Girl, Serpent, Thorn(2)
But today was different. Today, she was on the roof to watch the royal family’s procession through the city. Today, she did not exist at all.
The royal family always arrived shortly before the first day of spring—the first day of a new year. They had a different palace in a different province for each season, the better to keep an eye on the satraps who ruled the provinces on the shah’s behalf, but even though Soraya was the shah’s sister, she never moved with them. She always remained in Golvahar, the oldest of the palaces, because it was the only palace with rooms behind rooms and doors behind doors. It was the perfect place to keep something—or someone—hidden away. Soraya lived in the shadows of Golvahar so that her family would not live in hers.
From above, the procession resembled a sparkling thread of gold winding its way through the city streets. Golden litters carried the noblewomen, including Soraya’s mother. Golden armor encased the dashing soldiers who rode on horseback, led by the spahbed, the shah’s most trusted general, his lined face as stern as always. Golden camels followed at the rear, carrying the many belongings of the royal family and the bozorgan who traveled with the court.
And at the head of the procession, riding under the image of the majestic green-and-orange bird that had always served as their family’s banner, was Sorush, the young shah of Atashar.
Light and shadow. Day and night. Sometimes even Soraya forgot that she and Sorush were twins. Then again, the Creator and the Destroyer were also twins, according to the priests. One born of hope, one of doubt. She wondered what doubts had gone through her mother’s head as she gave birth to her daughter.
In the streets, people cheered as the shah and his courtiers threw gold coins out into the crowd. Soraya understood why the people loved him so much. Sorush glowed under the light of their praise, but the smile he wore was humble, his posture relaxed compared to the rigid, formal stance of the spahbed. Soraya had long stopped imagining what it would be like to ride with her family from place to place, but her body still betrayed her, her hands clutching the parapet so tightly that her knuckles hurt.
As the procession moved through the palace gates and into Golvahar’s vast garden, Soraya could see faces more clearly. With a grimace, she noticed Ramin in the red uniform of the azatan. He wore it proudly, with his head held high, knowing that as the spahbed’s only son and likely successor, he had been born to wear red.
Her eyes gladly shifted away from Ramin to a figure riding a few horses behind him. He was a young man near the same age, his features indistinct from so far away, dressed not like a soldier in red and gold, but like a commoner, in a brown tunic without adornment. Soraya might not have noticed him at all except for one thing—
He was looking directly at her.
Despite the pomp of the procession, the lush beauty of the garden, and the grandeur of the palace ahead of him, the young man had looked up and noticed a single, shadowy figure watching from the roof.
Soraya was frozen, too surprised to duck away. That was what her instincts were telling her to do—hide, disappear, don’t let anyone see you—but another instinct, one that she’d thought she’d buried long ago, kept her in place as she locked eyes with the young man, as she let herself see and be seen. And before she shrank away from the roof’s edge and disappeared from sight, she silently issued two commands to this young man who saw what he wasn’t supposed to see.
The first was a warning: Look away.
But the second was a challenge.
Come find me.
* * *
A beetle was crawling on the grass near where Soraya was kneeling. The sight of it froze her in place, her bare hands hovering in the air until it crawled a safe distance away from her. She shuffled a little in the opposite direction and went back to her work.
After watching the procession, Soraya had come to the golestan, needing something to occupy her thoughts and her hands. The walled rose garden was her mother’s gift to her, along with teaching her to read. After Soraya had discovered as a child that she could touch flowers and other plant life without spreading her poison to them, her mother began to bring her a potted rose, as well as a book, when she visited each spring. As the years passed, Soraya’s collections grew, and her garden was now teeming with roses—pink roses, red damask roses, white and yellow and purple roses, growing in bushes and climbing up the mud-brick walls, their scent as sweet as honey.
Like the much larger palace garden, the golestan was separated into quarters by tiled pathways that met in the center at an octagonal pool. Unlike the palace garden, there were only two entrances to the golestan—a door in the wall to which only Soraya had the key, and a set of latticed doors that opened from Soraya’s room. The golestan belonged to her and her alone, and so it was the one place she didn’t need to fear touching anyone or anything—except for the unknowing insects that found their way inside.
Soraya was still eyeing the retreating beetle when she heard the sound of stately footsteps coming from her room. She quickly stood and brushed the dirt off her dress, then put on her gloves, which she had tucked into her sash.
“Hello, Soraya joon,” her mother said as she came to stand in the open doorway. Tall and regal, draped in silks, her hair glittering with jewels, Soraya’s mother always seemed more than human. When the late shah had died seven years ago from his illness, Sorush and Soraya had been only eleven, and so it was Tahmineh who had become the regent, ruling in her son’s stead until he was old enough to rule. And yet, with all that responsibility, she had never forgotten to bring Soraya the treasured gifts that lightened her daughter’s burden. Even now, Tahmineh was holding a book under one arm and a clay pot in her hands.