His question caught her off guard. She remembered the stars above them last night—a scattering of jewels and dust. She remembered the stars around them the night he’d bound her wounds. And before that, the stars he’d shown her in the desert. The map he’d taught her. “I remember.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “If it means we won’t meet again till the next life, I’ll wait.”
Nelay couldn’t hesitate—her emotions were too raw. If the king saw her waver, he would know her weakness and would not keep his promise. She kissed Rycus again, holding his cheek in her bloody hands. And then she stepped around him and marched past the king, who watched her with a sad gaze, past the Immortals jamming up a dozen or so roofs. She vaulted over the low wall and crossed the roof. Five times she did that. Then she descended the ladder into her brother’s musty-smelling top floor.
The king came down behind her. Nelay refused to look at him. “I choose two handmaidens, Maran and Havva. Acolyte Jezzel will be the head of my personal guard.” Nelay would need her friends if she was going to survive this. “Your men will find Maran and Havva in the square before the library. I will have them brought to me before we leave the city.”
Small concessions, ones she knew Zatal would be willing to give. He nodded. “Of course.”
She descended the ladder to the first floor. Atusa was wringing her hands and pacing by the table. Panar stood at the entrance, his hands behind his back.
At the look of satisfaction on his face, Nelay suddenly knew. The fairies hadn’t turned her in—her brother had. He’d sought out the king and brought him to her. She marched up to Panar and looked him in the eye, making herself go still as stone.
He glared down at her, as if this was her fault. “You are a priestess! Not some Tribesman’s whore!”
She kneed him in the groin, so hard his face went white, and he collapsed to his knees. Choking, he coughed and groaned.
Nelay crouched before him, seething with hate and anger. “You are no longer my brother. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you myself.” She stood and backhanded his face.
He crumpled in a heap. Atusa screamed and collapsed beside him. Nelay couldn’t bring herself to care. Without looking back, she strode out onto the street.
In the private worship room of the Temple of Fire, Nelay knelt on the cushions before the pool that reflected the glass idol of the goddess. Her body felt numb as she wrote her prayer, but her fingers remembered the folds, tight and perfect. She creased and twisted and curved until her hand held the perfect form of a flame flower. Inside, her prayer asked for love. For passion and hope and freedom. That her fire—her will—would never be consumed by another.
Then she touched the tips of the petals to the embers. They ignited in a flare of orange, the myrrh-soaked paper giving off a heady fragrance. With the flower resting on the tips of her fingers, she sank her hand into the pool, sending ever widening ripples across the perfectly still water. The flower spun slowly and the petals burned as her prayer was carried into the air, where it would join thousands of others, as well as the souls of her parents.
Hand dripping with water, Nelay stood as the highest-level temple priestesses draped her in robes the color of fire—red and orange and amber. Over her head they draped a veil that brushed the floor. To display the king’s wealth, every hem of her clothing was lined with gold coins, which tinkled whenever she moved.
After shaving part of her scalp, the acolytes loosely braided her hair so her tattoos would show. Then they lined her eyes deeply with kohl and added a slash of red to her lips. One of the girls brought a mirror. Nelay studied her dusky skin against the color of her bodice and thought she looked like a combination of fire and ash.
As one, the priestesses inclined their heads to someone behind her. Nelay turned to find Suka standing at the doorway, glaring at the burning paper as it sank. With a dismissive wave, she motioned the other priestesses out. Nelay did not bow. She would never bow to this woman again.
Suka circled the room and stopped before the statue of the goddess. “I wish I could say I’m sorry—but that would mean I wish I could do things differently, and this is the only way. I am a mere mortal caught in a game of the goddesses.”
The high priestess’s words were like a gust of wind against the coals of Nelay’s anger. “What does forcing me to marry the king have to do with the goddesses?” she scoffed. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, Suka, but forcing me to become one of your players will cost you—I swear it.”
The high priestess turned to her with a resigned and sad expression. “I know. I’ve always known. I have made a play, one that will cost me my life.”
