Beyond the Red Page 16

  How nice it must be, to sit on the moon and gaze down at the world below. Away from responsibilities and assassination attempts and marriage proposals. Surrounded with silence and the beautiful array of Kala’s eternal canvas.

  But that’s not my reality.

  I move slowly. My head is light, and my feet are numb, and I’m terrified I’m going to fall over before I even step inside. I’m walking, somehow, and people are staring and I haven’t even seen Serek yet and I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can tell him I’ll be his mate. I don’t know if I can agree to be anyone’s mate, agree to bear anyone’s children.

  Kala, I’m going to pass out.

  A strong arm slips around mine and a warmth passes through my skin and spreads to my stomach. “You look beautiful,” Serek says.

  I smile so widely that my cheeks hurt. “Thank you.”

  I look at him for the first time and my breath catches. He’s wearing his customary black and gold, but the dress uniform could not fit him better and the gold accents, buttons, and cuffs mirror the golden rings in his eyes, and his smile… His smile steals the air from my lungs and blows it down my back.

  The lights dim, and my brother strolls across the far side of the room, where a large, circular tracking light follows his movements and brings the crowd’s attention to him. He’s dressed in deep red traditional-style pants bound up to his waist, and crimson ceremonial patterns are painted across his chest and face, swirling around the light markings of his skin and the black text on his arms and chest, accentuating his status.

  I’ve never been one for performance, and today, one isn’t expected of neither me nor Dima—our role of host in tonight’s celebration is enough. But every cycle, my brother has opted to be in the center of the spectacle that is the opening ceremony, and tonight is no different.

  A red streak of light bursts through the darkness for the briefest of moments, splitting the lowered section of the floor in two. The stone platform beneath Dima rises, slowly floating higher off the ground as he bows low and sinks into Enjo, the stance of power. He centers his weight and brings his fists together over his abdomen, and the crowd falls quiet as the floor silently rises until it’s level with the first half of the room. Serek’s lips brush my ear and I suppress a shudder.

  “It would appear the opening ceremony is about to begin,” he whispers. “I will return.”

  “Kala’s blessings,” I whisper, and he smiles at me before disappearing into the gathering.

  My brother stands before the crowd with his eyes closed, in a perfect demonstration of focus. The room is so quiet you could hear the wings of an insect—not a whisper breaks the hush.

  A hand touches the small of my back and I jump, but it’s just Eros. He drops his hand before anyone sees and nods toward the front of the crowd, then guides me through them, making way so I stand at the front, just before the banister that divides the room into the lower section. I almost invite him to stay there with me, but the moment I’m in place, he melts back into the mass.

  Then Dima shouts and pounds his chest, and a line of men step beside my brother together. These are Dima’s best warriors—I recognize a couple faces, Jarek among them—and they wear the same ceremonial warrior garb of the time of old Elja. Traditionally, kazim blood was used to paint their torsos and dye their pants, but that custom was banned and replaced with dyes many cycles ago, thank Kala.

  Together, they change stance in perfect choreographed synchronization, pounding their feet and chests and chanting in Ancient Eljan—a tongue long ago discarded upon the unification of the eight territories. They move with power and grace, eventually picking up long carved huni staffs, slamming them against the ground and twirling them in complicated combinations around their bodies. I was never particularly adept with the huni staff, but Dima was born for it. He moves with it like an extension of himself, completing complicated kicks, flips, and turns with the staff.

  Then most of the men step back, falling away into the darkness, leaving Dima and Jarek. They face each other and bow deeply. Along the right wall, drummers set the pace with a powerful beat that rumbles through the room like thunder, and the men begin to spar.

  My brother is the best fighter in the entirety of our guard, but Jarek is a close second. They move around each other with ease, dodging spinning kicks and twirling staffs. This isn’t a true sparring match, per se, as ceremonial matches aren’t about injuring the opponent, but showing off their expertise—and I don’t doubt for a breath that Dima and Jarek are the two most skilled fighters in all of Elja.

  The ceremonial match ends all too soon, and I join in as the crowd cheers and my brother and his second bow and step back into the shadow.

  As is custom across the territories, when royalty hosts a royal guest from another territory for an extended period of time, the guest must show his gratitude in some grand gesture. Oftentimes in celebratory situations such as this one, the gesture is some kind of performance.

  So when Serek steps out of the darkness next, I am not surprised. He has stripped off his shirt and shoes and now wears just his black and gold pants. He reaches into the shadow at his feet and picks up two long chains with metal cage-like spiked spheres at the end. At first I don’t recognize the strange contraption, but when the lights fade, plunging the room into total darkness and the two spheres burst into flame, understanding hits me in the gut.

