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  Until now.

  After the way I acted at dinner, I shouldn’t be surprised to find Tarik sitting on the ledge of a fountain just outside the shadow of a citrus tree as we land. I wish I had seen him from above before, but I have the suspicion he had taken care that I wouldn’t.

  He’ll ask questions about my behavior at dinner. Out of an irresistible urge to defy him, I’ll decline to answer. He has forced my hand in almost every way. I’ll not relinquish control over our informal conversations. After realizing I’ll not bend, he’ll leave my company, brooding, and I’ll let him go, hoping I’ve bested him.

  It is the way of things now.

  “I see you’re feeling better,” he says. There it is again, his impassive expression. Either he doesn’t believe I felt ill, or he doesn’t care. Most likely it’s both. He pats the marble next to him on the ledge in an invitation to sit.

  “Surely you jest.” I train my eyes upon Nuna, aware that doing so turns my nose up ever so slightly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see his chest fall in a burdensome sigh as he rises and makes the short walk to where I rub Nuna behind her ear. She deserves a good rubbing down after the flight I took her through this evening, but that will have to wait until Tarik has left us. Rubbing down Nuna takes the better part of an hour, and since she was particularly obedient tonight, I’ll run along her spine to help ease the tension in her muscles there.

  “You were quiet at the evening meal,” Tarik says.

  “If only you were so quiet.”

  “What? Surely you’re not angry that I expressed my wish for you to swoon over me.” There is a playfulness in his tone that I can’t quite ignore. Blast.

  “Such wishes should be kept private.”

  “We are in private now.” He leans upon Nuna, cocking his head at me. It feels like even more of an intrusion, because Nuna seems at ease with this Falcon King. And why wouldn’t she be? He comes to us often enough in her stable, feeding her apples and slivers of meat while attempting polite conversation with me. He even pets her absentmindedly while asking me how my day has been. Indeed, he has lowered the defenses of my Defender.

  Since the evening meal, Tarik has washed his body of the royal paint, and his hair is a bit straggled, as though he’s just awakened. I used to prefer him this way, as Tarik and not the Falcon King. What’s more, he knows it. The thought of him coming to me as himself instead of as my ruler forces me to tread warily with my emotions. Perhaps I would not be so nervous if I had not left him with such an intimate lie earlier at dinner—a lie that only he could detect.

  “Were you sleeping in the garden, Highness?” I say, hoping desperately for a change of pace. I do not like how his eyes stay trained upon mine.

  He gives me a passive shrug and an equally lazy grin that still does not soften the intensity of his gaze. “I might have dozed off waiting for you.” He slides closer, his shoulder nearly touching my jaw. “I’d hoped you might stop by the garden before putting her to rest for the night. The guards tell me you visit often.” His voice is almost a whisper, and yet it resonates with me down to my bones.

  “If you needed to see me, you could have just asked. Though I can’t imagine a moment of the day when we’re not thrown together over kingdom matters as it is.” Which is true enough.

  “Nothing I have to say tonight could be counted as kingdom matters.”

  I feel the burn of a flush at my cheeks as he moves ever closer. His breath is a delicate breeze on my hair when he says, “In fact, at this moment, I am not a king at all, but a servant. Your servant, Sepora.”

  Saints of Serubel. Now he’s as serpentine as Sethos can be. “My servant? Well then, Tarik My Servant, go throw yourself from the Half Bridge.”

  He pushes a tendril of my hair from my face. I try to turn away, but he grabs my arm and pulls me to him. I could easily pull away, just as easily as I could have missed his reach altogether. Nuna stirs uncomfortably behind him. Tarik’s eyes are intent upon mine. “Perhaps I’m not being clear. By saying I’m your servant, I meant that I’m here to offer my services.”

  My eyes go wide and I hate myself for it. He sees everything, even the smallest of flinches. He knows his words do not fall on deaf ears—at least not completely.

  “Services?” We are not yet married. What services an unmarried Tarik could offer an unmarried Sepora, I do not know. Or perhaps I do. And that is why my voice cracked in the first place.

