Wind and wildfire mages.., p.30
Wind & Wildfire (Mages of the Wheel), page 30
His sneer darkened.
“They’ll be fed on schedule like every other prisoner. We don’t starve people in here,” his companion said, shooting an exasperated look at Behram.
“Seda!” Dilay called. “I’m coming back, I promise.”
Behram crossed the floor and reached as if to take her arm.
“Do not touch me.” She turned away from his reach. He tsked as if she were a spoiled child and led her out through the entrance tunnel and onto the ledge over the ocean. The bright, salty air should have cleared her head, made her feel better. But each step away, leaving the children behind in the caves, rent her heart deeper. They would think she had abandoned them. She had abandoned them. She had no plan. Nothing to leverage to free them.
Behram climbed the stairs in front of her and she couldn’t even look at his back. He was so familiar to her. She had known him practically all her life. But he suddenly felt like a stranger. Someone dangerous she didn’t understand and couldn’t trust. The stairs switched back and forth up the cliff face, an exhausting climb that left her panting and sweating at the top.
A carriage waited there, on the flat expanse of field that crowned the cliff. It was painted in the audacious colors most fire mages who could afford finery preferred. To the north the palace sprawled, almost sparkling in the early light. Yet another thing that should have inspired her to a better mood, but it seemed all she could feel was bitter anger.
“I’ll walk.” Dilay could not imagine sitting cramped into a carriage with Behram without trying to strangle him. She started through the field.
“Absolutely not,” Behram scoffed. “It will take you all day.”
Dilay turned, using her magic to silence her emotions, because he did not deserve to see how upset she was. Did not deserve truth and vulnerability from her anymore. That had been to make him feel safe, so he could be the same way.
“You do not control or command me, Behram. This is my life, and my choices, and I invited you to be my friend, not my keeper.”
“Dilay, you broke the law. Defied the Sultan. I do not know what you thought would happen, but I hope you’ve learned your lesson?”
“When I met you, you were a broken, lonely little boy. Do you think you are the only one who has ever existed or will ever do so? The only one who deserves someone to treat them with kindness? Or do you truly believe you were due my care because you were born with more than those I teach now?”
“Now is not the time to talk about these things.” He dismissed her with a smile and in that instant he looked just like his father. She swallowed a surge of disgust.
“I’m not certain I ever want to see or speak to you again. I will never forgive you for this.”
He laughed. “Of course you will. You always forgive me.”
She wanted to scream at him. To make him understand what he had done, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was the truth. If he did not already understand, he never would. She had lost him. Even her magic could not stop her tears then. Dilay turned from him and strode away.
“Dilay!” he called, a thread of disbelief in his voice. But she ignored him. He had failed her just as much as she had failed him, and she could not forgive him for it. “I saw you,” Behram said, “I saw you in his bed.”
She stopped and turned.
“You said”—he dropped his head back, gave a soft, bitter laugh, and lowered it again—“you said you didn’t want power, and society.”
“I am sorry, for what you saw,” Dilay said. And she was. She had never meant to flaunt her relationship with Omar to him. But she also resented that what should have been a precious, tender moment between Omar and her alone was now tainted with Behram’s bitterness.
“It doesn’t matter.” He gestured at the palace. “There are heights even you cannot reach. And Omar is one of them. Did you think he wanted you? That he would not cast you aside the moment he has himself mastered? You truly do not realize you’re just a novelty, the first person he has been able to touch in a decade?”
“Behram,” Dilay said, her maelstrom of emotion buried beneath a veneer of calm. “I know exactly what I am. I have always known. You are the one who cannot see what you are. What you are becoming.”
“I know what I am. And now I burn too brightly for you, don’t I? You are afraid.” His eyes narrowed, flames outlining the dark of his irises. “But you forget, you gave me my fire. You are my fire. The reason I burn. For you.”
He was not pleading, not revealing care nor passion. Not the way she wanted or needed. This was anger. Accusation. Possession. He frightened her.
