Mirage (Mirage #1)(31)

I held up a hand. I was so angry—at myself for being caught in this trap, at him for not understanding what it meant to be caught, at fate for landing me in the Ziyaana all those months ago.

The fountain further into the gloom turned on and the sudden flow of water disturbed a small bird, no larger than the palm of my hand. She chirped, offended, then winged her way past us and up the stairs toward the sun. The light flashed off her jewel-toned wings and then she was gone. I sympathized with her, disturbed after finally finding a place to rest. And I envied her for her quick and easy escape.

“You look so much like her,” he said. “Did you always?”

I fixed my eyes on a flower just over his left shoulder.

“I had daan,” I replied. Had I ever spoken—thought—about them in the past tense? “They were taken from me.”

He had nothing to say to that.

In the quiet I felt my anger rise up again, resisted the urge to touch my cheeks and my forehead. There was no phantom pain where the ink once was, no lingering feeling. They had simply been a part of me, and now they weren’t. I had reconciled myself to that.

His voice was softer when he spoke. He understood, then, the high price I’d paid. “How did you end up here?”

“How does anyone end up in the Ziyaana?” I asked, folding my arms over my stomach.

“You were kidnapped,” he said. I remained silent. “We will be here, together, for some time. It may be to your benefit to trust me, sayidati.”

The Kushaila word wasn’t nearly as clumsy in his mouth as I’d expected.

I shook my head. “You should know better than me how difficult trust is in the Ziyaana.”

He approached me as if I were a frightened animal. “You can trust me—it is not to my benefit to reveal your secret.”

I forced myself to look at him.

“If I meant to use my knowledge against you,” he said quietly, “I would have done so already.”

I paused, considering. He was right. If he’d known the night of the ball, or on the flight from Andala to Gibra—he’d had opportunities to turn me in, to make use of the knowledge. To ruin me. He had not. That, at least, counted for something.

“They stole me on my majority night,” I whispered, looking sightlessly into the dark water. “While my friends and family watched. While my brother watched. I didn’t know why they wanted me until I saw her.”

“Maram,” he said.

I nodded. “My life has been defined by her since I’ve come to the Ziyaana.” Once the words were out of my mouth it seemed they couldn’t stop. They poured out of me—coming to the Ziyaana, being sealed away as if I were a girl in a tomb. Part of me felt like a girl detached describing everything I’d experienced—the isolation, the loss of my daan, living under Maram’s and Nadine’s eyes. But the girl who’d wept on her first night alone still lived in me, and I felt my voice waver and break.

Idris leaned against the wall beside me, quiet and observing, and let me talk, prompting me with questions, or giving me space to pause when I felt overcome. A strange lightness filled me as I spoke, as if I’d been waiting to unburden myself. I hadn’t spoken about what happened to me to anyone. Who was there to listen? Tala, who had shown me small kindnesses, but feared getting too close to me. The droids, who could show neither sympathy nor understanding.

“How long have you been a prisoner?” he asked as I finished.

I let out a broken laugh. “I don’t know. Weeks? Months? The ball was the first time I was allowed outside of the Ziyaana.”

“These weeks might be a respite for us both,” he said thoughtfully. “Without the Ziyaana to watch our every move.”

I didn’t smile, but the idea of it took hold of me. Time as myself, without a mask; without the threat of Nadine or Maram to darken my days.

“Yes,” I said softly. “It could be.”

The silence filled the space, more comfortable now, tempting me to accept his offer—of respite, of trust.

“What shall I call you?” he asked at last.

I raised my chin, making a decision. “You may call me by my name. Amani.”





17

I woke to the sound of a loutar. The strings hummed slowly, leisurely, as though whoever were playing had all the time in the world. No one sang, and there was no accompanying thump of a bendir. I lay in bed for long moments with my eyes closed, luxuriating in it, hearing old tunes give rise to newer innovations. There had been one loutar player in my entire village, an older grandfather who’d passed away two years before my majority night.

My room was full of shadows, the curtains drawn tightly shut. Two lanterns flickered weakly, and their lights cast strange starry shapes against the floor and walls. It was early yet in the morning. The night’s desert chill still lingered, and the birds were quiet. But I could hear serving girls moving quietly outside my room, their soft whispers, the sweep of a broom over the floor. Tala would not come to wake me while I was at Ouzdad; the royals could sleep as long as they liked.

The music faded and my mind turned to the night before, and my confession to Idris.

A small part of me whispered not to trust him. There was no trust in the Ziyaana—its inhabitants couldn’t afford it. But we weren’t in the Ziyaana. The proof of his trust was in my continued safety. For now, at least, my secret was safe, and so was I.