Sepora is the first to recover, clearing her throat and pulling away from him—and to his disappointment, retrieving her hand from his—as she smiles and waves at the people lining the road before them. He’s thankful that she has the mind to show courtesy to their citizens, as he had lost his own sanity in that space of a moment.
Tarik uses her newly formal countenance to compose himself. He tries to concentrate on his citizens, as he should, and on the occasion at hand. The last time he made a procession like this had been for his father’s funeral. At that time, taking a wife had been the furthest thought from his mind. And now here he is, only a few months later, more than ready to call this feisty enticement standing next to him his queen.
It is enough to knock the air from him. Still, he waves and smiles, smiles and waves, as slowly, the Superior Quarters disappear from their sight. He glances at Sepora just as she exhales loudly. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” he asks.
She shows him her hand, which is shaking considerably. “Being on such display is a bit unnerving. I’ve never done anything like this.”
“That’s not true,” he teases. “You’ve been hauled before audiences plenty of times, if I recall correctly. Once, when you escaped the harem, then when you jumped from the Half Bridge. Also, when you—”
She nudges him in the ribs none too gently. “But I’ve never willingly put myself upon display,” she insists.
He shrugs, doubtful. “I’m told the Superiors put on the biggest exhibition. The rest of the tour should be much less intimidating. When we made the funeral procession for my father…” But he cannot continue. Because the funeral procession ended at a pyramid that is no longer there—a loss that even his people have mourned. To them, dismantling that pyramid made Tarik wise and calculating, showing that he would stop at nothing to give the people what they needed at the time they needed it. To Tarik it made him a fool.
Sepora’s fool.
Tarik forces himself to swallow down the bitterness rising in his throat.
“Yes?” Sepora asks.
“It was nothing. I can see the Middling Quarters ahead. Or at least, the citrus fields.” His teasing tone is gone, he knows. But he cannot resurrect it for her at this moment any more than he can resurrect the pyramid that once stood so proudly guarding his father’s remains.
“I didn’t mean to press about your father,” she says solemnly. “I hope … I hope our engagement procession does not remind you too much of your loss.”
It didn’t, at first. But it does now. And she still does not know the true extent of it.
7
SEPORA
The residents of the Middling Quarters, thankfully, do not toss their resources of vegetables and nefarite at us when we arrive, but rather leave their offers of wealth in baskets in front of them on either side of us, creating a makeshift road of its own. I’m glad for it—it is one thing to be struck in the face with the occasional stray ruby, but it would be quite another to be pelted with an ear of corn. Too, I can’t express my gratitude enough, or at all really, that the Middlings hold large palm fronds over us as we pass, creating an archway of greenery and of glorious shade. Out of all the riches of Theoria, I have come to value shade the most. Shade, and water, which Tarik occasionally hands me from his camel-skin flask he keeps at his feet. I take care not to gulp, if only for Mother’s sake behind me, though it’s a difficult feat because Anku had ensured my silver body paint would be invulnerable to sweat. My sweat has nowhere to go, and my body screams for a release from the heat.
Ahead of us, six Majai on horseback disperse baskets of shimmering gold and silver. The crowd is respectful, taking their gifts and moving back to formation with their fronds. I’m in awe of how different a royal wedding is treated here in Theoria than it is in Serubel. In Serubel, we would not parade about the kingdom for all to gawk at, but we would quietly accept gifts from our lords and ladies wishing us well—Father would never think of dispersing treasures among the people—and only a select group of the most important and loyal citizens would be invited to the actual wedding, which would be held in the ballroom of our castle. Rashidi tells me that the wedding for Tarik and me will be held on a pedestal—which is still being constructed of the finest Wachuk wood—for all of Theoria to witness. He says it’s so that no one may ever question the vows of loyalty the royals make to each other, nor the vows of loyalty the new queen makes to the citizens.
