Wind and wildfire mages.., p.22
Wind & Wildfire (Mages of the Wheel), page 22
Was he fixed? Or had she been a crutch he needed, the only desire strong enough to silence his magic? He did not want to test it. The consequences of failure were unacceptable. Still, she had told him exactly what he was doing. If he was conscious of trying to punish himself, or as she had said, to fail, could he control it when he needed to? Omar stepped out of the library and closed the door.
He had been so excited to show her the library. To see her face the first time she laid eyes on it. That passionate, covetous desire he had witnessed in her eyes when he had offered her just one book. But the circumstances had stolen that from him. Now all he wanted was that look to be directed at him, and it never would be. He did not deserve her, and as Behram had so painfully pointed out, could never have her.
Omar gripped the entari over his chest as he walked. The thick silver embroidery and dense fabric felt too heavy, too bright. She had been radiant standing in front of him in dirt-stained work clothes and tousled hair. Someone who knew who she was. He was just a puppet in a costume. Nothing.
He stopped in front of his mother’s doors and paused to collect himself into some kind of mental order. He knocked.
Beste opened the door and smiled in greeting, though it faded when she saw his face. He could not guess what showed there. The pain of the growing headache? Confusion? Sadness? Beste had known him all his life; he was as transparent to her as he was to his mother.
“Is everything all right, Vali Ahad?”
“Fine.” Omar moved past her and into the room. His mother was midway into a sip of coffee when he entered, and Mazhar sat across from her. His brother bore an amused look, and all Omar’s futile anger spun up inside him. He strode across the space toward Mazhar, whose mirth disappeared as he lunged to his feet.
“Never do that again.” Omar shoved him, and Mazhar fell back into the seat, pale-faced and silent.
“Omar,” his mother said sharply. He turned to her. She was half out of her chair, her coffee cup lying on the rug, its contents staining the white and silver fabric. Her panicked gaze slipped between Omar and Mazhar, one hand stretched toward them ineffectually.
“You touched me,” Mazhar said.
“If you set guards on her again, I will knock your teeth in.” Omar rounded on his brother once more.
Mazhar blinked at him, then made a sound of revelation. Omar stared, his anger still a windstorm whipping his wits into a frenzy. “You touched me,” he said. “Perhaps you should thank me for interfering.” Mazhar settled back in the chair, looking delighted.
Omar nearly lunged at him again, his fingers balling into a fist.
“What is happening?” the Sultana said, interrupting Omar’s next attack. Beste worked to pick up the coffee cup and dab at the stain with a rag, but her gaze was on Omar. He faced them both as Beste rose to stand at his mother’s side. She gripped the Sultana’s elbow.
Omar hadn’t meant to do this. To give them hope. “It is working,” he said. “I do not know how well, I—”
His mother stepped toward him, her eyes wide, hands outstretched. Fear grabbed him in clawed fingers, ratcheting his pulse. He was going to hurt her. Take from her again. He could feel the magic, whipping like tendrils from his anger and his sorrow, ready to steal. He stepped back, his body tensing. But he remembered Dilay’s touch, stroking the back of his hand, coaxing him to her, to relax and trust. And when his mother cupped his face in her hands he held his writhing, snapping magic as she looked into his eyes and hers welled with tears.
“My son,” she said. Ache shrank his lungs, a decade of longing and isolation, and he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him. Beste sobbed, pressing her hands over her mouth. Omar did not remember his mother feeling so slim and fragile. He remembered her as soft and warm. Safe. He closed his eyes because they ached as much as his chest. His mother cried against his shoulder. The familiar smell of her perfume filled him with visceral memory, shrinking him into a boy’s body with a skinned knee and tears. And then there were real tears, hot on his cheeks.
It was too much. The magic writhed, trying to twist free. Tangled in his feelings of failure. Dilay had given him this, and he had failed her. He did not deserve this comfort. Omar stepped away and held his hands up to fend them all off, his head ducked as he practiced what Dilay had made him do on the roof. It was just another spell, his power, under his control.
