is risky. My father can’t be caught with it, and the truth is I didn’t want to part with it. The dagger had turned out perfect—small, sharp, and lethal. I’d carefully peened the tang into the pommel carved in the shape of a proud, elegant simurgh. And though it was a touch whimsical, I’d etched a starburst at the base of the fuller, along with a symbol of the moon for my mother. For luck.

No forbidden, elemental runes that could land me in hot water with the crown.

My spine snaps straight as a royal guard appears. The curved scimitar at his hip is carved with the symbol for fire. It’s lovely work, but not as precise as mine. Though it isn’t like anyone from Kaldari would be armed with my blades. Vasha is only conscripted for the soldiers in the outlying cities.

A contingent of a dozen armed men follow the first, and I frown. That seems excessive to escort three women to the capital. “Why are there so many guards?”

I whisper to my father.

His thick brows are lowered. “There was an infiltration in the palace yesterday. A woman pretending to be one of the chosen was discovered to be an assassin.”

I gasp. “The Dahaka?”

My father gives a tight nod and looks conflicted, like he’s a second away from hauling me back to the tavern, the king’s reaction and repercussions be damned. I must admit the sight of so many guards has my pulse ratcheting—reading about the rebel militia and venturing into their war zone are two different things. “Remember what I said,”

he says urgently. “If there’s trouble, run.”

“I will, I promise,”

I say softly.

Several men dressed in the smart livery of the Imperial House step through the portal to gather our trunks, followed by the hard-faced runecaster who emerges to greet my father and verify my identity. I stare openly at the glowing alchemical markings on his neck; I’ve never seen an actual imperial runecaster this close before. How powerful is he with all those runes? I gulp and lower my eyelashes, but the man barely takes notice of me.

Then I can only give my father a quick hug, and Laleh, who reappears at the last second. I’m ushered toward the waiting portal. A round of cheering takes over the crowded village square as Parvi and Fatima pass through. My palms prickle and flare again with a deep rush of heat, and I stumble. I feel the runecaster’s attention flutter briefly toward me, but he looks irritated instead of suspicious, as though I’m wasting his precious time.

The crone from the alley flickers in my mind. Setareh sar lokkar, beware the lie.

I feel bile rising in my throat and force it back.

“Get ahold of yourself, Suraya,”

I whisper fiercely. “She’s not real.”

I repeat the words like a mantra and practically lunge through the swirling portal. A sticky, nearly webby coolness passes over my skin, tugging on the fine hairs all over my body, before releasing me with a noiseless—and thankfully painless—pop on the other side.

Kaldari, at long last.

* * *

The air feels different here. Less dry, more fragrant.

Desert air has a thinness to it, but the Kaldarian atmosphere is lush, almost too much for my Coban-hardy senses. But I breathe it in and slowly acclimate. There are dozens more guards milling about, I notice, and all on horseback, armed to the teeth. Are they expecting another attack from the Dahaka?

One of the attendants approaches to escort me to a waiting carriage where Parvi and Fatima are already seated, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. They glance up at my arrival and then resume talking. I try not to let their aloofness affect me; perhaps they’re just as nervous as I am.

Taking the opposite seat, I smooth my hair into place and peer out the window as the coach starts forward. On our left side, a glistening river weaves through a verdant valley, leading toward the citadel that’s visible on the right side and splitting the green fields that border the walls of the capital. Mesmerized by the view, and the changing colors and contours of the landscape, I can hardly contain the rush of delight in my chest as the Kaldarian palace finally comes into view.

Sands . . .

The midday sun glitters along its walls, making me squint even as I try to absorb every single detail, from the lavish gardens to the fountaining pools to the statues crowning the entrance. Regal columns tipped with spires rise alongside the perimeter as my carriage joins a long procession of others, and then my view is obscured as we ride through a marble arch leading into an expansive courtyard.

Once through, my jaw goes loose. It’s glorious. Elaborate cupolas rise above me like suspended bubbles, and my eyes devour every engraving, every swatch of jeweled color, and commit them to memory. The central tower seems to be made entirely of gold, while stained-glass art and exquisite murals flatter its facade. The painting in my workshop simply hadn’t done it justice, the sheer opulence far beyond what any prosaic copy could capture.

My coach comes to a halt, and a footman accompanies all three of us down the steps. The courtyard is bustling with activity as people rush back and forth, welcoming the procession of incoming carriages.

And standing stoic around the perimeter is another line of guards. I try not to let the ominous sight of them affect me.

A group of young women—other chosen, I presume—stand together nearby, seemingly unruffled by all the glamour. From their rich clothes, I’m guessing they must hail from Veniar or Eloni, wealthier cities than Coban. One with reddish hair is proudly wearing the crest of Regulus, and the brunette near her is garbed in ornate armor. Antares, obviously. I try to school my expression to appear as casual as they do, but I can’t quite keep my delighted wonder from creeping to the surface.

