Mirage (Mirage #1)(29)

We pulled to a stop several meters shy of the gate, and waited as Nabil flashed identification and for the doors to groan open. A flash of birds burst into the air on the other side of the gate, shrieking angrily, their cries pierced every now and then by the sound of happy children.

*

I had not thought of the Ziyaana as a Vathek-washed version of the traditional Kushaila styles, but entering the Ouzdad estate made it strikingly clear. The sun shined down on a wide, two-story structure built against the left side of the canyon. A single tower rose on the far end, capped in gold, its walls inlaid with shining green stone. It was obvious the white walls were regularly cleaned—they had none of the Ziyaana’s rusted pallor and gleamed almost as brightly as the tiles weaving their way through them. The gates to the town were impressive, but Ouzdad itself, its many windows and turrets, its single, high gold doorway, was beautiful. Treetops peeked over the edges of terraces, birds roosted where they could, and the doors were ajar, letting in a steady flow of people.

The town itself spilled from the palace, instead of from the gates, a well-organized cluster of buildings, none more than two stories, all clean and well kept. The avenues were wide, the roads smooth and lined with lanterns. Beyond the town itself were yet more orchards, and beyond that another tower, which I knew was attached to the Dihyan temple at the outskirts.

The inside of the palace was equally beautiful. Gleaming white walkways, high carved arches, ornate pillars—everything the Ziyaana had but brighter, more real, as though the Ziyaana were attempting an imitation of something else. I’d found something real here.

There were orange trees, heavy with their fruit, inside the palace as well, fig trees waiting to bloom, thin, skeletal olive trees, their bright and glossy leaves waving slowly as we made our way further into the palace. Maram’s quarters—my quarters—shared a courtyard with Idris’s, a round, paved space, with a fountain babbling happily in the center. The fountain tile was inlaid at the bottom with orange and blue tiles, arranged to look like flowers sprouting from the ground. The entrances to our rooms were framed by pillars made from orange canyon stone, carved with the old Kushaila script.

I remained standing by the courtyard as Tala directed serving girls to unload our things. The collection of chambers was built like a small kasbah—all of the living spaces oriented around the courtyard, including an upper floor with a portico, its engraved shutters wide open to let in the breeze. I could see the sky from here, a novelty I didn’t know I’d been missing until I looked up.

For a moment I worried. I hadn’t thought they would put Idris and I so close together, though why they should house us apart I had no idea. He was engaged to Maram, and it made sense to be so close—to dine and break fast together, to be able to wander easily into each other’s spaces. But …

He’d retired almost immediately, claiming a headache. Perhaps we’d be able to go our separate ways, and I would not have to worry about keeping up pretenses with a prince.

This place felt loved, airy—the opposite of everything my quarters in the Ziyaana were. In the very back of the quarters was a small door, unobtrusive, made of dark wood. A lit lantern hung beside it, which I took, and after a glance around I pulled the door open. A breeze puffed out, and when I shone my lantern in I saw a series of stone steps leading down.

I knew they had to lead down to the catacombs. Ouzdad was famous for them, miles of passageways linking different wells beneath the surface, that led out of the palace. Hundreds of stories about royals in peril ended with them escaping into the catacombs, and coming out far away in the desert. For the first time in months I would be alone for a few hours, with no demands on my time. I could explore. I could wander the catacombs, masterless for the first time in ages.

I heard water before I reached the bottom. I’d expected an enormous cavern, wide open space with stalagmites jutting up from the ground. Instead the stairway led down to a passage lit with flickering sconces. On one side lay a waterway, waves sloshing up against the sides of pillars, and on the other side a mural of Massinia that seemed to roll forward, endlessly, into the gloom.

From the staircase I’d descended and onward the mural depicted Massinia throughout her life. Her childhood in the desert, her kidnapping and escape, her encounter with the tesleet, her adolescence, and on and on. I was transfixed by the image of her on a horse, her black robes whipping in an unseen wind. It was her face, dark and austere, her eyes furious and piercing, that held me. I didn’t know how to describe Massinia—she was beautiful, as if a piece of night sky had come down to us. Her skin was dark, her forehead high, and her cheeks looked as if they’d been chiseled from stone. Always, her wiry hair was bound into a single braid from the crown of her head, threaded with silver pieces.

Her horse reared back and yet she kept her seat, unafraid of falling. Etched in gold across her forehead was the crown of Dihya. Instead of the desert sky, the tesleet was spread behind her, its wings outstretched, its head held high.

At every turn in her life, Massinia took control of the narrative. She escaped her slavers, she found her love even if she couldn’t save him, she united the tribes. And at the end of her life, when she’d had enough, she’d simply stepped out of the story and up into the sky.

My life had been a series of events happening to me, and I wanted so desperately to be able to exert the control Massinia managed on my own life. To see my family, to see Husnain, again. To have her power, her determination, her faith.