Текст книги "Intermix Nation "
Автор книги: M. Attardo
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
Chapter Twenty
Nazirah walks towards the front row, trying to extend the moment indefinitely. They have traveled, by carriage, to this circular outdoor arena on the outskirts of Solomon’s property. Elevated stands, hewn from thick blocks of red stone, surround an impacted field. Nazirah takes a seat to the left of Solomon, atop a lavish cushion. Cato scoots in beside her, Aldrik in tow. The rock is hot, sunbaked and sizzling. Nazirah embraces the burn.
She recognizes several of the Red Lords and their bodyguards in the throng of thousands. Word must have spread about the impending battle, because there is not an empty seat in sight. If Nazirah extended an arm, her fingertips would skim the gritty field, the caked layers of blood and dirt, organ and sediment. They have a perfect view to watch the event … a perfect view to watch someone die.
“Solomon?” she asks curiously, “what is this place normally used for?”
“The same thing it is being used for today,” he replies. “These battles are fairly common throughout the Deathlands. The Salaahis have always hosted them under our code of neutrality.”
“I see.”
But she doesn’t. Nazirah looks around the stands, disgusted. She doesn’t understand how the Deathlanders view this as some great festivity, as fun. All around the arena, they laugh and ululate, hiss and spit, eat and drink and piss.
Solomon notices her revulsion. “Do not be quick to judge us,” he says. “This is a part of our culture, unpleasant as it may be. These stands are filled with intermix and native alike, celebrating together, cheering together, just as they work together. Could the same be said of your own territory?”
“No,” she admits, thinking of those gallows. “I suppose not.”
Solomon smiles wisely, leaning in close. “Like a person,” he says, “no territory is perfect. Sometimes you must take the good with the bad.”
“And what if the bad is really bad?” she whispers.
“Then maybe the good is exceptionally good,” he whispers back.
“Solomon,” Aldrik grumbles, “can we get this started already?”
“Everything in due time!” he replies, struggling to be heard over the uproarious crowd. He gives Nazirah a reassuring pat on the knee. “Do not fret, Miss Nation. Mr. Morgen will be just fine.” Cato shoots Nazirah a sideways glance, which she ignores.
Khanto appears to Nazirah’s right, at the far end of the field. As soon as the crowd sees him, they go wild. He is their overlord, their Khan, and he has never once lost a fight. Khanto is bare-chested. His Deathland tattoo gleams in the sun like a calling card. Two red handprints are emblazoned on his chest. His hair is tied back in its typical braid. White war paint covers his face and his necklace of teeth is displayed proudly. Khanto sneers, displaying his own set of gleaming ivory bones.
Nazirah incongruously recalls the first Red Westerner she ever met, the peddler with the broken mosaics and kind smile. Whatever happens, she hopes to remember Deathlanders like that man and like Solomon. Not like the sadistic Khan before her. The Khan unsheathes a long sword, glittering to the hilt in rubies.
“This is a sword fight?” she questions, appalled. Nazirah doesn’t know why she never thought to ask before.
Solomon nods grimly. “It is tradition,” he says. “As is the beheading.”
“Beheading?”
Screaming jeers and hisses suddenly erupt from the stands. Nazirah snaps her head to the left. Adamek enters from the opposite end of the field, dressed simply, carrying a silver sword. Nazirah hasn’t seen him since last night and her heart skips a beat.
“This is very unusual.”
Nazirah is unable to take her eyes off Adamek. “What is, Solomon?”
“It is an archaic Ziman custom to wear gloves when intending to kill a foe,” he answers. “It is done out of respect for the opponent, covering one’s own scratch marks. Mr. Morgen seems to follow that tradition, so I assumed he would be wearing them.”
Small bits of information click into place. In Adamek’s memory, he returned from Rafu wearing fingerless gloves. Victoria had stared and stared at them. And Nazirah knows why he isn’t wearing them now. He left them behind, buried on a beach far away, never again to see the light of day.