I suspect it’s because Theoria strives to be lavish in even the most mundane of things, that when given the rare occurrence of a special occasion, such as the wedding of the king, Theoria’s ambition exceeds “lavish” and aims for “spectacular.”
The atmosphere is different here among the Middlings than it was in the Superior Quarters. Despite their bigger workload, these citizens emanate a certain vitality that I did not feel from the upper class of citizens. They should be exhausted from their workload of farming and harvesting, yet their excitement for our arrival is beyond measure. Sun-darkened children squeal as we pass and call out “Princess Magar!” in hopes that I’ll look their way. And of course I try, I do. But the procession moves at a steady pace, as we have much more ground to cover, and swiveling left and right to acknowledge every person who shouts for my attention would leave me dizzy at the very least.
Beside me, Tarik nearly glows with pride. Even his golden paint cannot hide his affection for his people, and deep within me, I want to feel that same connection with them. As much as I want to deny that I’ll soon be their queen, and as much as I’d hoped Mother would be the one to save me from a marriage born out of obligation, I still feel the need to please these people.
Perhaps it’s the feeling of inevitability that has settled over me the moment our chariot left the palace, or perhaps the eagerness with which the citizens greet me, that makes me yearn to become their queen. It could be the internal need I feel to make Mother proud in becoming a capable ruler that makes me want to become the queen of Theoria. But if I’m honest, if I’m truly honest with myself, my need to become queen of anything at all is trumped by my need to wed Tarik.
Even now, I feel the heat of last night’s kiss on my lips, and for the first time today, I thank Anku for caking so much body paint on me that the possibility of blushing simply does not exist. It would be a mess of a blush, in any case. One filled with heat from our kiss, and one filled with loathing at my weakness to still want to wed him even after all that he’s done and despite the fact that he only wants me for an alliance, and for my abilities. I wish desperately that I was a Lingot, so that I could discern whether his kisses were real, whether his words are empty flattery to encourage me to cooperate or if they spring from sincere feelings for me. Will I ever know how he truly feels?
Get ahold of yourself, dolt. Now would be a most inconvenient time to recollect all that Tarik makes me feel. And he was right, of course; this is not a game. We will truly be married very soon. And very soon I will need to decide what kind of wife I will be. I’d set my hopes on dutiful, but Tarik has the ability to melt dutiful into loving. Doting, even. And I’m not willing to dote on Tarik. Not when his actions have already delivered a message contradicting his words.
“We’ll be heading to the Lyceum next,” Tarik is saying. “Cy assures me they’ll not be throwing anything at us there.” I give the king a rueful smile. I had been so consumed by my thoughts I had not noticed that we were already departing from the Middlings, and what’s worse, Tarik has mistaken my silence for displeasure at the procession. A procession that thus far, he has been very proud of.
“Apologies, Highness,” I say with some regret, knowing he’ll discern my words as the truth. “I’ve become distracted by thoughts of ruling such loyal subjects.” Only a half-truth and something Tarik will also detect. Despite the curiosity that registers on his face, he says only, “They are honored to have you as their queen.”
As we make our way to the Lyceum, I’m haunted by thoughts of not living up to Theoria’s blind loyalty. An
d what they would think of me were they to learn of my Forging—and the fact that I refuse to supply them with spectorium.
8
TARIK
After visiting the Middlings and the Lyceum, and spreading baskets full of gold and silver to each venue, Tarik is disgusted with himself for feeling a sense of pride in impressing King Eron and Queen Hanlyn, and most of all, the stunning creature standing beside him, whose outward composure would have impressed even his father. At the Middling Quarters, when his soldiers had begun dispersing the fine coin, Hanlyn had gasped, and Eron had snorted—his only way of showing that an impression had been made, by Tarik’s estimate. Sepora had watched wide-eyed. “I trust this will not bankrupt the throne, Highness?” she’d whispered to him in between waves to the crowd at the Lyceum.
