Sample Chapters

Chapter 1 – 38 Days to Mahraian ‘Qua Ramil Festival

Jadi Fortress, Zah Bariya

 

 

“I’ll never understand how anyone could kill his brother in cold blood,” I say as I trail my fingers through the cool water of a reflecting pool. My tutor, Rashid, and I have escaped to the oasis-fortress’s gardens to enjoy this miraculously sandstorm-free day.

The princes and their tutor must’ve had the same idea, and my eyes flit across the courtyard to where they’re lounging on the steps of the Hall of Audience. Feet away, tucked under the shadows, lies my father’s famous jeweled throne. My younger half-brothers’ white silk tunics are embroidered with subtle gold designs that shimmer with every movement. On the landing beneath them, their tutor paces, stammering and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He stills as a Dune Mage rushes past, and they all stop talking.

The mage has one armful of scrolls, and his muted red robes whip as he walks. In his other hand, he carries the traditional staff with its glittering, sand-filled orb at the end of the rod, surrounded by metal forged into the shape of windblown flames. His eyes are nothing more than slits hidden within the black band tattooed from his eyebrows to below his eyes and stretching from ear to ear.

When the mage disappears around a corner, the three boys lean back on their elbows, laughing loudly.

A twang resonates deep inside my gut, so I dig my fingernails into my palm, creating four small crescent moons that slowly fade back into oblivion. As I watch them disappear, a single bead of sweat drips down my back.

Rashid crosses his arms, lifting one caterpillar of an eyebrow at me. Like nearly everyone who lives in Jadi, his eyes are the rich brown of aged saddle leather that’s so dark it’s almost black. “Akbar, our focus is on history lessons now. You can perfect your daydreaming skills on your own time.”

My spine goes rigid. Right, let’s talk about how much my family likes to murder each other.

Rashid reaches above his head and, with a snap, plucks a perfectly ripe mango from between the sea of green leaves. With his sleeve, he polishes away a layer of fine sand that has settled on its skin.

A wind gust rattles the leaves above me, and I clamp my turban to my head. Over on the steps, the wind whips a pile of paper loose. The royals and their tutor scramble to collect them. One of them catches me staring and bares his teeth.

Following my gaze, Rashid says, “At least you can take comfort that you’re safe from threats of fratricide.”

I scratch the stubble on my chin and tug one corner of my mouth into an uneven smile. The princes “That may be the singular benefit of being unrecognized. Although what I wouldn’t give—”

The metallic zing of a dagger being unsheathed pulls me from my thought. Rashid stabs the mango he plucked a moment ago, dragging his blade through the flesh. Juice trails down his fingers as he slices off a chunk and pops it into his mouth. He offers me the next bite, but I shake it off.

Instead, I scoop a palmful of water and slide it through my wavy hair. The water in the pool is the exact same shade of blue as my eyes, an almost unheard-of trait in the desert, and they’re yet another way I don’t fit in. My mother says they’re the same color as the wild flax flowers that traveling caravans sell to men in the marketplace to give their wives. If I ever met my father, what would he have to say about my eyes?

“It’s best if you stop dreaming of impossibilities,” Rashid says as he wipes juice from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just focus on our plans and leave the plotting and savagery to the men with titles.”

A thunder crack resounds in the distance, low and rumbling as it echoes across miles of ruthless dunes outside the fortress walls. On the horizon, dust clouds gather in an ominous line. We shove our books and maps under our arms, then hurry toward the palace.

As we approach the building, a maid scurries in our direction, cheeks flushed and holding her skirts tight against the brewing storm.

She nods to Rashid. “May the power of the sand protect you.” The words tumble out so quickly, I almost can’t understand the traditional greeting.

“Is everything ok?” I ask the girl.

She grips my forearm and shakes her head. “It’s your mother.”

I dash toward the harem.

