Mirage (Mirage #1)(63)

In the distance I could see the red of fire painted across the horizon, smeared by smoke. All day there had been a steady trickle of refugees who’d escaped the coast with all they could carry, hoping to find safety further in the reach. Away from rebels and fire.

So far the Vath’s bombing campaign had been confined to the two cities: Sidi Walid and Tairout. But the rebels hadn’t taken it lying down and even without my information had fired back. The rebel flag still hung in the center of Ghazlan from its bright white tower, or so what little news I’d gotten said. And I understood the Vath a little better now—rather than feel relief, anxiety gnawed at my mind. They would respond like cornered beasts and lash out at the rest of the region if the rebels’ luck held. The information I had was all that stood between the rebels and certain death. Arinaas knew it as well as I did, and had arranged a handoff for the middle of the night.

Just below in the courtyard was Idris. He’d escaped the festivities as soon as possible, to entertain a gaggle of cousins around him vying for his attention. I’d never seen him as he was now. Some of his fear had washed away the moment we touched down in his city, and now, surrounded by loved ones, he nearly glowed. And they glowed in return. I’d watched him stop to talk to uncles and cousins and aunts, and each of them had shone a little brighter, smiled a little easier, in his wake.

He helped a younger boy onto a horse. Though I couldn’t hear what he said, it was clear he was teaching him how to keep his seat. He loved them, no matter how long he’d been apart from them.

I wondered uneasily what he would say if he knew of my rebel ties. From his upset at the cause of the bombing campaign, I knew he had no love for what the rebels’ campaign might do, or what retaliation it might provoke. But they—we—were necessary if any of the people on Andala were going to survive the century.

“She looks just like Najat,” a voice murmured to my left.

I stiffened, but didn’t turn around. Maram didn’t speak Kushaila—she might have, once, but time with the Vath had taken it from her as it had taken it from most of those fostered away from their Kushaila families.

“It doesn’t matter,” a second voice said. “She can look like her mother all she wants. She’s still an outsider.”

Given everything Maram had said, I’d expected those words to be spoken with venom. Instead, all I heard was pity. They would have mourned her, I knew. Filial ties were important to us, and to have her taken away from family so young and then never returned would have pained them. And now, much like the Dowager, they didn’t know how to reach her or what to do with her. Maram didn’t help matters. I was beginning to suspect she didn’t hate Andalaans so much as she hated remembering what her father had done to them.

I was pulled from my thoughts when something—someone—tugged on my skirts. The girl couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. She looked up at me with wide eyes, as if torn between fear and fascination.

“Yes?” I said in Vathekaar.

“Khaltou Naimah has summoned you,” she replied. When I looked to the platform where the aunt sat, I saw her watching me.

“Well,” I said. “Let’s go then.”

I didn’t know if I was meant to kneel or kiss her cheeks or bow. Naimah and I regarded each other, I a bit warily, and she hawk-like. In the end, she said nothing, but gestured to a cushion beside the little girl. I sat. I had no intention of drawing the attention of the rest of the room or the group of aunts around her.

A pregnant aunt, who’d managed to walk her way to the platform, sighed. “What are we meant to do with her?” she said in Kushaila.

Naimah clucked. “Do with her?” she said. “If you all had not been such bumbling fools when she returned five years ago, she might know us. Like us. Now look at her. Vathek to her core.”

The aunt sighed again. “You can cry over the past, khaltou. But there is nothing to be done now.”

A third aunt nodded wearily. “Idris will marry her and that is that. We may as well resign ourselves.”

“To what?” Naimah asked.

If I could have, I would have warned the sisters not to answer. I recognized the tone—Maram had it, my mother had it. The question was not meant to be answered.

But the third aunt looked startled, as if she’d never heard such a tone in her life. “The rule of the Vath,” she said, as though it were obvious.

Naimah snorted. “This is why you’ve only ever born sons, Nusaiba. You are a weak-minded fool.” She flapped her hands. “Go. All of you. Out of my sight.”

I expected to be left alone after that, but instead Naimah returned her gaze to me. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t been watching. She waited for the aunts and nieces to clear, murmuring among themselves. And then she gestured me up beside her. I flinched when she took hold of my chin. Her fingers were thin, and I had the impression of being held by claws.

“You must eat more,” she said in heavily accented Vathekaar. “If you are to be any good at bearing daughters.”

“Why daughters?”

“Only your daughters will have the stomach for the future,” she said. “It is why your mother had you.”

“I want to,” I said softly. “Have the stomach for it.”

Naimah stilled and her grip on my chin tightened just a little. I wasn’t overstepping—I knew Maram now, knew how she felt. She wanted to be able to do the right thing, she wanted her mother’s family to love her. She was only afraid.