Not by far. But instead of being boastful, which he didn’t feel would go well with Sepora, he simply laughed. He also tried not to let it bother him that in past engagement processions, they’d also dispersed chunks of spectorium. “What do you think, Princess?” he’d said. “Shall we tax them mercilessly to regain it all?”
Sepora had smiled—until her father spoke up. “That’s precisely what you should do,” King Eron had said, ruining the jest altogether. “Every last bit of it.” Tarik thought he heard the sound of a grunt, probably in response to a well-placed elbow by Hanlyn, but he did not grace the king with a reply, nor Hanlyn with the reward of a grateful smile.
To her credit, Sepora had appeared mortified at her father’s suggestion.
As the caravan turns west, Sepora peers up at Tarik in confusion. “But are we not going to the Bazaar?”
He shakes his head. “In honor of us, the Bazaar will be closed today.”
“But how will the people procure their daily bread? Make their living?”
“Have I been deficient in generosity today, love? Do you doubt they will be repaid tenfold for their act of loyalty to us?”
She chews at her bottom lip. “Of course not. I just … I’ve never seen the Bazaar closed. It would be … Well, it would be odd.” She gives him a curious look. “The city of Anyar still seems so alive in the evenings.”
Of course she refers to her evenings gallivanting through the sky with Nuna, but Tarik is reminded of their night spent on the great pyramid so long ago. She had first refused his kiss then. He’s sure she would refuse it again now, especially after last night. Still, it’s worth finding out. But it may not well be worth the feeling of rejection when she declines. “Perhaps Nuna would not mind a second rider this evening?”
“I’m sure I’ll be quite exhausted at the end of our journey today. Perhaps another time?” It is the truth, rather than an excuse. She has put much effort into performing her part today. She is already showing signs of fatigue, stealing yawns when they leave a venue and allowing her shoulders to slump in between visits. She has not bothered to rearrange the tendrils of hair falling loose from her headdress, and he has noticed that she shifts her weight from one foot to the other often.
Yes, Sepora is tired indeed.
He leans in, his nose brushing her cheek lightly. “I will hold you to that, Princess.”
She doesn’t look at him, but her words are not laced with resistance as they have been these past days. “I know.” Of course she does. What she doesn’t know is how surprised he is with himself for suggesting it, especially after the confusing evening they’d shared just hours ago. Not to mention his earlier realization that she is indeed in control of him, though he is the one constantly throwing them together. He pulls them closer; she pulls them asunder.
Will it always be this way?
As the procession draws away from the Half Bridge after unloading untold riches to the merchants and their families, it changes course to due south. Again, Sepora peers up at him. “But this is not the way to the palace.”
“We’ve one more stop to make, Princess.”
“Anku said the merchants were the last stop. To where do we travel now?” So, she had known, at least a little, what would happen today. Perhaps Tarik had bored her with the earfuls of information on custom and tradition. If he had, she did not let on, always asking questions and prodding him for more. He’d found her curiosity to be genuine.
“I have resolved to include the Baseborn Quarters in our procession.”
The setting sun catches the glistening in her eyes. “Why?”
“How could I not? They’re your people, Sepora.”
She turns away from him then; her stature suggests she would like to withdraw into herself, to be left alone. He will allow her that, a private moment to sort through her feelings about this; but he wants to make sure those feelings steer in the general direction of what he intended by including the Baseborn Quarters. “We will make changes, Sepora. Spread the wealth more evenly among the quarters. Provide better public education for the Serubelans. Give more of them the chance to attend the Lyceum. They may become a part of our society in every sense, if they wish it.”
“They do not need to become part of your society,” Eron says from behind them. There is a bluster behind his words that Tarik does not trust. He has struck a nerve with his esteemed guest. “They belong in Serubel, their homeland.”
Tarik turns. “Then why do they stay?”
“Because you keep them too poor to travel home,” the king says quickly. “They can barely afford to live day to day, isn’t that so, Sepora?”