 

***

 

The harem’s halls are shrouded in shadows as we sprint to my mother’s quarters. I bite my lip and shove her carved acacia door with my shoulder. It only budges a few inches before thudding against something solid. When it swings wide with a squeal, I stumble into the chest of a giant.

“Akbar.” It’s Bravesh, the eunuch. He’s my mother’s guard, and the lines in his brow are as deep as ravines. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

Beyond his shoulder, shutters rattle in their frames, letting occasional bursts of wind and grit slip through. In the corners, oil lamps fight against the gloom of a room that is usually so bright and filled with laughter. Now, tiny sand particles float wherever there is movement, and long shadows writhe on the floor. On the bed, my mother lies motionless, a healer and her chambermaid tending her.

“What happened?”

Bravesh fastens his massive hand around my elbow and leads me inside. He deposits me at my mother’s bedside. “Don’t forget to breathe,” he whispers in my ear.

The healer shuffles to make room for me.

My mother’s hand is clammy and cold when I press it to my cheek. Her eyes are closed, and sweat beads on her forehead like tiny gemstones.

“It’s shard sickness,” the healer says. His voice is soft but curt. “Tiny glass fragments from the sandstorms have built up in her lungs.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to block out the implications. During last summer’s sandstorm season, the wailing of the funerals pierced the night sky for weeks.

Rashid speaks from behind me. “Will she survive?”

Thunder shakes the room. Outside the gaps in the shutters, the heavens are forming a rust-colored, churning mass.

The healer clasps my forearm, and his lips pull tight. “It is good you came so quickly.”

Except for the blood pulsing in my ears, silence dominates the room. I plead with the healer soundlessly, but he shakes his head a single time.

“Mother?” I touch the sleeve of her indigo nightdress.

She moans.

A maid replaces the cloth on her forehead with a damp one, then rubs her cheek, which is as pale as the sun-bleached steps to the sand god’s temple. “Mistress, Akbar is here.”

When my mother’s eyes flutter open, the maid retreats, silently pulling the healer and Rashid into the shadows with her.

“Just stay strong, Mother.”

Her hand covers mine, but her bones are as delicate as a bird’s. She squeezes lightly.

“Oh, my sweet Ma’ghazal.” Water Gazelle. Her secret nickname for me since childhood. She used to tell me stories about the brightly colored mythical creature that could always find water, even in the hottest desert. Without fail, the water gazelle would appear on the horizon when all hope was lost and guide the hero to safety. Where is the water gazelle now?

She pats the bed beside her.

“Darling, I must tell you something before I—”

“No,” I shake my head. My eyebrows scrunch, and I smooth her paper-thin skin with my thumb. “Don’t say that.” I bat moisture from my eye with the edge of my hand.

“Please, let me say what I… must.” She pauses breathlessly, then coughs. One cough turns into a fit of them. When her face begins to turn purple, the healer shoves me aside.

As he tends her, I fix my gaze on the ceiling, not sure which god to call upon. Normally, I’d pray to Ramil, the god of sand. But his sandstorms caused this, so it doesn’t seem right. I’d consult with a Dune Mage later and ask him who to pray to. What sacrifices to make.

When the fit subsides and my mother slumps back against the bed, she shoos the healer away. She wipes spittle from her mouth. “What they did was horrible, and you were just a babe.”

“Mina!” Rashid cries from across the room. “What are you doing?”

Lightning flashes, casting a ghostly yellow over everything in the room.

My mother summons her chambermaid. The girl tucks something next to her leg before retreating. “Your mother—” Her chest shudders. “She sent this with you when you came to me. In case you ever needed to prove….” She presses something cold and heavy for its size into my hand, then closes it within my grasp.

When she pulls back, I open my fingers. It’s a necklace charm featuring a water gazelle. His body is covered in swirls of blue and purple enamel. His horns arc over his back, releasing a glittering blue spray made from dozens of tiny aquamarines, lapis lazuli, and sapphires.

