Girl, Serpent, Thorn(18)

“Go ask your mother if I lied to you, and then come back and tell me her answer. I’ll be waiting.”





7


Soraya had only been in the throne room once or twice before, and so she had forgotten how grand it was. The massive domed ceiling was enough to impress, and then there were the carved stone reliefs on the wall, images of victorious kings in battle, and the painted tiles on the floor that formed the shape of the simorgh.

At the end of the room was a magnificent golden throne atop the dais, with the image of a great flame—the Royal Fire, which burned always in Golvahar’s fire temple—painted in vivid reds and oranges on the wall behind the throne. One of the handful of times Soraya had seen her father before his death, he had been sitting on that throne, as distant and regal as ever, an intricate, heavy crown perched on his head. Soraya had been spying from behind the walls, opening the secret panel a crack to see the ceremony when her brother was officially named heir, and she wondered how her brother would ever be strong enough to wear that crown on his head.

But then she noticed something that was visible only from her close vantage point at the side of the dais. Hanging from the ceiling above the throne was a thin silver chain attached to the crown, holding it above the shah’s head so that he only appeared to be bearing its weight. Soraya had told Sorush about it later, and he had laughed in relief.

He wasn’t laughing now.

She’d tried to imagine what had been happening while she’d been waiting in an adjoining chamber. The dungeon guard had told one of the palace guards that a young woman claiming to be the shahzadeh wanted to speak to her brother. From there, the news must have gone up the chain of command, until one of the shah’s personal attendants had found him in the garden and told him his sister had been caught talking to the div in the dungeon.

And Soraya might have felt sorry for causing him all this trouble on his one day of merriment away from royal duty, except that she was too irritated with him for bringing their mother, who was standing beside the throne with a severe expression on her face.

Soraya came forward, went down on her knees, and pressed her forehead against the cool tile, as was appropriate when addressing the shah.

“You may leave us,” Soraya heard him say, and she thought he was talking to her until she felt the reverberation of the guards’ boots against the floor as they all left the chamber.

Even when they were gone, she kept her head down until she heard her brother say in a weary tone, “Soraya, please stand.”

She rose, and unsure how much formality he expected from her, she said, “I’m sorry if I’ve done something against your wishes, shahryar. I meant you no disrespect.” She wasn’t sure if it was the throne itself or the crown overhead that made the shah seem like he was an eternal fixture of the palace itself instead of her flesh-and-blood brother. Even in her mind, it seemed more appropriate to think of him as the shah than Sorush.

“There’s no need to call me that,” Sorush said, referring to his royal title. “I know you meant no harm. I only wished you had asked me first—”

“She asked me,” Tahmineh said sharply. “And I forbade it. I’m surprised you would do something so dangerous, Soraya. I always thought you were more careful than that.”

Soraya bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes stinging. For anyone else, that might have been a mild reprimand, but for Soraya, being careful was a matter of life and death.

“What did the div tell you?” her mother asked.

Go ask your mother if I lied to you.

Soraya studied her mother’s expression, looking for some hint of fear or guilt, but her perfect mask never fell. Still, Soraya couldn’t bring herself to tell them what Parvaneh had told her. For one thing, to accuse her mother of lying to her would be unforgivably disrespectful. But also, even if Parvaneh were lying, it was exactly the kind of manipulation her mother had warned her about, and she would be even more insistent that Soraya never speak to the div again.

“I asked her if she knew of a way to lift my curse. She told me nothing useful,” Soraya answered, which she hoped was true enough not to count as a lie. “But I think it’s possible that might change with time.”

“You mean you wish to return?” Sorush said, a note of interest in his voice.

“Yes,” Soraya said, “with your permission, of course.”

“Absolutely not,” Tahmineh said at once, turning to her son for confirmation. “It’s too dangerous.”

Both Soraya and her mother watched Sorush, waiting for him to make his decision. Soraya could imagine her mother’s frustration at knowing that her son could go against her wishes if he chose—and she, too, felt a prickle of annoyance at waiting for her twin brother’s blessing to do anything.

But during her brother’s thoughtful silence, Soraya noticed something other than frustration on her mother’s face. It happened so briefly: The stony look on Tahmineh’s face flickered, revealing something closer to fear or despair. It was like looking at a fine tapestry, its uniformity presenting a single image, and then, between one blink and the next, seeing every thread that held it together, ready to unravel at the slightest touch. For an instant, Soraya saw the fragility of the threads holding her mother together, and that was how she knew that Parvaneh was telling the truth.

Soraya’s mother was keeping something from her. And whatever the truth was, she was terrified for Soraya to discover it.