She pushed aside the light coverlet and reached for the loose white robe of gold-embroidered silk that lay across the bottom of the bed. Slipping it over her head and smoothing the clinging fabric down over her sweating skin, Sara swung her legs off the low couch, enjoying the comparative coolness of the blue-and-white tiles against her bare feet. Fighting her way through the layers of white gauze that hung down from the canopy above, she emerged into the stifling gloom of the shuttered chamber.
Standing on tiptoe, Sara raised her arms above her head and stretched until her joints cracked in complaint. Ah… that felt better. She twisted the thick, heavy mantle of her golden hair into a rough knot at the nape of her neck and pulled the clinging robe away from her sticky shoulders, before padding across to the low table. As always there was water there, and a pitcher of fruit juice that had been cool when she had gone to sleep—for like the Khazalim, she had learned better than to drink wine or spirits in the heat of the day. On this particular day, however, Sara felt the need for something stronger. Taking a flask from a nearby cabinet, she filled a goblet to the brim with wine before crossing the room to the great windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, taking up half the wall.
As she folded back the shutters, dazzling sunlight poured into the chamber in a flood of molten gold. Sara blinked, and shaded her eyes until her vision had adjusted to the stronger light. The air that had entered the room was no cooler than the stifling air within. If anything, it was hotter—but she had grown used to that by now. Feeling a need for space, as though the four walls of her chamber still trapped the echoes of her nightmare, Sara went out on the balcony and leaned against the rounded top of the marble railing.
The maze of white buildings, courtyards, gardens, and low towers that formed the Khisu Xiang’s seraglio were still and deserted in the afternoon’s oppressive heat. The soft, silvery patter of fountains, the rhythmic rasp of cicadas and the chirruping of a drowsy bird were the only sounds that invaded the heavy silence. Beyond the walls of Xiang’s vast palace, dropping down tier after tier into the shadowed, red-walled canyon of the river, stretched the city of Taibeth, of which she was now Khisihn—the Queen. Some Queen, she thought bitterly. Why, I may be the royal wife of the Khisu, but I’m as much a prisoner here as—her glance flicked back into the shadowed room, where her bright-hued finches slumbered in the heat, within their golden cage.
Don’t be stupid!. Suddenly, Sara was furious at her own weakness. She thought of her clothes, her jewels—the power that was hers within the constrained, unnatural little world of women that was hidden behind these high white walls. Would you rather be back in Nexis, she demanded scornfully of herself, dressed in rags, and sewing and scrubbing and trailing all the way to market for your father? Would you rather still be married to that dolt Vannor, with his sly little sneak of a daughter and his endless demands that you share his bed? Would you rather have been married to Anvar?
A shiver ran down her spine. Clutching the goblet in both hands, she took a long swallow of wine to steady hands that had suddenly begun to shake. She had dreamed about Anvar. The reminder was enough to disturb her all over again. For a long time now, Sara had succeeded in putting him out of her mind entirely—ever since he and that red-haired harridan of a Mage had stolen the ferocious Black Demon from the Khisu’s arena, befriended Xiang’s rebellious son, the Prince Harihn, and thrown the entire city of Taibeth into utter turmoil before making their escape into the desert. Why did he come back to haunt her now, of all times—just when she needed all her wits about her to survive these next few months?
With a shudder, she forced herself to remember the dream, in the hope that once she had confronted it, she could expunge it from her mind. She had been in Nexis, with Anvar, in the shop of his father Tori in the Grand Arcade. The events had been the same ones that had led up to the death of Anvar’s mother in the fire—but instead of Ria, it had been Sara herself who’d been the victim of the blaze. She remembered screaming and screaming as the flames leapt around her, catching greedily at her clothes and hair—but in her dream, instead of extinguishing the fire, it had been Anvar who had started it, and Anvar who was burning her. He was standing over her, gloating, a ball of Magefire in his hand. “Now you will never have a child. …”
With an anguished cry, Sara dropped her face into her hands.
“Lady—what in the Reaper’s name are you about? Come away from there at once! Have your wits been stolen by the desert winds that you stand thus for all the world to see?” The reedy, piping voice that broke through her meditations was snappish with alarm. Sara gasped, and whirled—but it was the voice itself that had startled her, not the identity of the owner.
There was no mistaking the shrill, lisping tones of Zalid, chief eunuch of the seraglio, procurer of women for the Khisu—and in this place, the only person she could trust. Just at this moment, Sara couldn’t have been more pleased to see him—though it looked as though he was far from returning the compliment. The swirling designs in gold paint that adorned his bald head were blurring at the edges in the heat, and the many sparkling necklaces that he wore were jingling with his agitation. His chubby, frowning face was creased with anxiety.
“Come inside at once, Lady,” he scolded. “Where is your veil? Have you already forgotten how ill you were last time from the sun? And for shame, to stand brazen and barefaced before the world, like a harlot on your balcony. Is this the behavior of a Queen?”
When Sara turned to face him, he gave a yelp of dismay; indeed, he was so agitated that he abandoned all pretense at courtesy. “The padding! You fool, how could you have forgotten? In your heedlessness you will kill us all!”
“Be still, Zalid!” Sara snapped. “Don’t be such an old woman. Why, I don’t really need the padding yet. And who is there to see me, you imbecile? The entire seraglio is asleep.”
Zalid’s blow caught her completely by surprise. His hand flashed out, striking her so hard across the face that she staggered back against the marble railing. While she was still unbalanced, he grabbed her arm and spun her back inside the room. Sara fell, only a last-minute reflex saving her from striking her face on the hard tiled floor. She pulled herself shakily to her feet, her head still spinning from the force of the blow. She was blazing with anger that nevertheless had a cold, pulsing seed of fear at its core. “How dare you strike me?” she snapped. “I’m the Khisihn, and when Xiang gets back—”
“When Xiang returns and his spies that infest this palace tell him what they saw on your balcony, he will have you tied in a sack and dropped in the river to feed the great lizards.”
The cold implacability of the chief eunuch’s words stopped her ranting as effectively as though he had hit her again. Zalid advanced on her, his dark face pale with anger. “Just because the Khisu is away, you may not allow yourself to grow careless, woman—not even for a moment. This plot was your idea. I warned you before we started of the difficulties involved, and the constraints that would be upon you—and now that we have started, there is no going back. I have no intention of losing my life through your stupidity. You may no longer sleep unclothed, or walk naked through these apartments like a brazen northern whore. You must become accustomed to that padding now, before it becomes essential. You will wear it at all times—no matter how it inconveniences and galls you. Now go and put it on—immediately.”