Sepora is frowning up at Tarik. She must believe at least some of what her father says. Tarik handles it the only way he knows how. “After today, King Eron, the Serubelans will not be poor. They will have the means to travel back to their ‘homeland.’ If they wish to leave, I’ll make no move to stop them.”
But he is distracted then, by Sepora placing her hand on his forearm. “Look,” she says quietly, nodding ahead of them. “They’re waiting for us.”
And indeed they are. Tarik sucks in a breath at the sight of the masses of blond heads forming lines on either side of the procession, shouting words of welcome and excitement. The setting sun behind the Baseborn Quarters brings with it a hypnotic feel, casting rich gold and purple fingers of light across the widely spread tents, as if this were its very own flourishing city instead of a poverty-stricken corner of Anyar. It is peculiar that a people who wear no fine jewelry or linen or paint still manage to exude happiness and well-being and, from what he can see of the smiling faces, contentment.
“Do you think they approve of us? Of me, becoming the queen of Theoria?” Sepora whispers as they pass the first handful of Serubelans.
“I think we’re about to find out,” Tarik says. At the front of the procession, the Majai guard calls for a halt in line, just as Tarik had ordered him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Eron grunts, but almost instantly is hushed by Queen Hanlyn.
“Dearest,” she says, “do you wish to ruin this romantic gesture for the Falcon King?”
Eron grumbles something under his breath, but the way his murmurs are delivered tells Tarik he will comply with his wife.
Tarik steps down from the chariot and holds his hand out to Sepora. She does not take it.
“What are you doing?” she says, wide-eyed. “You said we must stay in the chariot at all times. For safety.”
He shrugs. “I may have been too severe. Come, Sepora, and let us show the Baseborn Quarters how we feel about them.” He nods toward the back of the caravan, where the strong men bring baskets upon baskets of bread. Gold and silver are also offerings, but not in the form of coins. To celebrate the Serubelans, he had commissioned the gold and silver to be melded into small figurines of each kind of Serpen. As one of the men strides by him with a basket, Tarik snatches one of the silver creations from the top and offers it to Sepora. “This one,” he says. “With the thicker underbelly. This is a Defender Serpen, yes?”
She stares at the figurine for a long time. Finally, her gaze meets his. “It is, Highness.”
He offers his hand to her again. “
Sepora, join me,” he pleads. “Join me in honoring your people.”
She takes his hand but pulls back a bit. “What if they do not accept me?” But that is not the real question hidden in her words. Curious.
He glances around in all directions, bringing her attention to the applause and enthusiasm surrounding them. “I think the chances of that, Princess, are nonexistent.”
Without further warning, he lifts her down from the chariot by her waist, and she lets out a small squeal, giving him a look that clearly says he’ll pay for that later. “As much as I hate to say this,” he says, “I think we should separate. You take one side, and I’ll take the other. The men will follow you with baskets of gifts. Make sure to pass them out personally as often as you can. Sethos will accompany you for protection.”
And, as if he’d spoken him into their presence, Sethos places a hand on the small of Sepora’s back. “Shall we, Princess?” He grins. Together they leave to accompany citizens on the right side. For all his annoying attentiveness, Sepora will not be in danger under Sethos’s watch, Tarik knows.
It is something Sepora should know, too. But as Sethos guides her away, she looks back at Tarik, biting her lip. Something is troubling the princess. Something more than what she says. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here. Does she not feel safe among her people?
But he pushes the thought aside. The citizens here adore her, he can tell. If she fears for her safety, she will be pleasantly surprised.
It is with this thought in mind that Tarik takes the opportunity to tend to the Serubelans on the left.
Over the general drone of the crowd, Tarik can hear words shouted out. Praises such as “Hail Princess Magar, our future queen!” and “A happy marriage for the Falcon King and the Princess Magar!” and “The perfect girl for the boy king!” The latter could be taken as an insult, but Tarik chooses to overlook it this day. After all, when he is with Sepora, he does feel like a lovesick boy.