  They’re shi, instruments of fire dancing, occasionally used as weapons.

  Serek begins slowly, twirling the balls of flame in large, lazy circles, spinning carefully as he moves across the floor, and the shi begin to accelerate. Then, as the drums grow louder and beat faster, Serek picks up speed, whipping the fireballs around his body in smooth revolutions of deadly light. As the fire dances around him and he spins through the air with a powerful and unquestionable grace, I stop watching the shi trace orange paths of light in the darkness and focus on him instead. The way he moves with such precision, the way the bronze light catches the angles and valleys of his perfectly sculpted arms and torso … he has never looked more beautiful to me. And by the end of the night, I will be engaged to marry him.

  The shi go out, and the lights turn on, and everyone cheers as Serek bows and the platform lowers into the floor. Chatter fills the room and music plays as people migrate down to the dance floor. I stand awkwardly by the tables full of assorted pastries, frozen candies, creams and juices, and flutes of powerful drinks as passersby bow and wish me a blessed lifecycle, and my brother converges with his warrior friends, deep in conversation. They occasionally smile or wink at attractive women, particularly Dima, who is already partaking in a carafe filled to the brim of clear blue azuka. The women bombard them with flirtatious glances, and the only one of my brother’s crew who doesn’t seem to be enjoying the attention is Jarek, though it’s hard to say whether Dima’s really relishing their advances, or just pretending to. Jarek stands stiffly at my brother’s side, his arms crossed and his lips pressed into a thin line. Dima nudges him with his shoulder and says, “Naïjera.” Relax.

  Jarek grunts and takes a carafe of azuka.

  “Would you honor me with a dance?” Serek asks, stepping in front of me. He’s back in his dress uniform—though how he changed so quickly is beyond me—and he offers me his hand.

  “Of course.” I take his outstretched hand, and though I feel silly grinning like a giddy child, I can’t help it. A dance is the only time it’s acceptable to publicly touch anyone outside the family, and his brilliant grin is contagious as he leads me down the steps and twirls me to the center of the floor. I swear I’m floating a measure off the ground.

  The beat of the drums twisting with stringed alaja and nejdo plays somewhere in the back of my mind, but all I know is the strength of Serek’s hand on the small of my back, his grip on my hand, and the way his eyes pull me in and hold me in his gaze. I’m swimming in his eyes, in his smile, in the strength of his arms and the smoothness of his hands. We drift apart, then
together, weaving back and forth through the steps of the dance with the rest of the crowd. We shout and stomp at all the right times, and when we come together, his warm breath rolls over my neck, my cheek. We twirl apart, connected by the tips of our fingers—we twist together, our hips moving in sync. His lips just brush my skin as he tells me how beautiful I am, as he asks me if I’m enjoying myself, as he wishes me a wonderful lifecycle and a blessed eighteenth cycle.

  I think I speak. I think I answer his questions, but maybe I’m just smiling a lot. Maybe I’m just melting in his arms and moving when he moves, and smiling when he smiles, and maybe my heart is beating in tune with his, or maybe it’s beating so loud that I can’t hear the music. I don’t know, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter.

  Right now, the only thing that matters is the way Serek is holding me, and the way his eyes sparkle every time I meet them.

  “Your brother is watching,” Serek murmurs in my ear. “He seems to be in good spirits tonight.”

  “Does he? That’s a surprise.” The music slows and I rest my cheek against his chest as our bodies slow and sway. The heat of his skin warms the side of my face and his heartbeat echoes strong and deep.

  “How so?” Serek’s low voice rumbles in his chest against my ear.

  “Our courtship isn’t something he wanted,” I say.

  “And you?”

  I pull away enough to look up at him. I’m so close I can make out the markings on his chin—they’re in Old Inaran, a language I’m not quite so well versed in, but I can work out enough to know they’re lines from the sacred texts, written in their original language.

  My gaze rises to his, and his eyes are stunning and focused solely on me. A thrill shoots through my stomach as I process his question. “What about me?”

  “Is this what you want?” he asks.

  I blink. “You have to ask?”

  His gaze travels somewhere above my head—to Dima, I would guess—then back to me. “You say it’s not what your brother wants, but what about you? What do you want?”

  This is the moment—the one I’ve been terrified of since he first asked me that night in the garden. But now, somehow, with his gaze swallowing me and our bodies swaying together, I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

  I close the gap between us, stretch onto my toes, and bring my lips close enough to his to taste his breath. “I want this,” I whisper. “I want to be your mate.”