Adamek and Khanto approach each other slowly, meeting at the center of the field. Nazirah nervously wrings her hands, thinking about Adamek’s dusza, his scratches, and now the gloves. She wonders what she’s missing, what binds it all together. “Why is following these outdated Ziman rituals so important to him?” she asks Solomon.
“I would imagine it is because he trained there when he was younger,” he replies. “Something must have stuck. You never know which traditions you will disregard and which you will take to heart.” Solomon nods at Olag, who is holding a large gong. Olag hands him the striker.
Nazirah grabs Solomon’s arm, stopping him from hitting it. “Morgen trained in Zima?” she asks quickly, remembering something else from Adamek’s memory. “Is that where the monkey is? What is that?”
“Irri, what are you doing?” Cato demands, clearly upset. He touches her shoulder, but Nazirah shrugs him off.
“So many questions that I am unable to answer,” Solomon sighs. “You are asking the wrong person.” And before Nazirah can say anything else, Solomon rings the gong loudly, letting the fight begin.
The crowd, once raucous and rowdy, instantly goes silent. Khanto and Adamek, mere feet away, face Solomon and bow. Adamek’s gaze lingers on the ground. He looks up, seeking Nazirah out, locking eyes with her. She knows he sees the panic on her face, the trembling of her chin, the fear there. But she doesn’t look away.
She can’t.
Not from those green eyes that are making everything so heartbreakingly, confusingly, beautifully complicated.
Everything slows down. The Khan and Adamek face each other and nod slightly, touching their swords together. Nazirah watches with baited breath. And she waits. Neither makes the first move.
Her heart beats once, twice, three times.
Just when Nazirah thinks she can’t take anymore, when she’s teetering on the precipice of collapse or insanity or both, they start to battle. And Nazirah is ruthlessly catapulted into the present.
The swordfight is terrifying. Khanto, vengeful titan, attacks Adamek viciously, relentlessly. Adamek skillfully blocks each blow. But the Khan gains ground with every cut, forcing Adamek to retreat in defense. Nazirah grips the edge of her seat, knuckles white and bloodless.
“Why isn’t he attacking?” Aldrik shouts. “He’s just blocking him, for fuck’s sake! He’s not even trying to win!”
“Is that true?” Nazirah asks Solomon sharply.
“It does seem rather … one-sided at the moment,” Solomon responds.
“I hope that bastard gets his head lobbed off!” Aldrik rants. “That will teach him a lesson!”
The Khan begins screaming at Adamek in Deathlandic. “Solomon, what’s he saying?” Nazirah asks.
“Lord Khanto is upset that Mr. Morgen is not attacking,” he translates. “He says that by going easy on him, Mr. Morgen prevents the Khan from honoring his father.”
“This is easy?” she asks, bewildered. It certainly doesn’t look like Adamek is going easy on the Khan. If anything, it looks like he’s losing.
The Khan attacks again, enraged, trying to slay Adamek. Adamek sidesteps the blow a moment too late. Khanto’s blade cuts into Adamek’s fighting arm. Adamek drops his sword, falling to his knees. Khanto peers down at Adamek. He grins sadistically, licking blood off the flat of his blade. There is none of the warmth in his eyes, none of the humanity that Nazirah saw two weeks prior. There is only sinister hate and the evil, all-consuming need to kill. To avenge. Is this what Adamek looked like, right before he murdered Riva and Kasimir? Is this what she would look like?
Khanto does not make it a quick death.
He spits in Adamek’s face. He hunches over him, speaking so low that only those closest to the field can hear. Nazirah looks distraughtly at Solomon, hoping he will translate. But Solomon only stares at the Khan with great sadness. Nazirah tries to stand up, irrationally thinking she can somehow stop it from happening. Cato holds her back. She struggles against him. Khanto raises his sword, preparing for the final strike. He brings it down swiftly. Nazirah squeezes her eyes shut, unable to watch Adamek die.