“He will never love you the way I do.” He pointed at the palace. “He will hurt you.”
“You hurt me,” Dilay snapped, then reined her flashing temper under the cool logic of her power. He could not hear her. He did not, could not understand. “I am sorry I hurt you too. But what is between me and Omar…it isn’t your business. My school isn’t your business, and now I, and everything I do, is no longer any of your business.”
Again she turned away and walked east through the knee-high, wet grass, toward the city.
Twenty-Seven
“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO Anne chose?” Mazhar asked as they walked toward the Sultan’s receiving room. Omar did not feel like discussing the matter with anyone, let alone Mazhar or any of his friends that strode behind him. He wanted to get it over with, survive through the celebration afterward, and then be left alone to attempt to come to grips with it.
“Zehra Demir,” Omar said.
Mazhar hissed. “Well, at least you can be comforted to know that she has had enjoyable relationships before yours.” He glanced over his shoulder, where Behram, Osman, and the brothers Yavuz walked. “Yes, Osman?”
“Mazhar,” Omar commanded. “Do not speak about her like that.”
Omar caught a glimpse of Osman’s flushed face when he looked at his brother, and immediately looked away.
“How immoral of you, Osman,” Behram said, with an oddly gleeful tone. Omar did his best to ignore them and did not hear Osman’s muttered reply. He did not care. He cared that they were speaking about her. It was no one’s business but hers, and apparently Osman. He was, in a twisted way, happy for exactly the reason Mazhar said. At least someone had given her what he doubted he would be able to.
Though if his father knew about Osman and Zehra it would be acceptable grounds for a cancellation of the betrothal. Being free with one’s lovers was something the lower classes did not mind, but in the nobility, where everyone cared about magical power, it was frowned upon and conducted more illicitly. Omar did not want Zehra shamed, no matter that the information had given him a short-lived glimmer of hope for ending the entire thing. He brushed the thought of annulment away.
But he didn’t know what he was going to do with Zehra. Ever since the night Dilay had been in his room, he had been completely unable to hold the magic. At least he was now able to identify when it was going to lash out. He had avoided hurting anyone. He wanted to tell Dilay that. It felt like a triumph, despite the backslide of control. Not exactly the cure he had hoped for, but better than before. Something to manage himself.
If he thought about his power, controlling it, moving forward in his life, he didn’t have to think about Dilay. About what she had told him. That his power was a two-headed serpent, poisoning him every time it struck someone else. He didn’t have to think about how she had so naturally understood how to bring him back to himself, and that she would probably never put hands on him again. He might never see her again. He turned his thoughts away, trying to think of anything but her or Zehra. But how could he not think of either of them, when he was walking toward a betrothal to one?
The doors to the receiving hall were thrown open, and a small crowd lingered in the hall. They parted for Omar and his companions, murmuring. Tension gripped his neck. The receiving hall was half the size of his father’s Council Hall, furnished more comfortably, meant for conversations. Usually, betrothal ceremonies were held in the courtyard near the Morning Gate, so citizens of Narfour could attend. Omar had not been told why they were holding the ceremony inside. It wasn’t weather—the morning had promised a beautiful day.
He turned to ask Mazhar, but their mother approached, and both of them bowed. Mazhar kissed her hands, and Omar made an attempt at a smile. She returned it, sadly, and returned to sit beside their father. The families of the women who had been offered as candidates sat on the left side of the room, with a wall of open-air windows at their back. The windows were covered with lattice frames, which were open to the cool morning air. He wished it could have been outside. Perhaps he would have been able to think out there.
The room was filled to the brim with nobles, most seated, many still standing and chatting. When he and Mazhar entered and his friends broke away toward their families, the chatter faded. Omar approached his father, with Mazhar to his left, and they bowed.