“I am pleased to see this,” his father’s voice came from the door to the hall. Omar’s eyes opened, his grip on the magic slipping away. It sizzled under his skin, hissing and burning. Voices whispered. Memories that were not his, welling up in his panic. “Pleased to see that you are finally taking control of yourself. As a man should.”
Omar bowed to his father.
“Leave him be,” his mother said. The Sultan did not normally move in silence and appear unannounced. But then, he might not have been. The emotional scene had distracted them all.
“You are ready to take on more of your uncle’s duties.”
“No,” the Sultana said, demanding and pleading. The Sultan ignored her, gazing instead at Omar.
“Do you refuse?”
“No, Sultan.”
“Omar, please,” the Sultana said. When Omar sliced his gaze away, she turned on the Sultan. “How dare you ask more of him. Wasn’t your brother enough?”
“The Wheel demands for the gifts it gives,” the Sultan said, then looked at Omar again. “There is a tribunal in the morning. You will attend.”
Omar ducked his head. All the feelings were whisked away by his father’s appearance. Replaced with cool apathy. He had known the price for more control. It was as silent in the room as it was inside his head when the Sultan departed.
Omar looked to his mother, and her face was pale. She sat abruptly and Beste knelt beside her chair, gripping the Sultana’s hand between her own.
“It’s all right, Anne. This control will help me manage the rest. The headaches and the bleeding.”
“Leave me,” she said. Mazhar looked sullenly at Omar, but rose, and they left together. In the hall, Ruslan waited for him.
“A dampening, please, Ruslan,” Omar said. He turned to his brother once Ruslan had cast it. This time he did not touch Mazhar, certain the silence in his head and body were a lie and that the magic was coiled and ready.
“I was trying to help you,” Mazhar said. “I cannot bear watching you dragging about like a beaten dog.”
“I was not.”
Ruslan gave a polite cough, which earned him a conspiratorial look from Mazhar. “Yes, you were. And everyone was starting to whisper.”
“Commander Isler dragged her about like someone bound for the Cliffs,” Omar said. “What were you thinking?”
“You know the man is a fanatic. You should replace him.”
“Mazhar—”
“Brother,” Mazhar interrupted, and glanced at Ruslan, then back. “I watched your light go out.” He shrugged, because he had never been one for displaying emotion he considered sappy. “All these Turns I watched you grow dimmer, and dimmer. Whatever she is to you, I could not care less. But she lit you up, and that is all that matters to me. I would drag her here a hundred times over and never regret it.”
“I think she is quite capable of making you regret it,” Omar said. Mazhar laughed.
“What happened?” he asked.
Omar pressed his fingers to his temples. “We…” He flushed. “I tried to kiss her.”
“Was that part of the lesson plan?” Mazhar guffawed. “Well done.”
“Shut up,” Omar barked. He had been surrounded all his life by men who had no idea what it was like, what it meant. Mazhar had taken full advantage of his position and his looks from the time he was old enough to care about women. Behram was no different. Even if he’d been able, Omar would never have been like that. “I hurt her.”
Mazhar’s brows drew together. “Not your magic?”
“No. I mean…I never should have touched her. I didn’t tell her about the betrothal.” His guilt wound harder when Ruslan made a sound of disapproval, but when Omar looked, he appeared only to be concentrating on his spell.
“Ah,” Mazhar sighed. “Yes that was ill advised.”
“And Behram,” Omar admitted. He did not keep much from his brother, but he had no wish to drag more people into the mire.
“I cannot imagine Semih Kadir allowing Behram to consort with a judge’s daughter, even if she is a noble. I don’t know what he imagines his claim is there.”
“They’ve been friends even longer than Behram and I,” Omar said.
Mazhar nodded, silent. It only lasted a moment. “Did you send her away?”
“She left,” Omar said. “Behram mentioned the betrothal.”
Mazhar made a sound of exasperation. “Of course he did. Just like he mentioned your trip into the city in front of Father. All very innocent.”
“He what?” Chill slowed Omar’s pulse and thoughts. Surely Behram knew what the Sultan’s reaction to that would be? He would never do something like that. He knew what it was like to be leashed.