The crowd collectively gasps. Against her will, Nazirah’s eyes snap open. She watches, uncomprehending, as the body slumps forward and collapses. Blood spurts from the neck cavity in waves, deep pulses that spray Nazirah’s face and arms. The severed head rolls towards her, collecting dirt and teeth and sand, leaving a sticky crimson trail in its wake. It comes to a stop only a foot away, mouth slack, lips parted in eternal glory. And still, Nazirah cannot comprehend.
It is not Adamek’s head.
Adamek stands, silver sword in his uninjured hand. The crowd silently watches him pray over Khanto’s body and then walk resolutely towards the severed head. With his still-bleeding arm, Adamek grabs what remains of the overlord by the braid, lifting it high for all to see. The crowd, once quiet, goes insane. They rise to their feet, cheering and screaming and ululating. The surviving Red Lords bow in respect.
But Nazirah cannot focus on any of it. She cannot hear any of it. Spots dance before her eyes, growing, blending, and changing colors. Her ears ring, muffle, and then dampen. Cato says something. His lips move, vocal chords vibrate, mashing syllables and consonants. Nazirah cannot process the words. She feels dizzy. Everything goes black, then blank.
#
Nazirah awakens in her room, feeling like her brain has been slammed with a sledgehammer. Solomon and Cato hover above. Her sight slowly sharpens into focus. She tries to sit up, but Olag gently presses her down.
“What happened?” she murmurs, holding her head.
Solomon dabs her forehead with a warm compress. “Oh, Miss Nation!” he exclaims. “Praise the gods, you are awake! We were so concerned!”
“You fainted, Irri,” Cato clarifies. “Just after Morgen won.”
“Olag carried you back,” Solomon confirms.
She fainted?
Nazirah has never fainted before … ever.
She sits up sharply this time, ignoring their protests. The cloth slides off her forehead, falling to her lap. Nazirah flings it away in frustration. “Why does my head hurt so much?”
“I tried to catch you when you collapsed,” Cato says. “But you hit your head on the stone first. We think you have a concussion.”
“And Morgen –”
“He is fine, just fine!” exclaims Solomon. He picks up Nazirah’s discarded cloth, wiping his own sweaty brow. “We had quite a scare at the end, but Mr. Morgen prevailed. He is with Mr. Slome right now and my best healers are tending to his arm. He will be perfect in no time at all.”
Nazirah’s head feels fuzzy. Like she needs everything repeated several times and then maybe once more to boot. “The Khan is dead?”
“He is,” Solomon replies sadly. “But he knew the risk. It is unfortunate that things have come to this, but it is a blessing in disguise. We mourn the loss of Khanto. But we also look towards the future, as the Red West allies with the rebels.”
“But,” she persists, “how did he win? He was on the floor. I thought for sure…”
Cato supplies a brief, nonchalant answer. “Khanto thought, as did we all, that Morgen was done for after getting injured. When he was speaking at the end, the Khan didn’t even notice Morgen reaching for his fallen sword with his uninjured arm. He let his guard down … didn’t even see it coming.”
“The Khan was not a man of honor today,” Solomon mutters. “His desire for vengeance blinded him, leading him astray from his own code.” He looks at Nazirah. “That was his downfall.”
“Thank you for bringing me back,” she says to them, glancing at Olag. “All of you.”
“I am relieved you are all right,” Solomon says. “But I should go check on Mr. Morgen’s progress.” He says something to Olag. “Please stay here and rest. I will send someone up with tea shortly.”
Nazirah smiles weakly, mumbling her thanks again. Solomon and Olag depart, leaving her alone with only Cato and stiff silence. The pain in her head has subsided to an unforgiving roar. “I can’t believe I fainted,” she says. “Must have been the heat.”
“Or the severed head,” Cato responds quietly.
“Wait until Lumi hears,” Nazirah sighs. “She’ll crucify me.”
“Probably.”
Nazirah, bumbling and ever articulate, attempts to change the subject. “Have you spoken with her at all?”
“Once, a few days ago,” he says, shrugging. “She really seems to enjoy working at the hospital, especially in Zima.”
“Really?” questions Nazirah. “I never pictured Lumi as having a wonderful bedside manner.”
Cato looks at her, impassive. “Stranger things have happened.”