“My mother? What are you talking about?”

She turns the pendant over, revealing an engraving in the gold: Akbar, my son—my love for you endures forever. N.A.

Rashid steps closer.

“You knew this?”

He stares at the floor.

I gape at my mother. Not my mother.

Her shoulders quake. “I couldn’t tell you.” She covers her trembling lip and struggles through rasping breaths.

A lilac-breasted wren shuffles in its cage.

My mind whirls. “Then who am I?”

Nobody responds. The room goes murky at the edges, and my lungs scream for air.

Hacking coughs rip through her lungs, and the healer returns, shoving me aside.

Slowly, the room closes in around me. I don’t realize I’m backing up until my calves run into a brocade chair at the edge of the room. So it is from that blackened corner that I sit helplessly, trembling, as the life ebbs from my mother’s body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2 – 37 Days to Mahraian ‘Qua Ramil Festival

 

 

My mourning tunic is made from coarse goat wool, and as I rest my forearms on my windowsill, bits of hair poke into my flesh. I lean harder, embracing the discomfort, pressing the fabric beneath me until I wince. In my right hand, my gazelle necklace is cold and weighty, and I turn it over and over as I stare out the window, watching for the first night star to appear.

When it does, the wailing begins.

It’s my signal to make my way to Ramil’s temple. Tradition dictates that, as the eldest son, I am to make the trek by myself. I will sit alone as the Dune Mage speaks, then I will light her pyre to guide her body across the threshold to the Infinite Wilds.

But I should not have this honor.

I almost told the mage who came to detail the plans for the service that I couldn’t do it, but if I didn’t, who would? She didn’t deserve to enter the afterlife without an escort.

Nobody stops me or talks to me as I walk down the halls, through the courtyard, and to the main gates. A eunuch nods at me wordlessly, then pulls a chain, hand over hand, until the colossal iron portcullis slowly starts to rise.

When I step onto the wide, winding path that leads down the hill to the edge of the oasis, Rashid stands, leaning against a palm tree. We haven’t spoken since that night. Every time he came to my quarters yesterday, I had my attendant send him away.

He pushes off the tree and takes a step toward the path.

Drawing my mouth into a stern line, I shake my head and will him to leave me alone.

Gravel crunches under Rashid’s feet as he takes another step.

Straightening my shoulders and balling my fists at my side, I look straight ahead and walk past him. There are no more footsteps behind me.

As I approach the temple, the wailing increases in tempo, and by the time I step between the two minarets that form the entryway, it is almost frantic. Desperate. The sound pulls me through the lobby. Other concubines have gathered here, and they’re whispering in tight circles, brightly colored skirts whirling around them like clouds of silk. Their eyes trace my movements as I’m drawn into the open courtyard in the middle of the temple. In the courtyard, strung lanterns push back against the darkness. The lamps cast an orange flickering light on the packed sand floor that makes it seem like the ground is swaying, shifting beneath me.

When my mother’s pyre comes into focus, I stumble. My hand comes to rest on the foot of a giant statue of Ramil that presides over his disciples. He’s made of gritty sandstone, porous and rough against my skin.

Before I can collect myself, a hand grips my bicep. The man is wearing red robes. His white eyes blink against the dark band across his face.

“Are you ready?” I ask the mage.

He nods and hands me a torch.

Walking to a solitary chair in front of the pyre, I place the torch, already dancing with flame, in a stand next to me.

The mage stands in front of the pyre and speaks to the few who’ve gathered about our history. How the same Ramil who used the sandstorms to hide our people from our enemies in the desert will welcome my mother as she joins him and all her ancestors.

I can’t focus as he speaks. She is not my ancestor. Will I see her when I cross the threshold into the Infinite Wilds? Who will greet me? And if she wasn’t my mother, is anything I’ve been told true? Is my father really the emperor?

The mage clicks his tongue to get my attention. He is motioning for me to stand next to him with the torch.