Mazhar raised an eyebrow. “They were discussing the guild tribunal schedule, and the mood in the city. Behram said perhaps you could assess it the next time you took a trip into the city.”
“It was not purposeful,” Omar said. Behram had accidentally let it slip, just as Omar had let slip about Dilay’s school. Mazhar and Ruslan exchanged a look. Irritated, Omar made a gesture and Ruslan dropped the dampening spell. Mazhar winced and tugged at his ears, shooting Ruslan a look of disapproval.
“That finesse, Ruslan.”
“My apologies, Efendim.” Ruslan bowed and Mazhar pursed his lips.
“What now?” Mazhar asked Omar. But he could hardly think straight, too tangled around Dilay and Behram and his own struggles with his power.
“I’ll return to the library,” Omar said, absently. Mazhar made an impatient sound.
“Not what I meant, but as you wish.” He moved as if he might clasp Omar’s shoulder, but Omar stepped back. Mazhar dropped his hand and smiled regretfully. Then he left, down the hall toward his own rooms. Omar stood for a moment, unable to muster the desire to go anywhere or do anything.
“Are you simply going to let her go?” Ruslan asked. “What about her help?”
Omar glanced at him, but the steward maintained his usual impassive facade. If he was judging Omar, it was earned. “Why would she want anything to do with me after today? Besides that”—he knew it was obvious to Ruslan he cared about her—“to have her near when I cannot—” Omar winced.
Ruslan looked at him dispassionately. “Her worth to you is only measured in your attraction?” He paused, raising his eyebrows when Omar glanced sharply at him. “What about all that she has done, and is doing for the city? For your people?”
“That is all illegal, and my attention will only turn eyes on her that put her in danger.”
“I know what kind of Sultan you wish to be, Efendim. It is the only reason I continue to serve you.” Ruslan glanced at the doors to the Queen’s rooms.
He knew? That was interesting. Omar didn’t even know.
“What does Dilay have to do with that?”
Ruslan stood straighter, his mouth twisting, then relaxing. “Everything, Vali Ahad. You can surround yourself with people like Kadir Pasha, who grasp and connive for power, or with people like Mistress Akar, who sacrifice and fight, and that is how you will define what kind of Sultan you will be.”
“I do not have much of a choice in who I surround myself with. The powerful families in Narfour—”
Ruslan scowled. “You always have a choice. She is an invaluable loss to you, Efendim, and not simply because you care about her.”
Stunned, Omar stared. Ruslan had never spoken so freely to him. A smile came, unbidden and uncontrolled.
“Be careful,” Omar said, “she seems to be rubbing off on you.”
Ruslan appeared startled, then smiled. “So, what will you do?”
He might not be able to give her the entire library, now. But there was something much more portable. He tipped his head to indicate Ruslan should follow.
Twenty-One
DILAY READJUSTED THE MARKET BASKET on her arm as she picked through the herbs on the table. The kind, elderly woman manning the booth waited patiently. Her hair was braided and coiled at the back of her head, a plain cloth pinned over the top to protect her from sun and dust, but grey curls escaped from beneath. Perhaps she sensed Dilay’s mood, or perhaps she could tell Dilay knew what she was looking for, but she remained silent, instead of naming them all as Dilay touched them. She selected the ones she needed as a stab of regret pierced her belly. She had promised her mother she’d do this days ago, but…
She handed the bundled herbs to the woman, blinking away the sting in her eyes. The woman smiled and patted the air with her hands in denial. When Dilay hesitated, the woman bent forward, beckoning Dilay closer. Dilay turned her head down.
“You teach my granddaughter, Belma. She is much happier since she started. And I can see you are not happy. Take these this time.”
“I cannot possibly.” Dilay straightened, digging into her pocket for coins, which she held out. The woman cupped Dilay’s hand between her own, closing her fingers around the coins.
“You will, today you will. It is all I can give.” She smiled and shooed Dilay away. After a moment more of hesitation, Dilay ducked her head and deposited the herbs in her basket. The smile she attempted faltered, and she turned away.