Nazirah coughs. “I guess.”
“I think that after what happened to Ani,” he explains, “she finds comfort in saving the lives of others.”
“That makes sense,” Nazirah replies. “She likes you, Cato.”
“And I like her,” he says. “She’s my friend.”
“You know what I mean,” Nazirah presses. “She really likes you.”
Cato sighs. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not trying to pry!” Nazirah says. “But Lumi is beautiful, strong-willed and opinionated. She can even be sweet sometimes, especially to you. I think you might be good together.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, as long as you approve.”
“Once we’re all back at headquarters,” she continues, ignoring his sarcasm, “maybe you two can give it a shot.”
“And what if I don’t want to give it a shot with her?” he retaliates. “What if I want to give it a shot with someone else?”
“That’s … fine too,” she says, playing with the tassels on the duvet. “I just want you to be happy.”
Cato grabs her chin, forcing eye contact. There’s pain in his eyes. And a deep longing that Nazirah has never seen before – at least, not in person. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
She tries in vain to pull her head away. “Don’t say it,” Nazirah tells him.
“I know you know,” he pleads. “If you didn’t before, you knew after watching that memory.”
Nazirah winces from his grip. This isn’t Cato. This is a stranger, someone who has repressed his feelings for too long and is now on the verge of exploding. “Don’t say it!” she warns again.
“Why shouldn’t I? Afraid you might feel something back?”
“Stop it!”
This has to stop, now, before it’s too late. Before one of them says something they can never take back. “Irri, please,” Cato begs, running his fingers frantically over her face. “I’m in love with you.”
And there it is.
And now nothing can be the same between them. Because Nazirah loves him, but she isn’t in love with him. And pretending will only hurt him more.
“Cato …”
“I love you so much.…”
“Cato …”
There are tears in her eyes. But he isn’t focusing, isn’t listening. He is too absorbed in his own raw emotions, in bottled pain, in years of unrequited feelings to hear her now. He leans in, kissing her softly, timidly. It is grass and peppermint and sweetness … everything she should want. But Nazirah doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want it at all. And it breaks her heart.
Nazirah presses a firm hand to his chest, ending the kiss. Cato pulls away abruptly. “What is it?” he asks.
“You’re my best friend,” she says. “And I do love you. I care more about you than anyone. But I can’t give you what you want. I’m sorry.”
Cato glares at her coldly, rising from the bed. “You are so completely fucked up,” he says. Nazirah shakily stands as well. He holds up his hands, waving them in her face. “What is it? Am I too clean for you? Not scratched enough?”
“What are you talk –”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” he shouts. “I can’t believe you would choose him over me, with all our history!”
“I’m not choosing anyone over you!” she cries, needing for him to understand. “I just can’t be with you!”
He’s in her face now. “Don’t lie to me, Nazirah! You know what you are? You’re a tease. I saw how you were looking at him last night, and today. You’ve been acting weird for weeks! But I never thought you could sink so low!”
“I’m not –”
“It’s absolutely pathetic to watch,” he continues. “He’s using you! Are you honestly that insecure? You only feel like a big girl when he’s fucking you into the floorboards?”
Nazirah slaps him across the face, so hard she can almost hear his skin stinging. “Leave,” she says.
“With pleasure, Nation,” he spits, walking to the door.
“And you might want to take a look at yourself before talking about users.”
Cato’s face blanches and Nazirah knows Adamek did not lie to her. “Whatever I’ve done,” he says, “it was only to get my mind off of you.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“I’ve been there for you through everything!” he lashes out. “I’ve sacrificed everything … my family … my home … my life! I would die for you, gladly, a thousand times over! But you are selfish! You may not want to admit it to yourself, but your attraction to Morgen is there. Everyone can see it! You’re playing with fire, Nazirah. And you’re about to get burned.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Nazirah doesn’t leave her room for three days. She doesn’t sit on her balcony, doesn’t read. She just wallows in bed. She tries to resurrect that blissful numbness she once felt. But it is dead and buried. Solomon brings her tea and meals. She barely notices.