Eymen stood to his father’s right and smiled amicably at Omar. He already looked very pleased, but how could he not? Surely the Sultan had already informed Eymen of his daughter’s choosing. Omar sat on a bench to his father’s left, Mazhar next to him. He cast a single look at the four women on the bench on the opposite side of the hall. He knew what they all looked like, had seen them before, had spoken to them. None of them looked back, most stared at the floor. Trying, just as he was, not to look miserable.
Zehra sat nearest the front of the room. Since she was the Grand Vizier’s daughter, she held the highest rank among the four. Her black hair was knotted in elaborate braids arranged around her head and decorated with strings of pearls. She wore the traditional colors of the Fourth House, golds and yellows, cut with white in honor of the occasion. As Omar looked at her, he saw her look across the room at Osman.
At least they would be equal in that—both thinking of another. He closed his eyes briefly against thoughts of Dilay.
Eymen called the ceremony to begin, and the few continuing whispers died out. Each father stood with his daughter, detailing their assets and why she would be an auspicious match for Omar. The women tried to smile but looked half frozen, and he could not blame them. He knew how marrying a stranger played out, at least for his mother and father. There were also happy marriages among the nobility, but those were equally split between luck, and people whose parents had chosen partners who already cared for each other.
The Queen Sultana stood when everyone was finished, poised and smiling, radiating joy Omar knew she did not feel. She was an accomplished actress, his mother. He would need many more lessons from her to navigate the rest of his marriage. Just as she had learned how to do.
“The Sultan is pleased to announce the betrothal of the Vali Ahad to Mistress Demir. May the Wheel spin for the balance between the First and Fourth Houses and bring joy and prosperity to Tamar and her people.”
Omar stood. This was the moment he had dreaded for the two days since he had last seen Dilay. Betrothal required touch. And he did not know how to tell Zehra, or avoid it, without causing an uproar. He had hoped, until Dilay’s abrupt and panicked departure had broken what control he’d gained, that he had enough to make it through these few moments.
Zehra stood, smiling stiffly, and strode toward the platform where the Sultan sat as the room applauded politely. Two servant girls placed four cushions on the floor. Zehra knelt on one, with her left side oriented toward the Sultan. Omar joined her, kneeling opposite. His mother retrieved a ribbon and a length of rope from a tray that Beste held and knelt on the third. The Grand Vizier knelt on the fourth, to Omar’s left.
A mother always betrothed her sons, and a father his daughters. For balance. The Queen gave Omar a look he could not read.
“Do not touch me,” Omar cast his voice in an imperceptible whisper to Zehra, who twitched as if startled, her hazel gaze locking against his. “I will explain later.” She had been crying, he could see now, so close and looking right at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, which showed despite the kohl outlining her lashes. Her cheeks were splotchy beneath the dusting of powder she wore.
Omar held his hands out between them, palms up. Zehra hesitated, and her gaze darted to her right, he thought hopefully, then back. She was supposed to put her hands in his, but she complied with his command and hovered them just above. His mother gave a tiny nod of approval, and Omar simply hoped no one else would notice.
“The Wheel severs us and brings us together, circles broken and remade. In betrothal we are a circle unbreakable, one for another,” the Queen recited, dropping the ribbon over Zehra’s left wrist, “and the other for one. Be betrothed and be bound, in glorious celebration of the Wheel.” She handed the jute rope to Eymen, who dropped it over Zehra’s right wrist.
“Silk, for the soft, and the gentle. For the strength to hold each other up.” His mother knotted the ribbon loosely. Zehra stared at it, and Omar fixed his gaze over her head, concentrating only on his smallest movements, to jerk away if he needed to.
“And hemp, for hardship,” Eymen said. “For that which can be frayed by time and negligence unless it is cared for.” He knotted it. Zehra offered a tremulous smile as she raised her head. He could not match it, only stare at her. The smile faded, and her gaze dropped. Omar felt like a monster. He would smile for her. Just as Dilay had told him to. He had to give her a chance. His heart seized, and his throat worked as his mother and the Grand Vizier stood. She pronounced the betrothal official, and everyone except Zehra and Omar stood, cheering and clapping.
