I didn’t want to be there. I sat at the same gazebo as when I’d met Fatiha, in a gown of the same style—though different in color. It was mid-spring by now, and the Dahlias were in full-bloom. I detested the very idea of seeing Jamila, and the only reason I did it was because Abyad had conned me into such a situation by offering to take me to the city in exchange. My desire to see the world triumphed my hatred for that woman—especially after Bròn filled me in on the dynamic at play between she and Abyad.
“Her sorrow’s a different color than yours, threaded by the Child of Lust.” He informed me. “She learned true heartbreak, and she wants to help.”
When pressed further by a scrutinizing glare, he shared the details. The reason behind Abyad’s cryptic comment those months ago—the night the two shared, and how it was a decision that piqued the Powers’ interest. I asked why he hadn’t told me right away, and he snarked at me. A long lecture followed, about how he must wait for more threads of fate to be woven before being allowed to talk about the past. That he wasn’t allowed to interfere with other Cursed or Blessed Ones’ weaving.
Just as I was thinking about how to get back at Abyad for keeping his entanglement with Jamila a secret, I heard footsteps approaching the gazebo’s back end.
“Halluma—” She stifled the plea to God quickly, upon meeting my eyes. There was no pity in her expression, only cautious apprehension. I tried to fix the scowl that had found its way unto my face, wearing something close to a neutral expression instead.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Jamila said as she sat in the chair adjacent to mine. “I’m here to help you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are.” I replied.
I squared my shoulders as the maidens brought tea and baked goods to the table. I was in no condition to accept another loss—not from her, not from anyone. Jamila’s expression softened as she took a sip of her tea, but when we locked eyes—I saw it. The way she eyed my features; examining how I looked in my dress; the way she looked to her own short and skimpy gown in response, smoothing the skirt. There was jealousy in all of it.
“I’m not doing this for you.” She prefaced. “I’m doing this for Abyad.”
“Isn’t that sweet?” A facetious smile tugged at my lips.
She gave me a once-over again before huffing.
“You’re just like him.” She said bitterly. “I get it, now.”
I didn’t pay any mind to her comment, instead choosing to take a sip of my own tea. Herbal notes and a bitter bite danced across my tongue, making my throat tighten as I swallowed it. This was the kind of tea Jamila preferred?
“What do you wish to know?” I asked with an edge.
“I want to know what you told Fatiha. About your time in Otlak.” She replied.
I took a deep breath as I placed the teacup back onto the saucer, tracing the Spider Lilies that had been painted onto it with my finger nail. Everything in me protested the notion, especially considering Jamila and I’s checkered past.
“If you don’t tell me, everyone in Mahsul could turn against you and your family. They’ll turn against Abyad, too. He’s the one who concocted the plan to drain Otlak of their valuables.” Jamila said, picking up on my hesitancy.
“And why is telling you the only way to prevent this from happening, hm?” I asked.
“Because I’m the one with the most sway in social circles, you brute.” She spat. “Even if an entire Kingdom denounced you, I’d still keep the nobility on your side with a simple wave in dismissal of it.”
“Prove it.” I retorted.
“You want me to prove my reputation?” She scoffed. “The dress you’re wearing was one I set the trend for. I wore it once, and all the noblewomen in Mahsul and Strolgia reached out to Muhtal to get one.”
“A dress proves nothing.”
She was staring at me with pure vexation at that point, tired of my argumentativeness. She was lucky I was also growing tired of bickering.
“Either tell me, or watch Mahsul crumble.” She threatened.
With another huff, followed by some not-so-ladylike grumbling, I began where I knew best: how our first three years of marriage were a dream until the day I’d learned I was no longer allowed to help around Shahin’s palace. How he’d let his mask slip once I fixed his robe that day in his room.
“Why?” Jamila asked. “Why would he do that?”
My heart sat in my throat as I gave the same answer I’d given Fatiha.
“I don’t know.” I said quietly.
Jamila didn’t look at me with disbelief. She didn’t say another word. She just nodded, bit the inside of her cheek, and leaned closer to the edge of her seat as I continued. I forced myself to recount the night before my 19th birthday; how he’d struck me for the first time, and how that was the first time I’d also thought about the reason behind not receiving any letters from Mother and Father. She grimaced at that, seemingly shocked I hadn’t paid any mind to such a thing until that night.