My shoulder meets the mage’s, and I am only feet from my mother, who lies motionless atop the frame of wood. A couple dozen eyes stare at me. Most are my mother’s servants, but a few fellow concubines also made the trek to Ramil’s temple to honor her. In the back, a few men stand outside the light, in the shadows of the courtyard walls beyond where the lanterns reach. One has an unusually tall turban, made taller by three huge peacock feathers. I shift to my side to try to get a better view of who they are, but the mage pushes me closer to the pyre.

“Now,” he says. “It’s time.”

My knees threaten to buckle as I bend to extend the torch. The kindling ignites with a woosh. When I right myself and move to the next bundle I’m supposed to light, my necklace falls against my chest. It’s so cold against my skin it stings. Gasping, my free hand flies to my neck. When I touch it through my tunic, it’s almost as if it’s vibrating.

I look up to see if anyone has noticed, and a pair of eyes from the shadows locks with mine. A chill runs from my fingertips down my arm. The flames flicker blue for just a moment, then a burst of sparks explodes. Tiny azure flames streak above the pyre, floating up, up until they melt into the navy sky.

The concubines in the front row gasp and point.

I step toward the next bundle of kindling—I know I must light them all, but the flames have returned to their normal riot of crimson, amber, and gold.

Nothing unusual happens when I light the rest, so I return to my chair, watching my mother depart this world for the second time this week. Now I am truly alone.

I cannot hope that my father will…. No, I can’t even think the thought.

When the pyre is reduced to ash, I rise and move past everyone who still lingers in the courtyard and into the dark of night.

Pausing under the front minarets to collect myself before walking home, movement catches my eye. The flash of a peacock feather disappears around a corner.

I dart to a date palm a few feet away, then flatten myself against the far side of the trunk. After a few shallow breaths, I peek around the tree and catch the man on the path to the temple next door. Why would he need god of sand and the god of fire in one night? And how does he know my mother?

Straightening, I follow along the edge of the path, sticking as close to the cover of palm fronds and bushes as I can. When I get to the entrance of Nar’s temple, I crouch behind a huge planter overflowing with flame lilies that flanks the doorway. Their bright yellow and red petals are said to look like flames, but I think they look like the fingers of a skeleton curving up to snatch something from above.

Between bunches of flowers, I see the peacock man gripping the forearm of another man. The new man is wearing a gold jama that’s so luminescent it’s nearly as bright as the flames in the numerous sconces on the walls. Too bad I can’t get any closer to see their faces.

“We don’t have to worry about her anymore,” the gold man says. I can just make out his voice over the crackling of the huge fire in a brazier in the center of the entrance.

“Wonderful. One less loose end to worry about.”

“And the boy?”

The peacock man crosses his arms. “You’re always too quick to react.”

Gold breathes in deeply through his nose before responding. “We can let the dust settle before taking any additional steps. But I warn you, my boss is only so tolerant. Any slips, and he won’t allow you to operate under your own discretion. If he lets you continue to operate at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3 – 32 Days to Mahraian ‘Qua Ramil Festival

 

 

I haven’t left my quarters since the funeral, and Rashid has been by each day. Every time, I told my attendant to send him away. How can he expect me to face him when all he’s done is lie to me? How can he expect me to face the world when I don’t even know who I am?

Now, Rashid is knocking at my door again. He’s been doing this for the last several minutes, and each time, as soon as my attendant shuts the door in his face, he just starts knocking again.

“It’s ok,” I say. “Let him in, or this will go on all day.”

As Rashid walks through the door, he’s attempting to smooth the annoyance out of his face.

“You win. What is it you want?”

He motions toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk.” He takes a step forward, and when I don’t move, he adds, “To get your mind off things.”

I squint my eyes at him, my nostrils flaring. I am getting a little sick of staring at these four walls, and my attendant has been begging me to go out for a bit so he could air out the room, so I walk past him into the hall.

