Sadness tinged Sefa’s smile. She removed the mushabak from Marek’s chest and tossed it in the wastebasket. “I am not a citizen. Nizahlan law does not permit marriage outside its territories unless one of them renounces their kingdom of origin. My father gave up his right to Lukub’s protections when he married my mother.”
I drew the absurdly plush pillow against my chest. Sefa grew up caught between Nizahl and Lukub, but I had rarely given Omal a second thought. Though my father’s Omalian blood ran in my veins, my grandparents had done their best to purge my interest in him. As though my worth as a Jasadi would decrease if I entertained any notion of my Omalian heritage.
“Let us not get distracted,” Sefa said, stern. She flopped onto the enormous bed, running her dark fingers through the sheepskin covers. “Baira’s kingdom is a land of illusion. They build lavish libraries and fill them with empty books, commission glorious paintings on the walls of deteriorating villages. My father told me a story about the feasts they host to celebrate the anniversary of the entombment. A tradition in the lower villages requires every family to leave an offering at Hirun’s banks on the eve of the anniversary. These days, it’s usually trinkets and what food they can spare. But in centuries past, the Sultanas encouraged the lower villages to throw the strongest child of every family into Hirun. If the child drowned, the family would say the river had blessed them by taking the child’s strength for its own. If the child survived, the family would be barred from having more children.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The lower villages were starving. The children most likely to survive the brutal winters were tossed into Hirun, leaving the weak ones to wither away.”
“Fewer mouths for the former Sultanas to feed,” Sefa confirmed. “Lukub’s Sultanas are not women to be trifled with, Sylvia. Their skills of deception are parallel to none.”
If they had managed to convince parents to drown their offspring with a smile, what sinister whispers could they weave into my own heart?
The rumble of Marek’s snores and the amber glow of dawn behind the tapestry lulled me into a restless sleep. I dreamed of red-eyed masks grinning in the dark and children splashing into a boiling Hirun. When I careened to consciousness again, the sun hung much higher in the sky, and someone knocked insistently at the door.
“Sylvia?” It was Jeru. “Are you all right?”
Marek and Sefa were gone. I cursed, rolling to the wardrobe in a tangle of limbs. The women from earlier had arranged my belongings inside, and I yanked out the first article of clothing I touched.
“What time is it?” I flung the gowns to the floor.
Jeru’s weary voice came through the door. How long had he been knocking? “It’s past noon.”
I hopped into the dress, staggering around the room. “No, no, no! How could you let me sleep so late?”
“Me?” Jeru returned, indignant. “Marek and Sefa tried to wake you up three times before they went to eat.”
The dress slipped over me in a whisper of silk, settling over my curves. Sefa’s painstaking work hadn’t been in vain. The dress was long, swirling with hues of violet. Matching slits parted over each leg, and two tiny Nizahl pins held up the thin straps at my shoulders. Had I not been so terribly late, I would have found another dress. These slits hiked mid-thigh, showing miles of skin when I moved.
I scowled at myself in the mirror and rushed out the door.
Jeru stared. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Yes. Maybe,” I picked at the fabric. “The banquet isn’t until tomorrow. Nobody will notice.”
Jeru started to speak and reconsidered. He shook his head. “Sefa is certainly familiar with Lukub’s fashions.”
We sped past bustling servants and halls decorated in elaborate tapestries and delicate carvings. We took turn after turn, and I wondered if perhaps I should have asked Arin to share his map of the Ivory Palace. He had given me stacks of reading to complete the first three weeks, mostly layouts of buildings we’d enter, history texts, and instructions on following the customs expected of a Champion in each kingdom. I hadn’t paid them much attention, since the only free time I had was the fifteen minutes between my bath and falling into a dead sleep. I regretted it—the grandeur of this palace ensured I would lose my way.
The walls changed from shades of red to pure ivory. The art on the walls tapered to a small collection of frames set inside the wall. I wanted to stop and study them, but Jeru urged me along. We had reached the Sultana’s wing.
A heavy velvet curtain blocked the next hall. Jeru pulled it aside, unveiling parallel rows of guards lining the walls. Nizahl on one side, Lukub on the other.
“The Nizahl Champion,” Jeru said. He prodded me forward.
The Lukub guards glared. The Nizahl ones smiled. I did not know which was worse.
Go, Jeru mouthed. I forced myself into motion.
A soldier on each side gripped a bar on the doors and heaved. They split, yawning open to reveal a receiving room even more lavish with decorations than the halls. Ribbons braided into spherical shapes dangled from the ceiling. Strips of gauzy curtain slanted around the ribbons and fluttered along the walls. A sleek bird with a white beak and riotously red feathers hopped in a cage shaped to resemble a Ruby Hound.
Arin and a stunningly beautiful woman sat across from each other, a tray of delicate desserts arranged between them. They both glanced up at my arrival.
Arin was the image of poise. Not a single strand of hair escaped from the tie at his nape, and he’d traded his usual uniform for more regal fare. The two of them together made for an arresting sight. I smoothed my hands along the dress, barely stopping myself from fidgeting with the fabric. I longed for the comfort of familiar clothes.
“Your Majesty.” I dipped my head. “It is an honor.”
When Sultana Vaida approached me, my jaw slackened. Lithe and graceful, she carried herself with the assurance of someone thrice her age. Her white gown glowed against smooth, dark skin. Dozens and dozens of intricate braids tumbled to her waist, tiny white and ruby flowers woven painstakingly through them. Slender and broad-shouldered, she regarded me with clever, dark brown eyes.
“Sylvia of Mahair. The honor is mine.” Before I could react, she leaned forward to kiss my cheek. My eye twitched, but I successfully refrained from flinching at the contact. “Join us, won’t you?”
“Forgive me my tardiness,” I said, seating myself beside Arin on the curved settee. To my surprise, he didn’t make room. Was he staying close in case he needed to intervene? I kept my hands in my lap, intensely aware of their proximity to Arin’s thigh.
Vaida waved a heavily ringed hand. “I loathe overnight campaigns in those woods. I don’t blame you one bit. I am forever attached to my creature comforts.”
“We were discussing how rapidly you’ve progressed in your training,” Arin said.
“I’ve had excellent help.”
Vaida giggled, a musical sound. “Don’t demur, darling, not in my company!”