“He had you believing that Al’Namir and Al’Haya had just…lost interest in their own daughter?” She asked breathily. I nodded.
It was the upcoming events that transpired after that, where I grew more hesitant to speak. Jamila picked up on that, squaring her own shoulders and looking at me in a way that I almost deemed sympathetic. Her hands reached across the table, meeting mine and squeezing them gently.
“You don’t have to tell me.” She said softly.
I swallowed harshly and pursed my lips.
“It took six years for me to get out of it…” I said. I noticed then, the shadow of the table—red eyes peered at me. Bròn was listening, and the dots became small slits as if smiling.
“If it hadn’t been for Abyad, I’d have died there—truly died.” I barely spoke above a whisper. “I—“
“Halluma Inaa—!” Jamila exclaimed as Bròn materialized beside me. Her grip tightened around my hands, pulling me up with her as she stood.
“I think showin’ ‘em might be a better choice than tellin’ ‘em now.” He said with a smile. Jamila looked at Bròn with wide eyes, shocked and in awe at what stood before her. She pulled me closer to her, stepping away from the table.
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“Fiid.” She said with a shaky voice. “Hala, stay away from it.”
“Oi!” Bròn said with insult.
“Jamila, this is the man—“ I corrected myself. “The being that rescued me…”
“You were rescued by a Fiid?!” She exclaimed.
“I realize how it looks—trust me, I do.” I said. “But it’s true. Bròn got me out of there—he saw it all, before I was healed.”
Jamila’s eyes traveled from mine to my neck. Releasing my hands, she peeked behind my head, to the gown’s back. Two prominent scars poked out from my shoulder blades, catching Jamila’s attention.
“How many are there…?” She asked.
“Of me, or her scars?” Bròn asked jovially.
I cut my eyes at him, he smiled sheepishly in return.
“A lot more than I’d like.” I said grimly.
Jamila looked back to me and winced. Her eyes would dance between me, and my shoulders, as if daring herself to look back at the scars.
“If we’re bein’ honest, she oughta be dead.” Bròn interjected once more. “Had the Illuminated One not found me, she’d be woven an entirely different fate. He’s lucky I took ‘im up on his deal.”
“Deal?” Jamila and I asked in unison. We looked at each other with pure disdain, before returning our eyes back to Bròn—who chuckled in response.
“Aye. Took ‘im up on an offer for some land between the Kingdoms. It’s full of energy to fuel me powers, but it’s provin’ to be more of a hassle stayin’ there than anything else.”
“Who’s the Illuminated One?” Jamila asked without even an ounce of breathing room between she and Bròn’s words.
“Who do ya think?” Bròn replied with a wink. Her eyes widened for a second before she spoke again.
“Why? What makes Abyad the Illuminated One?” She asked.
“It ain’t just coincidence that he became who he is, Lass. From how he met the Princess here, to buildin’ more muscle than imaginable—the boy’s different. His eyes should tell ya as much.”
I hated his riddles. I hated how Bròn never explicitly said what was going on in that ethereal realm I knew nothing about. I hated how the conversation had shifted, so I finally spoke up.
“What are you going to do with all of this information, anyways?” I asked Jamila.
She drew in a breath and bit her lip, looking down to the side for a moment in contemplation. Jamila was a beautiful woman, enough so to make the small voice of self-hatred in my head wonder why Abyad dared choose me over her.
“I’m going to make sure Shahin doesn’t get away with this, and that Fatiha isn’t believed when she tries to claim he wouldn’t have done such things to you.” She replied.
“Fatiha is telling people about it…?” I asked in disbelief.
Jamila nodded as her eyes met mine again. I wasn’t mistaken, that time—her eyes were lined with sympathy.
“She spoke about it to each noble near me in the Jabaals’ villa last week. The fact that she was brazen enough to discuss it there…I know she’s trying to fan flames.”
“Why?” I pressed.
“Murabiy.” She said simply. “He’s as off-kilter as Shahin. And just as much of a charmer.”
That was the third time I’d heard that man’s name after dining with Mother and Father, and it rang familiar. I offered a questioning expression to Jamila, who sighed in response.
“Do you remember the day in the Alwathi’s villa—when you met that noble boy?” She asked.
I shook my head. Such memories had all but escaped me.