When he joins me, I motion for him to take the lead. We fall into step, and thankfully, he doesn’t speak as we wander the familiar path we take most days. Our destination is the library, then.

As we enter through the high arched doorway of the library, I tug at the collar of my mourning tunic. Hidden beneath it lies my pendant, ever heavy against my sternum.

It is so oddly empty in here today that it feels cavernous instead of opulent. Our footsteps reverberate across the room, echoing between the tables and endless rows of bookshelves.

We approach our usual corner, and our table is laid with books and maps.

“You brought me here to study?”

Rashid settles into his chair and flips open an ancient book. He thumbs through until he finds the page he wants, then presses the spine flat against the table and slides it across to me. “Did you finish reading the scrolls I sent to your quarters on the Way of Water sect? I was thinking we could discuss Mayahim conflict today.”

Clenching my jaw tight, I stare at him.

He stands, circles the table, and pulls out my chair. “Sit, Akbar, please.”

There are some papers and ink on the table, and my hand itches to draw, so I sink into the chair. I grab a reed pen and drown it in ink. With short, harsh strokes, I outline a war camel onto a piece of palm leaf paper.

Rashid pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t shut me out like this.”

I slam my pen down. It spatters all over my drawing and the table.

He sighs. “Besides, your mourning has already gone on longer than what the court deems proper. Mourn in private as long as you need, but you are expected back out in public after three days. It’s been a week.”

“Except I’m not just mourning my mother. How long exactly am I allowed to mourn the fact that my whole life was a lie? Tell me so I can play by the rules.”

Rashid tucks a curl that’s escaped from his turban behind his ears. The flame from the oil lamp flickers, catching in the rubies on his turban brooch.

“Moreover,” I spit before he can reply. “Now I’m supposed to magically go back to trusting you?”

“I’d be happy if you would. But if not, at least you can take comfort in knowing the truth.” He pushes the book an inch closer to me.

“I don’t know any truth now except that the only parent I’ve ever known is dead.” I whip the book closed and shove it at him. “And you want to talk about religious rebellions and what ‘the court deems proper’?”

“We did what we did for your safety, and I will not apologize for it.”

“At least you could tell me the rest. Maybe that would be a start for rebuilding the trust you think you deserve.”

Rashid looks over his shoulder. The library is silent but for us.

“Is my father still… my father?” My voice trembles slightly, so I look across the library out the window at the great monument His Majesty is constructing in the distance. The Glass Tahkari.

Rashid nods almost imperceptibly, then he flips the book open again.

“And my mother? Who is N.A.?”

“That, I will not tell you. I don’t know what Mina was thinking, disclosing as much as she did.”

I snatch my pen and dunk it in a fresh coat of ink. “Can you tell me why the lies and deception, then?” I’ve lost count of how many times I replayed my mother’s words in my head. What they did was horrible. She sent this with you when you came to me. In case you ever needed to prove…. What would I need to prove? What were they hiding me from?

Let alone the questions the gold man and the peacock man sent swirling through my brain. It’s been spinning worse than the daily sandstorms inside my head.

Turning back to my paper, I slash a warrior’s form atop my war camel, then I add a curved talwar sword swinging high above his head.

Then, a flash of silks and jewels burst into the library. It’s one of my half-brothers. He has a scowl on his face, books pinned beneath his arm, and an entourage trailing in his wake.

Rashid purses his lips.

I crook an eyebrow at Rashid before bowing my head so low my chin practically touches my chest. “Good day, Prince Khalid,” I grumble to the heir apparent as he approaches. His brow furrows into a sharp cluster of Vs, but he doesn’t respond—or even slow down. Papers on our table flutter in bursts as each man storms past.

The last man stops in front of me, finger stabbing the wood. “Who do you think you are, talking to his royal highness?”

“I only said….”