  “You said that you do not swoon. I thought that to be a shame, since swooning over someone can be quite enjoyable. So, here I am, ready and willing to help you swoon.”

  “I do not need help swooning.” Well played, idiot.

  “No? So you do swoon?” His teasing is relentless, his gaze even more so.

  “Stop that. Immediately.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. You challenged me at dinner.”

  “I did no such thing.” It doesn’t take a Lingot to hear the desperation in my voice. “You really should see a Healer for these delusions. Surely Master Cy can help.”

  “And unfortunately—for you—I accept.”

  For all of my bluster and everything that has come between us, I still do not move away when he entwines his fingers in my hair and pulls my lips to his. When he opens my mouth with his tongue and demands an answer from me, I give it to him. When he presses his body into mine, I allow it. I more than allow it. I press until there is no space left between us.

  And when he groans into my mouth, I return one in kind.

  With one hand in my bun of tresses, he uses the other to lace our fingers together. But he is not satisfied with that for long. He moves his hand from my hair, his fingertips blazing a trail down to the small of my back where his palm lies flat against my bare skin.

  With his touch, he has halted the world and left me here melting under his attentive supervision. And I’ll not have it. Yes, he can make me swoon. Of course he can. I’m angry with him, but not impervious. Never impervious to Tarik.

  But blast it all, I can make him swoon, too.

  I unlock our hands and move mine behind his neck, then wrap my legs around his waist. He groans, leaning me against Nuna, his hands grasping my thighs, pulling me more tightly around him. I revel in the feel of being at eye level with him, but my concentration is quickly stolen when he slips his fingers along my waist, intermittently tucking them between my skin and the fabric of my nearly sheer pants. Not to be outdone, I arch against him, surprising myself with my boldness and with the immediate need the action created within me. Despite my intentions to make him swoon, heat fills me everywhere, and I suddenly regret my adventurous decision to seduce him.

  Because kissing Tarik is not possible to do without involving my heart. Not in my dreams. Not in my wakefulness. Not ever.

  Tarik senses the moment I consciously withdraw from the kiss, because he pulls his lips from mine. Has he won? I’m not sure. Still, I’m pleased to see that he is as breathless as I am. He lets my legs and arms drop slowly so that I’m standing before him. A cloud passes over the moon, blocking out the light, but not before I catch a glimpse of his expression.

  He is as affected as I am.

  He runs a hand through his hair. We look at each other’s shadow for a long time. I see him swallow once. I fidget with my hands, thankful for the darkness. When the moon peeks out again, revealing Tarik’s face, I take a step back, pressing myself into Nuna.

  His face is awash in frustration. “I was wrong to approach this as a game,” he says gruffly. “I can see I’m well matched.” He steps toward me, tilting my chin up with the crook of his finger, and none too gently. “But the next time you kiss me like that, I’ll take it as an invitation to bring relief to the both of us.”

  He turns abruptly then and I watch as he takes the garden steps two at a time toward the palace.

  6

  TARIK

  Why must Sepora always keep me waiting?

  But then, couldn’t one argue that waiting for Sepora has now b
ecome the essence of life? And did last night’s kiss not prove that in every way? He’d initiated the kiss and he’d ended it—that was the pitiful extent of control he’d possessed when his mouth had melded to hers. But Sepora? She’d accepted his farce of a challenge and made it into a real one, seizing him, all of him, with her lips. It had not taken long for him to realize that while he is the one issuing orders and commands all day, Sepora is the one in supreme control of his world.

  And that kissing her could never be just a game. Not to him, at least.

  Uncomfortable with that thought, Tarik shifts his weight from one foot to the other in his ceremonial chariot—the same chariot that had made King Knosi appear as though he were the sovereign of all the five kingdoms. Despite Tarik’s ornate, tall headdress, his gold body paint, and the fact that his broad shoulders nearly span the width of the thing, he still feels woefully unworthy to man the chariot. How could he ever appear as majestic as his father did in it? The people—or worse, Sepora—may well laugh him out of the royal engagement procession today, finding him unfit to ride in such a creation. Made of gleaming mahogany, the finest of specimens to be found in the Wachuk forests, the chariot’s labyrinthine carvings tell the history of the Theorian kingdom—a proud tale outlined with the voyage across the Dismals, the victory of battles, and the building of pyramids. Behind him, banners of blue and gold fly in the dry wind, and flowers, dyed blue for the occasion, adorn the front of the chariot.

