Mirage (Mirage #1)(65)

Despite the end of summer, the air was still hot and dry, and there was no water anywhere to make it less so. The desert seemed to stretch out in front of us for miles, an unchanging sea of orange and gold.

“Are you sure we’re safe without guards?”

“There’s no one around the city,” he promised. “Not for miles. The water supply is halved—they go elsewhere now.”

We continued on, mostly silent. It wasn’t a long trek. Before the hour was up I could see palm trees outlined against the horizon, and a small shepherd’s hut leaning just a little. There was a decaying post we tied our horses to, and beneath the shade of the trees, I could see the oasis’s pool, half dried up.

“My eldest brother, Ishaq, used to bring me here,” he said, taking my hand. “My parents wanted to hire an instructor to teach me to swim and ride. Ishaq refused—our father had taught him and he would teach me.”

“He was so much older?”

“Twelve years. Herders would come through and see the prince of Al Hoceima teaching his younger brother.” He smiled. “They liked him for that, little good it did him in the end.”

I squeezed his hand and lay my head on his arm. “He sounds very kind.”

“He was. I worshiped him, trailed behind him whenever I could get away with it. He would make room on his chair during council meetings and share his plate with me.” He shut his eyes. “They took him first, when they came.”

This, then, was the legacy of the Vath. I’d never thought much about how the makhzen had survived their regime—I think few of us had time to spare to those above us. But the grief on Idris’s face was as real as the grief I saw in my parents when they thought of their siblings.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he said at last. I didn’t smile, but pressed a kiss against his shoulder.

“Of course.”

*

We journeyed back to the stronghold soon after. Everyone had retired to nap through the heat and so the palace was hushed and quiet. We returned to our chambers and Idris moved around the room easily, closing shutters to keep out the sun.

I stretched out on one of the couches, and a moment later he joined me with a carafe of water and cups. The water was set on a table, while Idris rested his head in my lap, eyes closed. I could not rest—what he’d said, and how he lay now, made me restless. I could imagine him young, a small boy on a large horse, with full faith that his brother would catch him if he fell. I didn’t want to think what it was like for him, having that taken away in front of him.

His gift lay beside the water carafe, taunting me. There was an inscription on the opening page:

From Itimad—may this fill you with unrelenting thoughts of me.

I frowned as I began to flip through the book. Itimad was his mother, not his father. It was a collection of romantic poetry, some from antiquity, some more recent. Nearly all of it made me flush. I’d never read such words, nor could I imagine gifting a collection like this to anyone. But I couldn’t put the book down. Much of the poetry was written in the classical style, and overflowed with passion.

A part of me felt like a child, suddenly confronted with the reality of what women thought. How young I felt, thinking of my kiss with Idris. How young were my clumsy attempts at articulating what I’d felt. I couldn’t imagine myself penning such words, or sending them to anyone as many of these women had done. But the rest of me, the part aware of Idris’s head resting in my lap, the part that needed reminding to not touch him as if he belonged to me—that part could not close the slender volume.

When night falls, come and visit me,

For I have seen night keeps secrets best.

And another:

I urge you to come on feet faster than the wind,

Come and rise over my breast and take root in me and plough me.

And no matter what befalls you while we’re entwined,

Don’t let me go until you’ve flushed me thrice.

I hissed in surprise when Idris hooked his hand around the back of my neck. I dropped the book, and stared at him wide eyed as he drew my face down to his. He swiped a thumb over my cheek, slow and deliberate, and smiled.

“You’re blushing,” he said.

“The heat,” I said. I felt—I had felt like this before. Flushed skin so hot it felt too tight, my heart beating quicker, a strange and thrilling twist behind my ribs. I could feel breath coming too fast, as if I’d run to get here. But I’d never had such words or phrases to apply to it. I was all too aware that even if Idris had no idea what I’d read, he would recognize what I was feeling.

“Amani,” he murmured and sat up.

“It wasn’t—your father didn’t give this to your mother,” I said, looking away. “She gave it to him.”

When I looked up again, he was grinning. With his hair in disarray from sleep, he looked more boyish than I’d ever seen him, as though he were itching for trouble.

“Is that why you’re flushing?”

“No,” I said, too quickly. “Yes.”

“Oh?” He’d leaned in again. “What’s in the book?”

“Nothing.”

“Amani,” he said, this time in a cajoling tone.

“Poetry,” I said at last.

His expression went from confused to comprehending in a moment. “Ah,” he said, and leaned his forehead against mine.