You can take the girl out of the desert . . .

Parvi and Fatima wander toward them with no care for me, but I honestly don’t mind. I chuckle and press my palms to my cheeks to keep from grinning like a loon. I want to soak up every single second of this, so I can relate it all to Laleh in full detail and savor it for the rest of my life.

As I look around again, an untidy mop of wavy brown hair catches the sunlight, snagging my attention. It belongs to a man perched precariously on a high stone wall bordering one of the gardens, who is also observing the arrivals with interest.

As though he senses my attention, our gazes collide, and I recoil from the blast of derision in his gaze as it sweeps me from head to toe. I sense the sneer before it curls over his full lips as if to imply, You don’t belong here. Despite my earlier self-deprecating thoughts, I bristle at the overt contempt. Who in Oryndhr does he think he is?

Dressed in plain, homespun brown trousers with a dark navy tunic and scuffed black boots, he could be a groom or a gardener. I lift my chin in as haughty a manner as I can manage, mimicking the affected air of the nearby women, and stare him down. To my irritation, the man suddenly grins and winks before somersaulting off the wall. I swallow a scream and lurch forward, hands aloft, before he lands deftly in a neat crouch at its base. He rises and sends a mocking bow in my direction. Mortified, I lower my arms and will my hammering heart to calm. What had I been about to do? Catch him somehow?

Now that we’re on the same level, I can see the man is strong and lean, with wide shoulders that lead to a defined chest and long, muscled legs. His tunic and trousers hug his frame like someone has lovingly crafted every stitch just for him. Sands on fire, but the man is fit . . . and clearly knows it. My gaze returns to his face, and he arches a brow at my ogling. My cheeks burn.

Way to be suave, Suraya!

I toss my head and turn away, but the effect is immediately spoiled as a gust of wind snatches my veiled headpiece and sweeps it into the air. Cursing, I abandon all attempt at being haughty, hike up the length of my tunic, and chase after Laleh’s gift . . . right into an incoming contingent of galloping horses.

“Stand back!”

someone roars, and I freeze. In my peripheral vision, I see the courtyard guards snap to instant attention, hands on their weapons and moving closer . . . toward me, as if I’m a threat. Every single person drops to the ground in deference as a hushed silence descends over the courtyard.

Trembling with adrenaline, I do the same and peek up through my lashes. A massive Thoroughbred stallion glistens with sweat above me, its powerful hooves stomping the dirt a hair’s breadth from my head. My eyes travel past the animal’s sleek, muscular torso to the rich drapes falling from the golden saddle and jeweled bridle, my stomach cramping with every raised inch.

Please don’t be the king. Please don’t be the king.

“Stand,”

a female voice commands, and a lance of cold horror spikes through me. Only one person could be worse than the king. His wife, Queen Morvarid.

“M-majesty,”

I stammer, standing but keeping my eyes lowered.

“Show me your face.”

I look up and meet the glacial stare of Prince Javed’s mother. Her disdain is obvious as she pinches my offending headdress with the tip of her index finger and her thumb. She looks like a warrior goddess in polished riding leathers, golden armbands, and an exquisitely plumed headpiece that trails down her back. Although an emerald silk veil covers the lower half of her face, I can tell the rumors of her beauty aren’t exaggerated.

A kohl-lined gaze sweeps me from top to bottom, narrowing at my messy hair, rumpled clothes, and sweaty face. “What is your name?”

“Sur—Suraya Saab, Your Majesty.”

Her stare is cold. “House?”

“Aldebaran.”

“Of course,”

she says with no small amount of disdain, and waves off the guards who have surrounded us. “Is this yours?”

“Yes, it is, Your Majesty,”

I stammer, wishing I could disappear into the bowels of the earth at her scathing tone.

“Refined young ladies in the imperial court do not comport themselves in such a manner. This is not the slovenly market square of whichever squalid hole of a backwater city you hail from. This is the royal palace. You will conduct yourself with grace and decorum.”

Her words are delivered like the strokes of a crop, and I flinch at each soul-blistering crack. My stomach takes its final dive into complete and abject humiliation as ugly heat creeps up my neck into my cheeks. “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me.”

She tosses the headpiece down, where it’s caught by the gardener from the wall, and wheels her horse around with a flourish. Half a dozen mounted guards follow in her wake, while the rest go back to their positions. Dead silence descends for a moment, followed by a roar of frenzied whispers.

Every remaining pair of eyes in the courtyard flicks to me, while the nearby chosen don’t even attempt to stifle their delight at such a scandal. The women I’d noticed on arrival laugh openly at my shame, and I cringe. No amount of fancy clothes will erase an entrance such as mine, at least not in this century.

“By the maker, how could I have been so sandsdamned stupid?”

I whisper to myself.

“Not stupid exactly,”

an all too supercilious voice interjects. “Perhaps ill-advised or temerarious?”