Caspida’s handmaidens are all here, and there is one other presence: An elephant calf stands in the center of the room. The girls are idly painting designs onto its skin, and they give me curious looks before turning back to their work. Raz is halfheartedly firing arrows at a pillow across the room, her shots flying dangerously close to Nessa’s head but finding their target every time. Nessa seems hardly to notice.
Caspida lounges on a long cushion in front of the elephant and offers up handfuls of apple slices, which the calf picks up with its trunk and tucks into its mouth. She giggles when it tugs her hair, asking for more, and for a moment I see her for the girl she is and not the queen-to-be she presents to her court.
The princess glances up when I enter, her hand pausing above the bowl of apples. The calf nudges her with its trunk.
Caspida wears only a white kurta and skirt, her feet bare, but the fabric is encrusted with delicate embroidered flowers that must have taken a very skilled seamstress several months to create. A simple gold stud is pressed into her nostril, and a delicate chain hangs from it to her earlobe, brushing her smooth cheek.
“You must be Zahra.”
I bow low. “Your Highness.”
“Hungry?” She lifts the bowl of apples and pushes aside the elephant’s trunk when it tries to grab the fruit.
I look at the bowl, then at Caspida, reading the unspoken words in her eyes. This is an ancient game that I have seen played, won, and lost many times over. Take the fruit, and I am demonstrating that my loyalties to my master can be tested, perhaps broken. Decline, and she will know that I am his to my last breath.
“You do me honor,” I say, and I take an apple slice.
She smiles slowly, her eyes narrowing with interest. “Walk with me.”
Without lifting her skirt, she steps into the shallow pool outside the arches, leaving the bowl in Khavar’s hands. I follow, wading into the water. It comes only to my ankles, but it is cool and refreshing, the black and white tiles at the bottom free of slime or sand. Lotus blossoms float placidly on the surface and swirl aside when we walk through them.
Caspida steps onto a grassy space beyond the reflecting pool. The palace encloses us on all sides, and the shadow of a tall minaret darkens the water, yet this small garden is framed with trellises and trees so that it feels as if we are the center of a distant oasis. Set in the middle of the grassy plot is a weathered statue of a winged woman holding a lamp in one hand, a sword in the other. I cannot help but catch my breath when I behold her.
The elephant plods after us, and the girls cry out in dismay as their paintings are smudged. The calf prances in the water and sprays itself happily while the girls, giving up on their artwork, begin splashing each other.
The princess sits on the grass and folds her legs beneath her, her skirt spreading around her in a pool of silk. I kneel beside her and wait for her to speak first. Her silence is filled with birdsong, splashing, and the girls’ soft laughter. She watches the elephant and her handmaidens for a few moments before beginning, eschewing pleasantries and cutting straight to the point.
“Tell me about your master.”
I nod. “He is eighth in line to the throne, the son of—”
“No, no,” Caspida interrupts irritably. “Tell me what he is like.”
“He is a gambler,” I say. There is no point in lying about these things. “He is bold, but reckless. Brave, but impetuous. A man who . . . holds grudges.” Pausing, I finish in a whisper, “He would risk his life to save someone else, without even thinking twice.”
Caspida turns her head a bit, interest growing in her eyes. “And he sets out on a mad voyage and sails straight into a nest of jinn.”
“My master is noble,” I say with a smile, “but I made no suggestions as to his intelligence.”
“I have never heard of Istarya, so I did some research. You know, none of the scrolls or histories in our library mention it?”
“We’re a small nation, Your Highness, and we keep to ourselves.”
She stares at me with shrewd eyes, but doesn’t reply.
The elephant calf has discovered it can suck up water and spray it on the girls, and seems to find this vastly amusing. The girls shriek and try to hide, but the calf merrily lumbers after them, shooting water in glittering sprays. Caspida watches it, but does not smile.
“The calf’s name is Shasi. Her mother died giving birth to her, and my uncle was going to have her killed because she was born small and sickly. But we took her and made her well again, and she would rather play with my maidens than with her own kind.” She absently runs her thumb and forefinger up the chain on her cheek, making it tinkle softly. “My great-grandmother Fahruaz was part Tytoshi. It was she who imported the first of our war elephants. She was a great strategist and commanded our army for more than thirty years. It is said that her enemies laid many traps for her but that she was too cunning for them, for she always saw the truth behind their lies. Some believe that I am very much like my grandmother.”
Caspida turns to me. “You are no servant, Zahra. You hide it well from the others, but your eyes are too proud, your glances too defiant. But if you are not a servant, what are you? Royal? Noble? A soldier in disguise, sworn to protect your master?”