The morning was just beginning to brighten, and as she walked to the southern end of the market, more people were arriving to do their shopping for the day. The morning market was always quieter than the afternoon and evening ones. People were in more peaceful moods in the morning, their shopping more reverent than rushed. Dilay preferred it, when polite smiles and greetings were subdued and the noises and smells of the city hadn’t yet mingled together into chaos. The market smelled of fresh, warm bread, spices, coffee, and herbs. Moving through sections was marked by a change in dominant scents. Now she was surrounded by the smells of herbs. Some sweet, some astringent, some were even foul.
On her way down the hill, to the far southern end of the market where the fishmongers were, she passed through the largest section of spice sellers. Always cumin struck her first, sometimes coriander. Ground chilies burned her throat if the powder was being scooped as she passed. Sometimes there was cinnamon, brought from beyond the Odokan plains by traders on the Spice Road. Of course, dozens of purveyors of the best za’atar, that blend of wild oregano and other spices that was absolutely non-negotiable in cooking. Pungent and savory, it always made Dilay crave man’oushe. Fresh from a stone oven, drizzled with olive oil and a good dusting of za’atar.
And that craving brought Omar to mind. Dilay hugged the basket closer to her, letting the rushes cut against her arms. She would be back at the University in just a bit, and that would distract her. That had been all she had been able to do since seeing Omar in the palace, hurry from distraction to distraction. She could not face her anger and hurt without also admitting she had been wholly responsible for allowing herself into an inappropriate situation. She just did not have the emotional strength to deal with any of it at the moment. Not with so many things that needed her attention and focus.
Dilay stopped briefly to purchase a clay pot of honey. Normally she would have brought their own to refill, but theirs was ancient, and had finally cracked the day previous when she had set it down too sharply. The merchant touted the benefits of the honey and how special his particular bees were and the litany of flowers they preferred as Dilay paid and tucked the jar into her basket, nodding and trying to smile. This was not her, this quiet ghost that barely smiled or interacted. She hated that she allowed herself to be so shaken by Omar. She barely knew the man. In fact she knew him even less than she’d realized, when she stood ready to kiss him on more than one occasion. She had arrogantly thought herself above such silly things. Always judging Seda about her flights of fancy and girlish infatuations. The Wheel had certainly turned the mirror on Dilay.
She brooded as her humiliation filled her, crushing. It dominated her thoughts as she strode past booths of jewelry and baubles. The road turned sharply to run parallel to the harbor, leading eventually down to the docks and warehouses. The pier market was along the hill that led down. It abutted the Grand Market, but was not considered the same entity. This was where one found coarser goods. Craftwares and supplies to be turned into other things. Today she sought rushes. But first she had to make it unscathed through the gauntlet of shouting jewelry sellers, charlatans selling visions of the future, and persistent rug and linen salesmen. She directed her gaze to the cobbles at her feet, best to avoid encouraging eye contact.
A familiar cadence of speech caught her attention as she tried to dodge a particularly tenacious silk scarf salesman, who kept trying to rub one against her hands and face. Dilay batted him away when she stopped, turning toward the voice. Across the street from her, Behram was half-ducked into a booth selling Meneian jewelry.
He gestured violently as he bartered with an equally enthusiastic Meneian merchant. As she drew close she could hear that they were speaking Meneian. Dilay had always envied Behram for his talent with languages. Some he learned by necessity, because the Merchant Guild encompassed even those merchants who came temporarily or who were not originally from Tamar. Menei and its many and varied languages, for one. He could speak Common Trade, a remnant of the Old Sultanate that had its roots in both Tamar and the Republic, the land across the Sun Sea. And, supposedly, on a bet, he had also learned to read and write old Corsan, the mother tongue of the Republic. No one else spoke it, at least in Tamar, so no one could verify he had actually learned it. But he had read her poetry in the language once. It was a language of hums, where the syllables bled together into a kind of drone. She thought there were a few too many m sounds for it to be beautiful. She had concentrated her studies at the University on magic and its fundamentals, so that she could better teach her charges. There had not been extra room in her schedule for languages. If she ever rose high enough in the University she would do her best to make certain every student could take at least one.