On that first evening, Solomon gently tells her Cato has returned to assignment a day early. She sobs into her pillow. Solomon informs everyone in the riad she’s recovering from a concussion, and needs several days’ bed rest. Nazirah is grateful, although entirely certain no one believes him.
Solomon keeps Nazirah abreast of life outside her door. Adamek’s arm is almost fully healed. Aldrik has met with the Red Lords. Their alliance with the rebels has been sealed. Nazirah doesn’t tell Solomon why she and Cato fought. But he is smart and observant and guesses for himself. He assures Nazirah that people deal with stress and jealousy differently, reassures her that Cato will come around eventually. He says that she has a heart of gold, which Nazirah doesn’t believe or want or need. What she has is already too heavy.
Nazirah wants no heart at all.
She makes an appearance at breakfast on the fourth morning, showered for the first time in days. But nothing can hide the dark circles that rim her eyes or the redness in her face.
“Look who’s finally decided to grace the campaign with her presence,” Aldrik snaps, before returning to his meal.
Nazirah takes her usual seat across from Adamek, briefly glancing at his healed arm. “I was recovering,” she mutters.
“You look pretty rough,” Aldrik says. “That’s for sure.”
Solomon clears his throat loudly. “We are all very happy to see your healthy return.”
Aldrik ignores Solomon. “We’re leaving Rubiyat in two days, Nation,” he grunts, “which you would know if you ever bothered to leave your room. We’re tying up some loose ends with the Red Lords and then setting out for Shizar.”
“Is that in Zima?” she asks.
“Yes,” he grumbles. “Shizar is in Zima.” He coughs. “We’re staying with our ally there, Luka. Shizar is Luka’s Lordship.”
“Lordship?”
“Did you never attend Territory History?” Aldrik snaps. “Ever? Or is the village idiot act not an act after all?”
Solomon quickly intervenes. “In Zima, every Lord presides over a Lordship,” he says. “Think of it as a small, self-contained city. Zima has the harshest climate in the country. Lordships are how the citizens survive, in a sort of feudal system. Shizar is the Lordship farthest North. We are hoping you will be safest there, since the Medis have the least access to it.”
“Got it.” Nazirah sighs, remembering how dangerous the rest of campaign will be. Sulking over Cato made Nazirah temporarily forget how dead the Chancellor wants her.
Solomon suddenly claps his hands. “That reminds me,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I have a special announcement to make! I was waiting until Miss Nation was in better spirits to tell the three of you together.”
“Tell us what?” Aldrik asks suspiciously.
“Tomorrow night,” Solomon says, “the evening before you depart Rubiyat, I will be throwing a goodbye party here in your honor.” Solomon sees Aldrik’s startled face, tries to reassure him. “Do not worry, everything is already planned! I have only invited a few of our allies, the Red Lords and their families. It will help us maintain our accord. And, of course, celebrate Mr. Morgen’s win.”
Aldrik immediately starts arguing with Solomon, citing the long journey they’ll have the following morning and the potential threats to security. Solomon will hear none of it. They begin a heated debate over the breakfast table, which Nazirah promptly ignores. Under normal circumstances, a party would be nice. But she is in no mood for celebration.
Nazirah fondly remembers the parties in Rafu … a few stolen bottles of tequilux, the old boardwalk, dancing on the beach with only the stars for chaperones. She longs for something like that again. But thinking of those endless nights, those sanguine mornings … it hurts too much.
“You look like shit, Nation,” Adamek says from across the table, grabbing some bread.
“You don’t look so hot yourself,” Nazirah retorts, unfazed.
“Caal left in quite the rush.”
“I’ll tell him you miss him.”
“What happened?” he asks. “Didn’t feel like putting out?”
His words are crude, but his tone is unusually lighthearted. Like he’s saying it just for the sake of saying it. Like he’s trying for some semblance of normalcy, which would be the two of them arguing. Nazirah briefly glances at Aldrik and Solomon, still quarrelling at the head of the table.
“No, he didn’t.”
