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smithereensThey reach the capital just after the first gossamer threads of sunset touch the horizon, though it’s at least another hour before they make it anywhere near the palace. Their convoy becomes a procession, an honor guard peeling out of the walls near the gate to escort them through the city.
Sihai has never hated a place more in her life.
The city is beautiful, just as Shakir described, a mishmash of bright colors against whitewashed walls, domed roofs and towering spires, and the people are just as colorful, milling about in the streets as the procession passes, hanging out of balconies and windows, pretending not to watch but watching all the same. A group of children springs between rooftops, following her litter, laughing as they try to get a peek of her through the gauze curtains.
Shakir waves them away, and though she can only see the shadowy silhouette of him through the curtain, she imagines that he’s smiling at their antics.
She would smile too, here in the litter where no one can see, but nothing will come. A smile might split her in two, beyond repair.
There’s no escaping anymore. No room to climb on the back of Shakir’s horse and run tantivy for the desert, for a place where duty could never find them.
They could’ve been happy, maybe. They could’ve built a life together. For a moment, all Sihai feels is the ache of possibilities that would never come, of a future that would never be, and every wonder of the Saarinen capital passes her by in a haze.
It’s another hour before they’re granted an audience with the king, and she uses the time to school her emotions into emptiness, to match the face she shows to the world, while her maids have her watered and changed into new clothes. When it’s finally time, Shakir comes in with them, but Sihai doesn’t dare look at him for fear of losing whatever tentative grip she has on her composure.
The king sits on a raised dais, with the crown prince at his right hand, just below. This room is just as bright as the rest of his city, swathed with carpets and curtains in elegant jewel tones: ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue.
Shakir moves to the left side of the king, one foot on the first step of the dais, and Sihai notices for the first time that he’s changed clothes as well, a long, red sash around his waist that crosses diagonally across his chest, drawing her eye up to his serious expression and damp hair, combed back from his face.
She hurriedly looks away.
“I will be translating for His Majesty, by your leave,” he says.
Beside her, Shihan nods solemnly, and then men exchange stiff, civil pleasantries while Sihai tries to keep herself from unraveling. At her introduction, she bows, peering at the crown prince from under her fringe, surprised to find him as young and handsome as Shakir--they have the same straight nose and brow line, though the prince’s is relaxed and open where Shakir’s is furrowed.
He has a kind face, like Shakir’s. She supposes that she should consider herself lucky.
“What is this news of a Idrisian princess?” Shihan asks silkily, a smile on his face even though Sihai knows he isn’t amused.
The king frowns as he speaks, but Shakir’s expression doesn’t waver as he translates, “His Majesty regrets to inform you that he’s already reached an agreement with the Idrisians for Prince Madahir’s marriage, but we can still offer the princess a place at his side, as his second wife.”
“This is unacceptable,” Sihai says, fighting to keep her voice level in spite of her ire. Duty keeps her from having Shakir, and now the Saarinens spit in the face of it; it’s more than she can bear.
“You’ll be his most honored second wife, Princess,” Shakir says gravely.
“I will be no one’s second wife, Lord Shakir. Is this the value of Saarinen’s word? You dishonor our agreement and you insult Wuxia.”
Shakir’s eyebrows lift, almost as if he’s amused, and then he translates for her, more than she thinks the comments warrant. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that the crown prince is hiding a grin behind his hand, his chin propped on his palm.
After a moment, the king speaks.
“The agreement was a Wuxian princess for a Saarinen prince,” Shakir says.
“Was that it?” Shihan puts in mildly.
Shakir doesn’t spare Shihan a second glance, his gaze fixed on her. “The king has another son, Princess. A younger son,” he says carefully. “Would you consent to marrying him?”
Sihai bristles. “I will not consent to an inferior--” she starts, before the softness in Shakir’s eyes catches up to her. The floor feels like it’s dropped out from underneath her feet. “You’re the younger prince,” she says, almost in a daze.
“Will you marry me?” he says gently.
Beside her, Shihan stirs and murmurs, with some amusement, “Well played.”
For the first time in her life, Sihai feels her composure slip. Her voice sticks in her throat. “If… that is the agreement.”
“If the crown prince is already committed, then it seems there’s little we can do,” Shihan says smoothly, opening his hands. “Wuxia accepts the proposed marriage--with some protest, I’m afraid, but such is politics.”
Sihai’s heart soars, and she wants nothing more than to run into Shakir’s arms. He’s smiling as he translates Shihan’s words to the king, reflecting her happiness so obviously that she can’t help but find it impossibly endearing.
