He swallows and nods, then hands it back. “You must carry it for me.”
“I can’t.” I back away, lifting my hands in refusal. The ring bearer must be the groom’s closest friend, one who symbolically carries his deepest trust and affection. Usually that person is his brother or oldest friend.
“I want you to,” he says. “After all, this was all your idea. Please, Zahra?”
His gaze is earnest, and my eyes fall to the ring on his palm. Mouth dry, I nod and take it, closing my fingers over it protectively, feeling small and unworthy.
“We should go,” I say gruffly. “You’ve got a wedding to catch.”
Chapter Twenty-One
THE NOBLES FLOW IN WAVES toward the palace temple, watching and whispering like a flock of doves, and they part for Aladdin, who walks ringed by his guards. The crowd wears a strange blend of dark funeral clothes, in keeping with the traditional twenty days of morning for a king, and bright festive colors for the wedding.
We reach the temple to find it overflowing with people. We are barely able to squeeze in, and the looks that follow us are malevolent. There is little love for Aladdin among this court, which until an hour ago had been expecting their own beloved prince to be the one standing at the princess’s side today. But I do spy a few smiling faces among those nobles Aladdin managed to charm in his short time at the palace, and I doubt it will take him long to win over the rest—so long as his true identity goes undiscovered.
Six drummers stand in front of the temple, beating a wedding tattoo that echoes throughout the palace, announcing the arrival of the bride and groom. Around the edges of the room, acolytes swing incense on chains, filling the air with the sweet scent of jasmine and moonflower. Each door is guarded by a priest bearing a prayer staff in one hand and a scroll of holy verse in the other, to ward off evil spirits and discourage jinn from entering. Their efforts are more symbolic than anything, and I pass by without incident.
We are met by Captain Pasha, who escorts Aladdin to a dais in front of the temple, beneath a four-story statue of Amystra, the goddess of warriors and judges. Her stone wings curve around the dais, enclosing it on three sides, while her arms stretch high above her upturned face, holding aloft a sword.
Aladdin stands at the foot of the stair leading up to the dais. He tugs at his collar, his eyes roaming the crowd. Those officials loyal to Caspida stand behind him, while scribes record everything at small wooden desks set to one side of the dais. Little girls strew rose and jasmine blossoms around the temple while singing a soft, sweet melody.
With Aladdin in place, Caspida enters from the left. The princess wears a long, trailing gown of white, embroidered from neck to hem with tiny white roses, with one arm bare and the other draped with sheer silk. Her hands and wrists are covered with red henna that stands out in contrast to her olive skin. Gathered into braids beneath a simple silver band, her hair is studded with the same tiny white blossoms that are also sprinkled on the dais and down the stairs. Caspida’s handmaidens follow her, dressed in shades of green, like the leaves of a rosebush with Caspida as the flower.
Two priests step forward to officiate. One carries a pot of burning embers, and the other a sprig of an olive branch. He taps Aladdin’s shoulders and forehead with the branch, symbolically purifying him, and then casts it into the bowl, where it burns in seconds. Then the priests scatter rice around Aladdin and Caspida’s feet, a symbol of good luck and fortune to come. At last two acolytes take a length of red silk and hold it over the couple’s heads, and the priests begin intoning the words of binding, their sentences interspersed with lines sung by a young acolyte boy with a voice as sweet as honey.
Aladdin is as edgy as a beggar in a guardhouse. He watches Caspida sidelong and tries to mimic her actions. I’m half afraid he’ll run. Caspida, on the other hand, is serene as a swan, her face composed and regal. She doesn’t meet Aladdin’s eyes.
I try to be happy for them, Habiba. Truly I do. And a part of me is happy for them—I have grown fond of them both, and to see them joined makes me believe some stories do end happily. Here is one wish I didn’t twist. Two lives I didn’t ruin.
And yet . . .
Part of me feels shriveled and rejected. I am the weed cast out of the rose garden. I am the crow chased out of the dovecote. I am where I belong, and shouldn’t that be enough? Doesn’t that merit some sense of happiness or, at the least, fulfillment? Haven’t I won the more important prize—freedom?