“What do you mean?”
Suka gave a bitter smile. “Every time you have written a prayer, every time you have knelt on the cushion, has been a lie.”
Nelay took a step back, her body feeling suddenly cold. “What?”
Suka rested her hand on the beautiful glass statue of the goddess. “She hates us,” the high priestess said so softly Nelay could barely hear her. “The goddess hates us and loves winter. She has betrayed us.” Suka’s face contorted in rage and she gave the statue a hard shove, sending it toppling. It hit the ground and split in a half dozen pieces, all stained with smoke on the inside. Incense and ash plumed and scattered, some pieces shattering the stillness of the prayer pool.
Nelay gasped and jumped back. “You can’t possibly know that!”
“The fairies told me, and the proof is all around us. Has been for decades.” Nelay shook her head, but Suka went on ruthlessly. “It started the day our army perished in the clanlands. It continued every time we lost one of our vassal kingdoms. The storms that savaged our ships. The famine that weakened our lands. The speed with which the Clansmen have routed us from our cities.”
Nelay clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop!”
Suka stared at her, and for a moment, Nelay saw the absolute fury that consumed the woman. There was no question in Nelay’s mind now. Suka was insane.
“I don’t believe you.” Nelay’s voice trembled.
At the sound of running steps, shutters seemed to come down over the high priestess’s anger.
“High Priestess!” someone gasped.
Suka turned calm eyes on the priestesses rushing into the room. “Every statue—every single one—is to be replaced,” she declared. Stunned silence met her command. “Break them. Break them all.”
The women hesitated—as acolytes, each evening they had washed the soot from the statues. They’d bowed to them and reverenced them since coming to the temple.
“Now!” Suka cried.
The priestesses scrambled away, and soon the sound of breaking glass filled the temple. Suka turned dead eyes onto Nelay. “Only one more move, and then my game is finished.”
Nelay froze, filled with a sudden fear.
Suka moved past her and stepped into the corridor. “Come, your king awaits.”
Nelay wanted to fight, wanted to run, but she’d seen Zatal’s Immortals surrounding the temple, five men deep. She would not endure the indignity of being forced.
So she lifted her head high and stepped through the corridors into the public bethel, her garments a cloud of fluttering and tinkling around her. Seven priestesses stood in the pool around the idol, their robes damp past their knees. They tied ropes around the goddess’s head. Just as Nelay stepped into the archway that led outside, she heard a groaning and turned to see the three sections of the glass statue come apart before they splashed into the pool, sending a wave of water through the hall.
Nelay shot Suka a disbelieving look, but the woman was already halfway down the stairs. Hurrying to catch up, Nelay stepped into the courtyard that defied the dark night with hundreds of golden lamps. They crossed the wide square, skirting the fountain with the burning ashes of folded prayers coating the bottom. Behind Nelay, Maran and Jezzel took their places; Havva had refused to leave her family.
Nelay and Jezzel used to
be the bitterest rivals, as the two strongest, fastest, and smartest acolytes. Until they learned they had different goals. While Nelay wanted to be high priestess, Jezzel wanted to be commanding priestess of the Goddess Army, the high priestess’s elite fighting unit.
By asking Jezzel to be the captain of her guard, Nelay was asking her to put her lifelong dream on hold. Still, Jezzel had accepted. “I’m sorry,” was all Nelay could manage. “But I need people I can trust around me.”
Now, Jezzel glared at the Immortals as they converged, forming a box around them five men deep. The tattoos on their scalps identified them as high-ranking Immortals. “Who does this king think he is, ordering a priestess around like she is some commoner?” Jezzel asked.
Nelay felt a rush of relief that Jezzel’s anger wasn’t directed toward her. “Suka masterminded it.”
Jezzel growled low in her throat and tipped her head toward Maran. “Who’s the timid one?”
“I’m not timid,” Maran murmured.
Jezzel shot her an incredulous look. “You’re about as scary as a thunderstorm in the Adrack.”