  Rashidi had missed no opportunity to be as extravagant as possible when commissioning the chariot for King Knosi, and none today when having it bedecked with splendor for Tarik.

  But none of this matters. What matters is that Tarik stands here in this, the beginning of his royal engagement procession, without the benefit of an actual future queen by his side. Of course, he is not so obtuse to deny that he could be the one to blame. Yes, she’d been in full control last night, but the way he’d ended their kiss had been callous and not how he’d intended. Yet … Yet. No matter what that kiss proved, nor the consequences it brings today, he’ll not regret it. Moments like those may be all he has to look forward to in their marriage, what with her mistrust of him now. And if so, he’ll grasp each one and cherish them as sacred. Though, truth told, he’d rather she come around and forgive him sooner than later. However stupid enough he is to want even a floundering marriage with Sepora, he’s also hopeful enough he’ll have one filled with love and respect and eventually, even trust.

  Just as Tarik decides Sepora is actually keeping the entire party, including her own family, waiting on purpose, Queen Hanlyn speaks up from the chariot directly behind his.

  “It would be my pleasure to retrieve my daughter for you,” she says, a bit of agitation coloring her tone. Still, she tells the truth. While Tarik is sure that King Eron finds Sepora’s tardiness a potential insult, and therefore vastly amusing, it is evident that his wife does not.

  He refuses to find it humiliating that Sepora’s own mother recognizes her daughter’s brazen disregard for his pride. Today is their engagement procession, an important moment in the beginning of their lifetime together. And Tarik will not allow bitter thoughts to ruin it. He turns to Queen Hanlyn and smiles, hoping it does not appear as sour as he feels. “I would not think of sending you to fetch her,” he says amiably. “If she is too much longer, I’ll have one of the guards inquire after her.” After all, Sepora is used to guards chasing her throughout the palace.

  Queen Hanlyn nods. “Of course, Highness.” But her frown suggests she really had personally wanted to retrieve Sepora—perhaps for the benefit of a well-placed motherly scolding. Tarik is glad his own mother isn’t here to see this indignity, not because she’d be angry with Sepora, but because she’d enjoy watching her own son squirm under the pressure. She would say what she always said: “Conundrums sharpen the wit and dull the boredom.”

  Just as Tarik reaches his own sharp wit’s end, Sepora materializes by the chariot. And promptly steals his breath.

  “My apologies, Highness,” she says quietly. “I’ve been held captive by my servants all morning. I hope my appearance is well worth it, as it will take hours to get out of this ensemble alive.”

  The truth. With relief he offers her his hand to step up into the chariot, trying not to let his mouth fall open. His future queen is nothing short of stunning. “Believe me when I say, it was time well spent.”

  She wears a silver, cylindrical headdress encrusted with diamonds and sapphires, a silver falcon adorning the front of it; a heavy-looking silver collar bib made of more diamonds and sapphires, intricately woven into swirling designs; silver cuffs around her upper arms with the same falcon on them, only they clutch at sheer blue fabric that spreads wide behind her in a flowing cape. The cuffs around her wrists also hold the sheer material like wings, giving her the appearance of a falcon herself. Set against the silver body paint—Tarik could not be more pleased that she did not fight the body paint on this day, as is the custom—her kohl and blue makeup appear as beautiful swirls upon her face. The gown itself is a light blue silk that extends to her feet.

  He knows he pales in comparison to her. Though his ensemble is similar, only with gold, she looks like an exquisite silver figurine, yet achingly human. He’ll feel a bit like a fool standing next to her, and not just because she has kept him waiting. As it is, he cannot shake the feeling of being a boy masquerading as a king.

  As she steps into the chariot, Tarik smiles to himself as he sees that she opted to wear no shoes at all.