Omar carefully extracted his hands from the loosely hanging binds, and Zehra followed suit. He untied the hemp to retie it in a larger circle, which he dropped over her head to hang around her neck. She did the same with the silk ribbon, and though her proximity made him uneasy, she did not touch him. When his mother and Eymen had moved into the crowd to speak with others, Omar looked down at his hands, curled into fists on his knees, and forced them open.
“I am sorry,” he said, underneath the uproar, and knew he sounded too gruff.
Zehra gave a single, airy laugh. “I know you did not choose me, Vali Ahad. So you needn’t apologize. Shall we go pretend to be happy?”
She was trying to be lighthearted, but it struck like a blow. The first acknowledgment of a lifetime of pretending. He stood, but Zehra waited, looking up at him expectantly. He stared.
“Oh.” Her brow creased, and she got to her feet without the help she had clearly expected.
“I promise to explain, after all of this. But for now—”
“It is fine, Vali Ahad, obviously, you do not have to touch me if you do not wish to.” She smiled, but it was sharp, and judgmental. Dilay had given him the same, and had eventually forgiven him, he reminded himself. Zehra might too. But he could not say to her what he had said to Dilay…I did not say I didn’t want to touch you.
They walked side by side out into the hall, where others were lingering in conversation before entering the ballroom. All bowed and offered congratulations and well wishes. Omar caught Zehra looking flushed and pleased when he did look at her. In one morning she had gone from noble to Princess Sultana. There were some benefits for her, beyond the hardships. He had to remember that.
She enjoyed the attention they received on their way down the hall, growing more and more animated, greeting friends and elders with enthusiasm. Meanwhile Omar withdrew more and more inside his too stern face, as Dilay had called it, and people offered much more subdued, and distanced congratulations to him. He clasped his hands behind his back and his shoulders tensed.
They passed through a section of hall clear of others, and Omar’s shoulders relaxed but his grip on his hands did not. Zehra heaved a sigh.
“It is unfortunate the ceremony could not be held in the courtyard, don’t you agree? It would have been a nice distraction for the people from all that mess in the Earth District.”
Omar puzzled over her words for a moment, but could not understand.
“What mess?”
Zehra made a dismissive wave with her hand. “I know very little. Father mentioned it when we were riding to the palace this morning.”
When he looked at her, she cast her gaze sideways and up at him, reaching to fidget with the pearls in her hair. She flushed. Omar cringed inwardly. How could she have no more information than that? Her father’s estate was on the edge of the Fire District, she could probably see the Earth District from her windows. But he shouldn’t fault her more than himself, this was the first he had heard of anything happening in the Earth District.
The ballroom was rarely used for actual balls, outside the celebrations hosted at each turn of the seasons, the Wheel spinning from one House to the next. For the betrothal, long, low-set tables had been placed throughout, in lines down the center of the circular room. Cushions served as seats, and tray upon tray of beautifully arranged food decorated the tabletops. Omar wondered what Dilay would have to say about all the excess. But thinking about her chastising him only made him think of her in his bed, hitting him with a pillow, and his amusement swiftly disappeared.
“May I?” Zehra asked, when they had walked through the doors and the cheering had died down. She pointed to the far side of the room, where a group of young women had gathered, including the other three women who had been potential candidates. Were they all friends? Of course they were. Would she mention his odd request to not be touched? Omar ducked his head. She started away from him, then turned and bowed before angling away again.
Omar watched her for a moment, the way the others anticipated her arrival with whispers and smiles. She really was quite lovely, and deserved someone who would look at her and not long for another. He rubbed his fingers over his brow. He needed to find Eymen or his father and ask about the Earth District. It was too much to ask of Zehra to know details of events like that. She would not have been raised to, and today she had other things on her mind. But she would learn to pay attention. He hoped.