“You only nothing,” he says. “And nothing doesn’t talk to royalty. Got it, you blue-eyed troublemaker?” The attendant jogs to catch up with the disappearing group.

Glaring at Rashid, I dig my fingernails into my palm. “You still haven’t answered me.”

“Do you think we would’ve kept it from you if it wasn’t best for you?”

Laying down my pen, I fold my arms on the table in front of me and hold his gaze. “What exactly about my life is working so far? Before, I at least understood who I was and why I had to try to be the perfect son. Why I had to earn a chance at having a place alongside my father.”

“Nothing changes, Akbar.”

“Maybe you’re right. But without solid footing, this all feels pointless.”

“What are you talking about?”

Waving my hands in the air, I gesture to the library around us. “All the lessons in politics. The riding lessons and sparring practice. My art, everything I did to prove myself worthy of an apprenticeship. What is it all for?”

“They can’t put off assigning you a position much longer. You’ll still be able to demonstrate your value. The plan hasn’t changed.”

The thwack of hurried feet slapping against the sandstone floor interrupts my half-formed objection. A page appears in an emerald green tunic and golden sash, indicating his rank as an official court messenger. He approaches our table and holds out a silver tray to Rashid. He snatches the letter from atop it and dismisses the page before sliding his finger under the red wax seal.

“What is it?”

His brown eyes sparkle.

I grab the paper when he dangles it in my direction. It contains the words I hadn’t let myself hope for—at least until the day my mother died. I was to become an apprentice to the Chief Court Artisan. The paper falls from my hand.

Rashid’s voice is barely a whisper. “Congratulations, my boy.”

“Will I get to work with… him?”

“It’s likely. He works closely with the artisans on his vision for the Glass Tahkari.”

Picking up the paper from the table, I reread the words, letting them sink in. I should feel excited, but somehow it feels hollow.

“We must be extra careful now, though. Some will not take kindly to your elevation.”

Heat blisters my neck. Nobody cares about me, least of all anyone important. Even with an apprenticeship—unless I’m able to win him over. I could still earn my place at his side, even if it’s just creating the monument to honor his favorite wife.

Rashid stands, his chair shrieking against the floor as he pushes it in. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to strategize before you start your new role.” As he gathers his things, he adds, “If you can concentrate this afternoon, try to work on your new painting. I’ll see you at the feast tonight.”

After he leaves, I wander the aisles with my thoughts and an armful of books to put away. The tomb-like solitude of the library fits my mood, so I sulk through row after row until I find the right shelves against an exterior wall.

Here, the window casing is made from decorative glass bricks. They are created from molten sand, then inlaid with gemstones. It’s an ancient art style called ru’aa da, and I trace the beautiful floral motifs with my fingertip. My father commissioned artists to add similar designs on practically every surface of the Glass Tahkari. My finger stops on a teardrop shape that’s as lifelike as a raindrop hanging from a flower. It’s lapis lazuli, like on my water gazelle.

Outside the window, the half-constructed Glass Tahkari towers in the distance, partially enshrouded in dust from the afternoon’s haboob.

Then it hits me: you don’t erect a building as glorious as that to honor a wife if you aren’t also capable of love. Which means there’s hope for me.

Maybe the apprenticeship came at just the right time. If I’m lucky, maybe he can tell me who N.A. is. A shiver travels down my spine at the thought I’ve tried to wrap my mind around all week. I could belong to them, my real parents, if they only got to know me.

As I slide the first book into a ten-foot-high shelf, two men creep through the library, checking over their shoulders. They slink to a stop on the opposite side of my bookshelf. Only their mouths are visible between the tops of the books and the bottom of the next shelf up. Something about the too-close, jittery way they’re standing makes me go still as a waystone.

“Did anyone follow you?” the first man whispers. Was his voice the same as one of the men from the other night? I can’t quite tell.

“No. But I haven’t checked these last few aisles.”

“I’m short on time, let’s walk and talk.”