“He was the only boy who’d managed to last in conversation with you for long enough to grab my attention. I came up to you that day, insinuating that you had already been betrothed to Abyad.”
The memory was hazy, but I recalled such events happening. Jamila tousled her hair and looked at me knowingly.
“I don’t do things without reason.”
Perhaps that woman was more cunning than I’d thought. While I didn’t fully recall the events of that day, I knew Jamila saw something I didn’t at that age. I was naive in my younger years, giving trust to anyone who smiled at me and taking their words at face value. Even in that moment, I was issuing faith to someone I had every right to reject and damn.
“White as a Kilsank…” Bròn murmured, looking from Jamila to me.
————
That night, I had a strange dream. I was wandering Mahsul’s palace, but something was off. The veins in the white marble flooring weren’t gold—they were obsidian. It was night time, and not a single lamp had been lit for me to see my path properly. I was somewhere in the Grand Building, that much I could tell. It was cold, like Otlak, with bare trees outside of the wall-to-ceiling windows. There wasn’t a single servant in any of the rooms, where they’d usually be in the middle of the night tending to odd ends they’d forgotten about during the day. No fireplaces had been lit, and I felt heavy as the cold traveled deeper into my skin.
The more I observed the palace’s details, the more I realized was wrong. Silver accents on the trim of the ceiling instead of gold; paintings where minor details had been changed; dark oak for doors instead of birch wood. I managed my way towards the steps to my chambers, hoping to find Abyad somewhere up there. He was only a few doors away from mine—Mother and Father were asleep just down the hall around the corner. Each step up made me feel like my lungs were going to explode. Balloons, pushed to their limit with air.
I was close to Abyad’s room when I saw him. A man so handsome it felt surreal; near-black hair tightly coiled and styled away from his face, a strong jawline, and eyes of hazel. He smiled at me. My heart skipped a beat as I opened my mouth to call out to him.
“Hey!” I tried to yell, but the words were silent.
The man turned back towards the alcove where my parents’ room was, his fine gold rings glimmering in the moonlight. As I tried to step towards him, the hallway grew. I called out again, my voice box still failing me, before I woke up.
I jolted into an upright position, cursing under my breath as I sat. My eyes darted around the room in a panic, searching for the details I knew to be right: gold veins; gold accents; warm weather; leaves on trees; birch wood door. I stood from the bed, limping towards the door and walking out of my room to re-familiarize myself with the palace—if for nothing more than to reassure myself that I was in the right version of my home. Everything was proper.
I eyed the hallway where my Mother and Father slept warily, approaching the corner and peering past the wall. Frankincense. One of them were probably praying their late night prayer. I sighed a breath of relief, turning back towards my room and finding comfort in the floral accents and earthy scent. It was when I passed a painting of my Grandfather that the scent shifted. Pure sulfur. I put my hand over my nose, the rotten smell nearly suffocating. As quickly as it came, it went.
————
Those dreams reoccurred for five months. No longer did I dream of the horrors I faced in Otlak—I dreamt of the handsome man who stalked my palace’s halls. His brown skin was etched into my memory at that point, I’d never forget it as long as I lived. The way his rings glimmered in the moonlight, how he smiled at me so sweetly each time I tried to call out to him. There were times that I woke up from my sleep covered in a sticky sweat, cold despite the warmth of the air. It became a normal occurrence for Abyad to sleep in my room, picking up on the lack of sleep I’d gotten. Whenever he asked what woke me at night, I told him I’d felt my back lock up.
On a positive note, Jamila was handling the social politics at events with grace; thwarting any kernels of doubt that arose regarding my supposed death. Whether or not I was alive had become a heavily debated topic, and Jamila never outright claimed I was truly buried six feet beneath the Peonies of Shahin’s palace.
It was mid-summer when the dream actually progressed; instead of waking up once the man disappeared behind the corridor, I remained there. Motionless. My mouth opened once more to call out to the man, but my voice wasn’t what came out. It was Mother’s: a scream unlike any other came from behind the door. Pure distress, pure agony. I awoke, frozen in place as my eyes darted around the room. Abyad was sitting up already, and another scream resounded through the palace. It was real. Mother was screaming at the top of her lungs in blood-curdling screeches. I couldn’t move. My body began to shake.
“Stay here.” Abyad said as he leapt out of the bed and picked up his sword, rushing towards the door.