Nazirah flips his words around in a bored voice. She casually reaches for some yogurt. Adamek gets a rare smile on his face, cheeks dimpling. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
Nazirah thinks she may have been better off eating in her room after all. She excuses herself from the table, rising swiftly. Adamek looks at her curiously. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says before leaving.
#
Nazirah spends the day in her room, packing or reading on the balcony. She tries to stay occupied, keep her thoughts off of Cato. Although Nazirah hates to admit it, he is right about a lot. She is a tease, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Nazirah knew how he felt, knew what buttons to press. She led him on with her silence, and Cato is understandably fed up. Nazirah knows she has hurt him. But he has hurt her too! His disgusting words, the things he accused her of! She doesn’t know how they move forward from here.
The night of the party, Nazirah hears pounding at her door. Opening it reveals three women wearing crimson headscarves, clearly Solomon’s servants. Nazirah quickly jumps aside as they schlep in an assortment of boxes, oils, and jewels.
“Hello,” the oldest woman, hunched over, says in a heavy accent. She’s as wide around the middle as she is tall. “I Padmakali.” She points to a middle-aged woman beside her. “This my daughter, Padmalaya.” She then points to the youngest, rail thin girl. “Granddaughter, Padmini.”
“I’m Nazirah,” she says, knowing she will never remember their names. “Nice to meet you … all.”
“Here.” Padmakali pushes Nazirah towards the middle of the room.
“What are you doing?” Nazirah asks the granddaughter.
“They are not speaking the language of you,” Padmakali tells her harshly. “Master Salaahi is asking that us arrange you.”
“For the party?”
Padmakali nods, says, “Strip.”
She looks at Nazirah expectantly, sausage fingers poised and waiting. Nazirah blushes red as dust, but pulls off her clothes and hands them to Padmakali. Padmakali nods, noticing the amnesty pendant around Nazirah’s neck. She gestures for Nazirah to remove it as well, but Nazirah shakes her head.
“I’d rather keep it on, if that’s all right.”
“Is fine.”
Much to Nazirah’s chagrin, besides overseeing, large Padmakali is also responsible for waxing, lotioning, and oiling. “This is really … ow… unnecessary … ow.” Nazirah grimaces as Padmakali relentlessly tweezes and plucks every last stray hair.
“No sense,” Padmakali says, retrieving lace undergarments from one of the boxes. Nazirah yanks them on quickly, eager to wear something besides skin. “Master Salaahi is wanting you have full luxury treatment.”
She forces Nazirah into a chair, barking at her daughter. Padmalaya hurries into the bathroom. She fills a basin of water, adding scented oils, then rushes back and begins vigorously washing Nazirah’s hair, scrubbing and yanking and tugging. Padmini takes out a palette and several brushes, skillfully mixing Nazirah’s makeup.
Three generations of Padmas hover around Nazirah like nesting dolls, relentless lotus flowers of birth and rebirth. Padmalaya curls Nazirah’s long hair slightly, braids some of it, lets the rest fall in thick copper waves down her back. Padmini applies the makeup, concentrating hard even with her grandmother shouting in her ear. She straightens up, grabbing Nazirah’s wrist and spraying it with perfume that makes Nazirah cough. Padmini glances at Nazirah’s arm strangely and says something to her grandmother. Nazirah doesn’t need a translator to understand what she asks.
“No tattoo,” Nazirah says bluntly. “Intermix.”
Padmakali slaps Padmini’s arm, scolding her. Padmini looks away, abashed. Nazirah is reminded that even in the Red West, where intermix probably have the most freedom out of all the territories, she is still considered subservient to everyone else. Nazirah touches her arm self-consciously.
“Most sorries, Nazirah,” Padmakali says. “Padmini is not of the badness. We are not often pampering intermix.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know she didn’t mean anything by it.”
Padmalaya pulls out Nazirah’s dress and the three lotuses help her into it. It’s made entirely of scarlet lace, cinching at the waist and flowing freely around her feet. Long sleeves elegantly cuff the wrist. There’s a high neckline in front, while the back plunges open, stopping just above the base of Nazirah’s spine. It’s breathtaking and Nazirah knows it probably cost more than Kasimir made in his most productive years combined.
