Mirage (Mirage #1)(58)

Maram began to laugh. “You’ve gotten quite good at lying.”

“I’m not lying,” I insisted. “I mean. I did. It’s very difficult to like someone who has you mauled by a bird.”

“But now that I’m not having you beaten half to death you find me charming?”

I winced. Put like that it sounded beyond absurd. “It’s just—you have no need of me liking you. But in general I’ve found that when you are not cruel to people, they have a chance to like you.”

“I’m not a child,” she replied. A cross of affection and amusement filled her face. “You’ve been here months now and you’re still soft.”

“You enjoy being hated then?”

“Fear and hatred are good deterrents against murderers.”

It was my turn to snort. The sound made Maram grin, wide toothed like a shark.

“Oh, do share.”

“Far be it from a village girl to advise Her Royal Highness.”

“I can’t tell if you’ve always had such a sharp tongue,” she replied. “Or if you’ve picked that up here. I’m asking, village girl.”

“You will find it difficult—as difficult as your father does now—to rule over those taught to despise you. In my experience, fear and hatred are great motivators for great evils.”

She was watching me closely, her amusement nearly gone. “And what experience does a village girl have with statecraft and the motives of men?”

I shrugged. “Very little. But I do know that I hear your grandmother spoken of with a great deal of love and admiration. And the only time the Vath come up in commoner conversation is when they’re being cursed.”

She was playing with her ring, though her eyes had not left my face. “You can’t be suggesting that my grandmother’s rule of this planet was peaceful. I know she went to war with her brother.”

“Her brother went to war with her,” I replied. More and more I felt the ridiculousness of such a conversation. As though I could change her here and now. As if I could undo all she’d done. “And when it was over, the Dowager helped those who suffered under the war rebuild. The years that followed the war were not filled with rebels and dissidents. They wanted her to rule over them.”

“Yes,” Maram drawled. “Let’s let goat herders and farmers decide who should rule over them.”

Yes, I almost replied, but kept my mouth shut. I had said enough. And even as sarcastic as she was, I could see her thinking it over. I did not expect change, not immediately. Likely, I would see no change at all. But if there was hope, if she would listen, I wanted to try.

To my surprise, Maram cleared her plate and finished her loaf of bread. I had hoped to have some left over to share with Tala, but it seemed I’d have to cook again. When the table was cleared and the food put away, Maram rose to her feet, then paused.

“Yes?” I said when she remained silent.

“You’ll help me. With the speech. Won’t you?”

I fought back a smile. Asking was not in Maram’s nature. “Of course, Your Highness. I have nothing to do now, if you’d like to start.”





29

“Hopefully the rabble is quiet today,” Maram said grimly, on the morning I was meant to give the speech at the unveiling of the library.

She appeared to be making a joke, but she did not smile. It was curious to look at her—was she imagining me dead? Was she imagining herself? I wondered what it would mean for Maram if I died for the whole star system to see. Would it be difficult for her to watch me die, or would she see only herself?

“Be safe,” she added, looking at me. This time, there was warmth in her eyes.

I left Maram and made my way to the departure bay. Her words echoed in my head as Idris handed me into the closed coach and climbed in behind me. I didn’t like having to wonder about Maram—about what it was like for her to know she could not leave the Ziyaana today for fear of death. That half her heritage adamantly despised her as a symbol of their oppression. That she had bid me goodbye knowing that whatever I faced out there was meant for her. Did she feel it—was a war being fought in her blood every time she looked at me?

I watched through the tinted windows as the courtyard disappeared, and the coach turned to the enormous gates of the northern wall and into the wide, main boulevard that would lead into the rest of the city. As always, Idris had his hand over mine, his chin balanced on his right hand’s fist.

If Maram were in the northern territories of Andaala, I imagined it wouldn’t matter as much. They were safer, the anti-Vathek sentiment nearly nonexistent. They had few resources, and their integration into Vathek society had been quick and sure. But the capital city of Walili had been a royalist city. Its people, the poor and the wealthy alike, loved Queen Najat. She had been an idol, young and beautiful and fierce.

To them, Maram constituted the height of violation. She was their blood corrupted. I imagined, more than anything, this was why Mathis enjoyed parading her around when he did. If he couldn’t have a pure-blooded Vathek child rule over us, then he would remind everyone of the cost of occupation.

Idris looked sadder than I had ever seen him, a flat approximation of the man I knew. “Idris?”

“My family—what’s left of it—is based out of Al Hoceima.” He’d looked away again.