Mirage (Mirage #1)(13)

I wanted answers, but no one here would be able to give them to me. My family, my fate, my home—they were all out of my grasp for now. Perhaps forever.

I was drying my eyes when I saw it. Hanging from a wooden room partition was my majority gown. It had been laundered and repaired. Gone was the blood and dirt of that awful night, the tears from running and being kidnapped. I raised a hand to touch it and felt again that swell of grief, lodged beneath my breastbone.

And on a chair beneath it sat the sheaf of papers Husnain had gifted to me on my majority night. Breath went out of me as I stared at it, uncomprehending. I’d forgotten about it, forgotten that brief moment of happiness. It had survived my trip to the Ziyaana, my first encounter with Maram, and Tala’s repair.

How?

My hands trembled as I undid the twine still holding them together and pulled the pages out. A stiff piece of paper fell out, sturdier than the parchment, with Husnain’s writing on it.

May these words be suspended in your thoughts all your life.

Once more, my vision blurred with tears. I thought I’d lost everything, every connection to my family and my past and the people and things I loved. Husnain’s handwriting was like a beacon after a long and dark night.

“Bright-feathered and cloaked it came to her, and inclined its head,” I recited in Kushaila. “And fixed to her crown a star, gold as the sun. And it said, kneel for the Grace of the Most High.”

I felt the words shoot through me like lightning. I loved the stories of Massinia more than any other. She’d been the daughter of a Tazalghit queen and as a child was kidnapped by slavers. Massinia had suffered under the weight of her bondage before finding a way to escape. They’d branded her and beat and claimed her. But she’d freed herself and Dihya had eventually delivered her, newly marked with His touch, to her mother and her family.

Later, the tesleet that first delivered her, Azoul, returned to her with the Word of Dihya which she transcribed first into her skin, and later into the Book. Her message united the Tazalghit tribes for the first time in their history.

In the courtyard, dim, false moonlight filtered in through the dome above, and the air was filled with a stream of orbs, glowing like a sea of dying stars. Every now and then one glowed brighter than all the others and emitted a soft, childlike hum. They filled this part of the palace, the only source of light at night. Coupled with the discovery of my brother’s gift, they felt like a sign, like hope.

I prayed, fervently, for another sign, anything, to reveal my purpose in being here. I couldn’t give up hope and I wouldn’t. But I wanted to believe—had to believe—that there was a reason I was here, that there was meaning to this sudden change in fate.

The crown of Dihya had been stripped from me, my face changed, my body broken. But I was not a slave and I was not a spare. I was my mother’s daughter, and I would survive and endure. I would find my way back home.





7

Nadine did not sit behind her desk today. Nor did she wait for me to unveil myself, but took it upon herself to tug at the face covering. I fixed my gaze to a spot over her shoulder while she turned my face this way and that.

“Well,” she said at last. “You certainly look like her.”

I said nothing.

“How biddable you now seem. Come,” she said. “You may sit with me.”

There were two chairs at the table, and a breakfast spread. I hesitated.

“My lady?” I said.

“You must learn to sit with your betters if you are to emulate Her Royal Highness,” she said.

“Yes, my lady.”

Her gaze was critical as I took my seat. “Do you understand the stakes of what you’ve been commanded to do? There is no room for error.”

I watched her pour tea. “I do, my lady.”

“We shall see,” she said, then gestured at the food between us. “Eat.”

I reached for a piece of bread, but before I touched it, Nadine rapped the back of my hands with a knife. I snatched my hand back in pain.

“I see we must begin from the first.” She sneered. “You are not in a village. We do not eat with our hands.”

“It’s bread,” I said helplessly.

“You will ask for things to be passed to you,” she said. “If not, you will use a fork. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Again.”

So the morning went. By the time the sun was up, my hands had dozens of purple bruises, and I’d eaten nowhere near my fill. Nadine did not care. She had the table cleared and walked to the center of the courtyard.

“Now,” she said, sitting in her usual high-backed chair. “You shall walk to and fro on this walkway.”

I stared from where I was sitting.

“Are you deaf, girl?”

I hastened to my feet. “No, my lady.”

I’d taken three steps when something sharp snapped against my ankles. I stopped and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.

“You are not a village girl,” Nadine said when I opened my eyes. “You are no longer prey. I should see neither fear nor hesitation.”

No longer prey, she said, as if I hadn’t been exactly that from the moment of my arrival. “I don’t understand.”

“Walk with a straight back”—she snapped the thin whip at my back—“with your shoulders and head high”—another snap at my neck. “Again.”