Maran blinked, clearly not understanding. Nelay sighed. “Because it doesn’t rain in the Adrack.” She shook her head. “This isn’t important. She’s someone I trust—that’s all you need to know, Jez.”
The procession marched toward a speckled-gray horse—the color of ash just as Nelay had requested. The animal was a fine-boned mare of the Adrack breed, whose stamina was renowned the world over. Nelay’s choice was another message, however small, for the king.
“You couldn’t have picked a stronger ally?” Jez scoffed.
Her expression tight, Maran stepped forward to hold Nelay’s veil so she could mount. Nelay shot Jezzel a sardonic grin. “I have you, don’t I?”
Jez smiled. “That’s true.” She took her position in front of the horse while Nelay grabbed the reins, which matched her wedding attire. The brass temple gates leading to the palace courtyard opened on silent hinges.
Thousands of people filled the courtyard, holding oil lamps and unlit silk lanterns. The way was kept clear by stone-still Immortals, who stood twelve men deep between Nelay and any chance of freedom.
The priestesses spread out first, the burning ends of their staffs a blur of gold around them. They beat the staffs to the ground, pounding out a fast tempo. Stretching up, the priestesses just in front of Nelay touched the tips of their fire staffs to channels built on suspension bridges. The channels held a special blend of luminash that burst into a rainbow of colors and filled the air with intricate patterns of fire as she passed. The people cheered, for the spectacle was beautiful and a little terrifying.
The Immortals around Nelay marched out, forming a barrier between her and the enormous crowd. She rode her mare through, her gaze locked on the palace. She didn’t not wave or smile. She refused to pretend to be the jubilant bride.
Finally, the palace entrance loomed before them, the doors made of intricately carved wood with beaten gold overlays. The palace itself was a blinding white with plated gold domes rising out of the tans and oranges of the desert. At the base of the steps, the procession halted. This was supposed to be the king’s winter palace, so it was not nearly as grand as his summer palace by the seashore. Or so Nelay had been told.
Maran helped arrange Nelay’s robes so she could dismount. As she faced her future, her thoughts betrayed her with an image of Rycus’s crooked grin. The feel of his mouth on hers. The way he smelled of hot sand. She couldn’t bring herself to take another step.
Maran discreetly squeezed Nelay’s hand. “It’s going to be all right.”
She shuddered. “I’m to become the queen of a dying kingdom, Maran. All to fulfill the purposes of some mad high priestess.”
Maran didn’t have a response for that.
Jezzel shot Nelay a grim look and entered the palace. Taking a deep breath, Nelay marched after her, crossing the threshold at the exact same moment the acolytes lit the luminash. Multicolored flames flashed around the frame.
Her guard of Immortals didn’t follow her inside. Here, there was only one row of Immortals between her and the people—and these soldiers were the highest officers in all of Idara. She walked through the enormous throne room, past hundreds of lords, advisors, and professional guild leaders, who presided over their representative trades. Each of them held a lit lamp. Nelay approached the throne, above which was crafted into a phoenix, wings spread and plated in gold. Standing below it was the king.
It should be Rycus she was walking towards. Rycus who would stand beside her to face the hardships and joys of life. Rycus who would hold her and comfort her.
Nelay’s gaze locked on Zatal, but his gaze wasn’t on her. It was on a woman standing beside the doorway to his left and a little farther down. Even from this distance, Nelay could see the woman was beautiful, with large, expressive eyes and a petite nose. The woman turned and their gazes locked. Nelay saw sorrow and anger, but no hatred. She wondered what the woman saw in return—an interloper who was taking her rightful place, who would have power over her?
Nelay could hate this woman, treat her as a rival. But she didn’t see the point. She dipped her head in a show of respect. The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. After a moment, she bowed back. When Nelay turned back to the king, he was watching her. Her whole body stiffened. She lifted her airy robes and stepped onto the dais beside him, aware of Jezzel taking a step closer to her than was technically appropriate.