I press myself into the shadows as they walk down the aisle.

“We need to manage things before they get worse.”

As they turn down my aisle, I shove myself between the bookshelf and the wall and pin my arm to my side. My foot doesn’t fit all the way in, so I turn my knee sideways and draw it in as far as possible.

“What do you suggest?”

They walk slowly down my row, and when they move closer, they come into view between the slats of the bookshelf. They both wear neatly trimmed beards, but one has a ragged scar that arcs from the left corner of his mouth up to the middle of his cheek. The scarred man lowers his head slightly.

“Nothing too obvious, but I need your solution to be permanent.”

“I’ll get some recommendations from our friend, Samoum.”

“Perfect,” he says as he clicks his heels and turns back the way he came.

The other man follows his lead, and as they retreat, my breath shakes like a nomad’s tent during a sandsquall.

 

***

 

My heart’s rhythm still isn’t quite right when I descend into the courtyard at dusk. It’s one of many summer feasts leading up to Mahrajan ‘Qua Ramil, the Festival of the Power of Sand, when we remember how Ramil hid us from our enemies in the desert. This year, the royal feast will be held in the sacred black sand dunes. On a clear day, I can see them in the distance from my apartment’s window, although I’ve never been. You could walk there in an afternoon if you braved crossing the salt flats on foot, which we won’t. We’ll take a caravan around the perimeter to skirt the danger, and Rashid says it’ll take nearly a full day.

For today’s smaller feast, the servants have erected a platform in the courtyard, covering it in layers of rugs and velvet cushions. Above the elaborately set table, metal lanterns sway in the trees, casting winking diamonds on every surface.

I scan the crowd for my father. Not that I truly expect him to be here. He usually eats in his quarters unless we are hosting dignitaries. Rashid catches my eye and waves me over, his smile as bright as the full moon.

I’m still not thrilled with him, but I don’t want to sit by myself, so I tuck my legs under the banquet table beside him. He is in an intense conversation with a courtier to his left. They are discussing how the Way of Water is expanding out of Mayahim. Apparently, some dissidents have even been arrested here in the workers’ villages around Jadi Fortress.

“The Emperor is losing patience with them,” the courtier says. It’s no wonder—they’ve been a scourge across our region ever since I can remember. The courtier draws a long sip from a glass of pomegranate juice. A red drop hangs from his mustache, making it look like his mouth is bleeding.

Whenever there’s a lull in their conversation, I try to catch Rashid’s attention to tell him about the conversation in the library, but each time, a maid squeezes between us to lay another platter of charred roasted vegetables, cumin-laden lentils, or spicy curry on the table. I’ll wait to tell him later, over our nightly game of shantraj.

By the time the servants finally finish laying the food, I’ve given up fighting the waves of political conversations around me, so I let them fade into the background and savor the flavors of the feast. I dig into the curried lamb, its steam curling into the air before it dissipates. A heaping scoop of earthy-scented saffron rice is halfway to my plate when a maid taps me on the shoulder.

“My mistress requested I deliver these to you.” With a delicate smile, she hands me a small brass box and a folded note.

 

Dearest Akbar,

The kitchens tell me these are your favorites. Please find time to visit soon.

N.A.

 

My hands shake as I fold the note and tuck it into my tunic.

I open the lid and inhale the rose-scented honey that coats the fried sweet dough. I pop a honey dumpling in my mouth, but it tastes slightly bitter. They must have a new chef in the kitchens who uses a different recipe. I lick my fingers, close the lid with a clack, and place the box on the floor next to me.

But a few minutes later, the vaulted sky above me starts to spin. I drop the flatbread I was using to shovel food into my mouth, a clump of stewed meat rolling into the middle of my plate. “Rashid,” I say weakly as I grip the table’s edge.

He holds up a finger to silence the courtier, then steadies me with his palm on my back. Heaviness overtakes me, and I slump to the ground as the world turns as black as onyx.