Padmini enviously hands Nazirah a pair of nude heels. Nazirah slips them on, wobbling slightly. Clearly impressed with their handiwork, they push Nazirah towards the floor-length mirror.
Nazirah spins happily in the dress, whipping it up behind her like a dust storm. “Thank you so much,” she tells them honestly. “It’s beautiful. I could never do it justice.”
Padmakali shakes her head, forcing Nazirah to really look at herself in the mirror. Her hair is styled similarly to Riva’s. Her skin is luminous, cheekbones prominent and rosy from Padmini’s delicate touch. Her eyes are heavily lined with kohl, lashes long and thick, bringing out the natural flecks of gold in her irises. Her lips are nude, full.
She is striking.
Nazirah sees it all, but none of it matters. What matters is she has never looked this much like Riva before in her life. She touches her face, speechless. Having her mother here, with her in this small way, means more to Nazirah than beauty ever could.
“I have grandson for you,” Padmakali says seriously. Nazirah laughs, the tinkling of bells. From the final box, Padmini removes a large gold bangle. She slips it on Nazirah’s arm, right above the bracelet from her first trip to the Deathlands. It’s embellished with a dozen red suns, inlaid with rubies. Padmini says something to Nazirah, happily grabbing her wrist. “Padmini is saying you now are Deathlander too,” Padmakali translates. “You are having the red sun like us.”
Nazirah is touched by Padmini’s heartfelt words. She begins tearing up, but Padmakali shouts at her “Not to be ruining the makeup.” Nazirah hugs those three nesting dolls tightly before they leave, feeling closer to them than she dreamed possible when they first marched through her door. She walks to the mirror again, tucking the pendant out of sight. Standing before the mirror, she puts a slow hand up to her reflection. Nazirah traces the lines of her face, of Riva’s face, heart-shaped and honey-eyed.
Nazirah finds herself in that mirror. She may look like Riva, but she is not Riva. She is not Kasimir. She is born of them, but entirely her own.
She is Nazirah Nation reborn.
There is soft rapping at her door. Behind it is Olag, dressed in a suit with diamond studs in each ear. “You’re looking especially dapper tonight,” Nazirah says, taking Olag’s proffered arm. Nazirah doesn’t think he understands her, but Olag flashes the first real smile she’s seen him wear. Nazirah returns the smile, letting him lead her to the celebration.
#
The party is lively and intimate, like Solomon promised. But it is nothing like Nazirah expected. For the past two days, Nazirah assumed Solomon’s celebration would resemble Victoria’s gala. That party was luxurious and strange, uptight and stuffy. But this is the Deathlands, not Mediah.
She should have known better.
The first thing Nazirah notices is the music. It is throbbing, pulsating, intoxicating. Cymbals crash. Camel leather guitars strum, vibrating deeply. Lutes serenade. Drums bang. Men play the cane flute, while women sing loudly. Partygoers everywhere chant in Deathlandic, crooning and rhythmically handclapping. They sway their hips, gyrating, alternating between sharp and flowing movements. Some people jump acrobatically to the music in a circle. Veiled women with bright saris and bare midriffs belly dance through the crowd. People smoke hookah in a corner.
Solomon sees her, rises in greeting. “Look at you!” he exclaims. “You are exquisite, the jewel of Renatus!”
Nazirah blushes. “Thanks for lending me the dress and bracelet, Solomon,” she says. “They’re absolutely gorgeous.”
“You are mistaken,” he replies kindly. “The gold will fade and the lace will unravel. You are the true beauty. And they are yours to keep. Mementos of your time here.”
Nazirah is floored. “Are you sure?” she asks.
“Of course I am!” he says, guiding her through the crowd. “How do you like the festivities?”
“They’re amazing!” Nazirah shouts, struggling to be heard over the music. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“A truly Deathlandic event!” he cries, leading her to a large table with the rest of her campaign members. “As promised!”