Suka shot Jezzel an icy look—which Jezzel expertly returned—and slipped past the king until she stood directly before the throne, facing them. Her officiating robes were a golden white, the color of the hottest flame.
Facing Nelay, Zatal leaned forward and spoke low. “Neither of us want this, but perhaps we can view it as a business arrangement.”
She pulled back half a step. “But for the fact that I lose the man I love, while you get to keep your mistress. But for the fact that I am required to share your bed and bear your children.”
Suka cleared her throat loudly, and Nelay caught her fierce glower. The king nodded for the high priestess to begin. She looked to her side, and two highest-ranking priestesses carried forth a huge vessel of clear glass filled with golden oil.
From a breast pocket in her robes, Nelay removed a vial of oil dyed such a deep red it looked like blood. The colors of passion and battle. The king held a similar vial—he’d chosen blue. The color of cunning and precision. Both of them poured their vibrant oils into the vessel. The liquids curled and danced like colored ribbons. Slowly, they combined into a pale lavender.
“Ah,” Suka said loudly. “The king’s cunning softens the queen’s temper.”
Nelay resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Three priestesses, the Holders of the Prayers, came forward and reached out their hands for the long rolls of cotton fabric on which Suka, Nelay, and Zatal had written their prayers. Despite the huge length of fabric stiffened with salt so it would burn slower and hold its shape, Nelay’s prayer had been short—that she would be free of this marriage as soon as possible. That Zatal would never touch her.
Judging by the amount of ink on his paper, the king’s prayer hadn’t been much longer. But Suka’s paper was filled on both sides with characters crammed so tightly Nelay could only pick out a few—binding, her people, and war.
As the Holders of the Prayers set about braiding the prayers tightly together with deft fingers, Suka lit a sheaf of dried, fragrant herbs. She waved the smoke around Nelay and Zatal, close enough Nelay could feel the heat. The smoke was to cleanse them of apathetic emotions, leaving them with only the most powerful of passions for their marriage and wedding night.
“For as long as a flame burns, these two lives are connected. In the blazes of passion, might they spark new life. And may that spark carry on from generation to generation until the great and last day when the world is consumed and turned to ash.”
The women had finished braiding the wick. One en
d had been attached to a piece of jewelry chosen by the husband-to-be—in this case a headdress with a sapphire for the forehead. After the oils were gone, the headdress would be Nelay’s to keep as a token of their promises.
She wondered what Rycus would have given her. Probably some throwing knives. She would have berated him for it. And he would have teased her until she laughed and forgave him. At the thought of him, a sad smile touched the corners of her mouth.
The headdress dropped in the oil, pulling down the wick and anchoring it in place. More priestesses lit the marriage channels behind the throne. Flames shot up the walls and then toward the golden phoenix. The flames started in the bird’s chest before exploding outward along its spread wings.
Four priestesses raised the vessel of oil in time to touch the first flames from the bird’s burning beak. The wick burned in a rainbow of colors, everything from green to magenta. Then the women placed a silk shade around the vessel to keep it from being blown out and hurried off to place it in a windless room in the temple, where they would stand guard over it through the night. It was said a flame that went out before morning meant the marriage would end badly.
Nelay was half temped to trip one of them just to make it official, but it would only incense the people.
Zatal held out his hand, and she rested hers on top of his. He led her to a door to the side of the throne, with Suka, Maran, and Jezzel directly behind them. Behind the throne and to the left was a corridor, a length of curling stairs off to one side, which they climbed, coming above the phoenix and crossing a bridge that bisected the throne room from above.
They came out onto a balcony, where the rest of the populace was waiting. Suka came to stand beside them. “I give you Zatal, King of Kings, and his wife, Queen Nelay.”
The people cheered and lit their silk lanterns. The flames caught and the lanterns rose up into the night in graceful, twisting waves of gold and red.
And with that they were married.
Nelay watched the crowd, wondering if somewhere Rycus was watching this spectacle. If his heart was breaking as hers was.