“It is done,” the king says.
Sihai has never hated a place more in her life.
The city is beautiful, just as Shakir described, a mishmash of bright colors against whitewashed walls, domed roofs and towering spires, and the people are just as colorful, milling about in the streets as the procession passes, hanging out of balconies and windows, pretending not to watch but watching all the same. A group of children springs between rooftops, following her litter, laughing as they try to get a peek of her through the gauze curtains.
Shakir waves them away, and though she can only see the shadowy silhouette of him through the curtain, she imagines that he’s smiling at their antics.
She would smile too, here in the litter where no one can see, but nothing will come. A smile might split her in two, beyond repair.
There’s no escaping anymore. No room to climb on the back of Shakir’s horse and run tantivy for the desert, for a place where duty could never find them.
They could’ve been happy, maybe. They could’ve built a life together. For a moment, all Sihai feels is the ache of possibilities that would never come, of a future that would never be, and every wonder of the Saarinen capital passes her by in a haze.
It’s another hour before they’re granted an audience with the king, and she uses the time to school her emotions into emptiness, to match the face she shows to the world, while her maids have her watered and changed into new clothes. When it’s finally time, Shakir comes in with them, but Sihai doesn’t dare look at him for fear of losing whatever tentative grip she has on her composure.
The king sits on a raised dais, with the crown prince at his right hand, just below. This room is just as bright as the rest of his city, swathed with carpets and curtains in elegant jewel tones: ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue.
Shakir moves to the left side of the king, one foot on the first step of the dais, and Sihai notices for the first time that he’s changed clothes as well, a long, red sash around his waist that crosses diagonally across his chest, drawing her eye up to his serious expression and damp hair, combed back from his face.
She hurriedly looks away.
“I will be translating for His Majesty, by your leave,” he says.
Beside her, Shihan nods solemnly, and then men exchange stiff, civil pleasantries while Sihai tries to keep herself from unraveling. At her introduction, she bows, peering at the crown prince from under her fringe, surprised to find him as young and handsome as Shakir--they have the same straight nose and brow line, though the prince’s is relaxed and open where Shakir’s is furrowed.
He has a kind face, like Shakir’s. She supposes that she should consider herself lucky.
“What is this news of a Idrisian princess?” Shihan asks silkily, a smile on his face even though Sihai knows he isn’t amused.
The king frowns as he speaks, but Shakir’s expression doesn’t waver as he translates, “His Majesty regrets to inform you that he’s already reached an agreement with the Idrisians for Prince Madahir’s marriage, but we can still offer the princess a place at his side, as his second wife.”
“This is unacceptable,” Sihai says, fighting to keep her voice level in spite of her ire. Duty keeps her from having Shakir, and now the Saarinens spit in the face of it; it’s more than she can bear.
“You’ll be his most honored second wife, Princess,” Shakir says gravely.
“I will be no one’s second wife, Lord Shakir. Is this the value of Saarinen’s word? You dishonor our agreement and you insult Wuxia.”
Shakir’s eyebrows lift, almost as if he’s amused, and then he translates for her, more than she thinks the comments warrant. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that the crown prince is hiding a grin behind his hand, his chin propped on his palm.
After a moment, the king speaks.
“The agreement was a Wuxian princess for a Saarinen prince,” Shakir says.
“Was that it?” Shihan puts in mildly.
Shakir doesn’t spare Shihan a second glance, his gaze fixed on her. “The king has another son, Princess. A younger son,” he says carefully. “Would you consent to marrying him?”
Sihai bristles. “I will not consent to an inferior--” she starts, before the softness in Shakir’s eyes catches up to her. The floor feels like it’s dropped out from underneath her feet. “You’re the younger prince,” she says, almost in a daze.
“Will you marry me?” he says gently.
Beside her, Shihan stirs and murmurs, with some amusement, “Well played.”
For the first time in her life, Sihai feels her composure slip. Her voice sticks in her throat. “If… that is the agreement.”
“If the crown prince is already committed, then it seems there’s little we can do,” Shihan says smoothly, opening his hands. “Wuxia accepts the proposed marriage--with some protest, I’m afraid, but such is politics.”
Sihai’s heart soars, and she wants nothing more than to run into Shakir’s arms. He’s smiling as he translates Shihan’s words to the king, reflecting her happiness so obviously that she can’t help but find it impossibly endearing.
“It is done,” the king says.