  She smiles, too, if only for a moment. “The sandals were made of solid silver,” she says, as if scolding him for designing them that way. As if he could have dreamed up this kind of elaborate creation for her himself. “If I’m to be on my feet all day, I must at least be a little comfortable, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Ah, but I would agree to anything at all right now.”

  He can tell that were it not for her silver paint she would be blushing, though she turns away to hide it, pretending to inspect the palace as they pull off for their journey. But she only lets her gaze linger there until the palace disappears from sight. Once they are well on their way, she keeps her focus straight ahead, though the Superior Quarters are still far off. She is tense, her stance rigid as she clutches the handle in front of her so tightly her knuckles whiten with the strain.

  “Are you well, Princess?” he whispers sideways, not wishing to alert her parents of anything amiss.

  “I’m nervous,” she blurts, leaning closer to him. The revelation is somewhat of a shock. In all the time he has known her, she has never admitted to being anything less than excessively confident. Perhaps he had rattled her more than he’d thought with his kiss last night. He could not be more pleased. “What if the citizens do not approve of me as their queen?”

  Ah, but he cannot take credit for her anxiety. Swallowing a small bit of disappointment, he says, “The citizens have not had a queen for a very long time. They will most certainly approve.”

  She sighs. “So it is not me they approve of, just the fact that there is a queen at all. In that case, would Tulle not suffice?”

  “I was hoping that Princess Tulle would not make her way into our conversation today.”

  “How can she not?”

  At this, he places his hand over hers where she grips the front of the chariot, feeling the instant she stiffens under his touch. Still, he does not miss her slight shiver, either. “I do not even think of her. You, and you alone, consume my thoughts.”

  She glances back, offering her mother a small, counterfeit smile. So, she is bent upon keeping this particular conversation private, just as he is. Relief steals through him.

  “That is not enough,” she whispers back.

  “Tell me what I can do, Sepora,” he says, but they are drawing near to the Superior Quarters and will have little chance to speak to each other after this moment. “There is nothing I would withhold from you.”

  Still, she has no answer. Or, perh
aps, she has too many answers to discuss at the moment.

  Inhaling deeply, she begins to smile as they approach the first line of Superior citizens, who are dressed in their finest. He follows her lead, despite Rashidi’s strict instructions to show no emotion whatsoever in greeting his people. If Sepora wants to win over the throngs, he will help her. He nods and smiles with approval, watching as the people gently toss rubies and emeralds at the line of chariots and Majai forces, even as the convoy tramples the pathway of desert flowers and jewels beneath them. From behind, he can hear Queen Hanlyn gasp, and he can’t help but smile wider.

  Leaning in to Sepora, he says, “This is the only part of the tour that will involve the citizens showering us with gifts. It is the custom for the Superiors to display their wealth in a show of economic strength of our kingdom. Anything less precious than jewels would be an insult to the throne.”

  Sepora raises a brow at him, unimpressed and very obviously disgusted. He laughs, gaining him a staunch look of disapproval from Rashidi, who rides on a lavishly appointed horse directly in front of them, beside Sethos. When Rashidi turns around, Sethos spares Sepora the briefest of winks.

  “Must Rashidi always look like a provoked cobra?” Sepora whispers through a smile.

  “Of course,” Tarik whispers back. “It is the only way children would ever leave him alone.”

  Against her will, Sepora snickers, and again, Rashidi whips around in his saddle. “You would laugh at the offerings of your citizens?” he hisses.

  Sepora returns his glare, and just as soon as she opens her mouth for what looks like an articulate insult, Tarik grabs her hand again and points ahead to the crowds waiting for them. “Do you hear that? They are shouting your name. I would say they definitely approve of you.”

  He didn’t mean to lean in so closely, he really didn’t. He had just wanted to make sure she heard him. But the look she gives him, the way her gaze lingers over his mouth then trails up to his eyes, the manner in which her gaze holds his in surprise and what he recognizes as desire … His heart races in a staccato of beats, matching the trumpets that continually sound their arrival. All at once, the memory of last night’s kiss cradles him in a daze.