He did not sound particularly hopeful, and we lapsed into silence again. I tried to think of how to tell them I was sorry for landing them all here, but every time I thought of words that might work, I remembered that Saoud had followed us of his own volition, and both Arwa and Tariq had offered as many suggestions as I had, back in the mountain pass. They had followed me here because they wanted to, not because I had made them, and if it was a bad end, then they would meet it on their own terms. The only thing I could really apologize for was raising the specter of hope again when it was all clearly lost, but even that sentiment rang hollow with me when I tried to give it voice.
Before I could think of anything, the tent flap opened again and a larger guard beckoned to me. I left the tent on my feet, my hands raised to protect my eyes from the light, and followed the guard through the haphazardly arranged tents until we stood before the tent that was clearly the best one. The cloth was dyed, to begin with, and there were clerestories in the uppermost areas of the peak, letting daylight in so that oil or candle smoke wouldn’t make the air inside the tent stuffy. It was held in place by bronze pegs instead of iron. I shuddered when I recalled the reason for that detail.
We went into the tent, and I was immediately shoved forward onto my knees. Prince Maram sat on an ornately carved wooden chair, which I thought a foolish waste, as someone had to carry it while the prince rode on horseback. Beside him on a collection of pillows sat Zahrah. There was a frame in her lap with the warp already set, and a collection of cloth strips behind her. Judging by the colors, the strips had once been someone’s uniform. At least they hadn’t used our spare clothes.
“Spinner,” said the prince, “I am told you can weave as well?”
“I can,” I said. I was not his subject, and I would not grant him his title. The guard behind me pressed his staff into the back of my knee, pushing it into the ground, but I made no noise.
“I see,” said the prince. He didn’t sound impressed, either by my supposed talents at weaving or by my defiance. “It has come to my attention that my fiancée’s lessons are incomplete. You will show her how to weave, as it is a skill all ladies ought to have.”
The slight emphasis he put on “ladies” did not go unnoticed, but I said nothing further. I nodded and then moved to stand up so that I could go to where Zahrah was sitting. The guard pressed his staff down again, and I froze.
“You may crawl, Spinner,” the prince said. “If you are lucky, I won’t make you crawl all the way back to my beloved’s castle.”
I crawled. The guards laughed as I seated myself near Zahrah, and then the prince, seemingly bored of the game, dismissed most of them.
“Like this, my princess,” I said, trying to sound formal, as I had done those days in the hidden valley.
I took the loom from her lap and selected a piece of cloth. We wouldn’t be making anything in particular. The loom was too small for real work. Instead, she would learn the mechanics of how to weave the cloth as though it were a true lesson, and she would later move on to other projects. It wasn’t real weaving, just the motions of it, as though they only needed to say she had woven something, and didn’t care if she actually could.
I worked the first strip of cloth through the warp and then selected a piece of cloth for her. Our fingers brushed as I passed the loom back to her. Prince Maram, who had been watching dispassionately, nodded to the guard who stood beside me, and the guard cracked me across the knuckles with his sheathed dagger. It didn’t break my fingers, but it hurt them. They would be swollen later, particularly if I kept weaving now, which I would obviously have to. Lessons, then, for Zahrah, in weaving, torture, and the prince’s absolute control.
I risked a look at her, desperate to know if they had done the same to Arwa, even though Arwa had claimed she was fine. Zahrah gave the tiniest shake of her head and then raised a hand to her temple to cover the movement.
“My love, does your head ache?” asked Maram, his tone indicating that he already knew the answer to his question. “You must keep practicing. I have been told that will ease your suffering.”
He meant her headache only, not the rest of her pain.
Zahrah began to weave. As always, she was beautiful at her work, even though the circumstances were abhorrent. She missed none of the cross strings in the warp, even on her first attempt, and was able to keep each line tightly aligned with the one above it with little effort. As she continued, a manic energy like I had never seen before lit her eyes, the only part of her I could see under her veil. I tried to think like Tariq, and wondered what was different now, and then I knew: the demon. Somehow it was driving her.
My hand was throbbing as I helped her begin the next row, careful not to touch her. There were so many magics upon her: the demon’s to hurt, and the creatures’ to inspire. She would feel all of those things at once. I was so proud of her for not fracturing under the pressure. But then, halfway through a line, she froze. She took a deep breath and looked up past my shoulder. I started to follow her gaze, and Prince Maram stood up out of his chair as the tent flap moved and a person who was not a person came into sight.
“Lady,” Prince Maram said. “Have you come to see our progress?”