  His lips touch mine and his tongue swoops across my bottom lip. My mouth opens and he deepens the kiss slowly, taking his time, like every breath is ours and we have eternity. His hand slides to the back of my head and he pulls me close, our bodies pressed tightly together, his fingers caressing my hair. My heart skips a beat and drums faster as our breaths mingle together. He breaks for just a moment, then kisses me again, harder, with an eagerness that warms my belly. My fingers brush through his hair and he tastes like spice and sugar and his scent fills my nose—the faintest hint of firewood and herbs.

  Serek pulls away first and, when he smiles at me, my heart forgets to beat. “We have an audience.” He smiles softly, and heat creeps into my cheeks and the back of my neck.

  I almost forgot where we were.

  Someone starts clapping and the applause spreads like wildfire. Serek offers the crowd a warm smile and I do the same, although I wish more than anything the crowd wasn’t here and Serek and I were alone.

  We could be alone. Tonight. After the celebration is over, I could invite him to my room, where our kisses wouldn’t be judged by hundreds of eyes. Where we could be together, for the first time, as a pair. A flutter rushes through my belly. My heart stutters at the thought, and Serek is watching me with the most incredible look, and we could do it.

  The night that Midos stole from me, Serek could return to me.

  He spins me to the music and I am certain more than ever that I’m going to do it. This is how I’ll move beyond my past and embrace the future—this is how my life with Serek will begin—and I’m twirling and I catch a glimpse of smiles and winks and Eros.

  Eros, watching stiffly from the edge of the room, his arms at his sides and his lips pressed tightly together. My stomach falls out from under me. I don’t understand. Why does one look from my servant suck the smile and heat from my core and replace them with this heavy, cold air?

  But then I complete my turn and lose his gaze and Serek presses his lips to my ear again. “I think your brother would like to dance,” he mutters.

  The last thing I want is to dance with Dima, and I can’t imagine why he’d have any interest in dancing with me, but I sigh and nod. “If I must.”

  He kisses my cheek. His lips are smooth and soft against my skin. “Don’t worry, el Avra. I will rescue you before the end of the next song.”

  I smile as he twirls me away and into my brother’s arms. I try to force the smile to stay, but Dima didn’t choose to dance with me just to be near me. Is he trying to get me away from Serek? Or perhaps he intends to lecture me about bold displays of affection or remind me, somehow, of my inadequacy? I take his hand and follow the steps and stare over his shoulder.

  I don’t see Serek. Or Eros.

  “Happy lifecycle, sister,” Dima says. “May this cycle be your best one yet.”

  I blink. He’s wishing me well? He ignores me for nearly a term, argues with me, and now wants to wish me well? “Happy lifecycle, Dima,” I say cautiously. “Although we both know you hate this celebration.” He smiles and shrugs and I arch an eyebrow—when’s the last time I’ve seen him smile? Not since before the incident with Jarek. Well before that, even. “Kala,” I say. “You’re actually in a good mood.”

  His smile widens just slightly and he twirls me once. “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a special occasion, Kora. The celebration of our birth, and, I imagine, a happy announcement later on?”

  “Perhaps.” I watch him carefully. “You’ve been drinking. And smoking?” Dima laughs. He has to be intoxicated. I literally haven’t heard him laugh in two cycles. “You have been, haven’t you?”

  “Does it matter if I have? This celebration is for us, remember?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I answer. “Kala knows it’s good to see you smile.”

  “It’s good to have a reason to smile.” He twirls me again and I’m almost enjoying myself, which feels unnatural considering my company.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I say when we face each other again. “I would have thought the possible news would have you … in considerably less agreeable spirits.”

  “My sister’s possible engagement to ken Sira-kaï is a reason to celebrate, I would think.”

  “I would think so, too, but then again I rarely understand the motivation behind your moods.”

  He shrugs. “I am a complicated man.” I snort and he raises an eyebrow. “I do hope you’ve been more attractive in front of your would-be mate.”

  I slap his arm and he laughs again and, for a moment, it’s almost like we’re young again and he doesn’t know to be angry at me, he doesn’t know to resent me for being born first and stealing his place on the throne. Had I known all it took to bring him to this state was a couple of drinks or a long smoke, I would have flooded him with azuka and zeïli leaf eons ago.

  “Dima, while you’re here …” I hesitate. Will he be angry if I bring it up? I suppose it doesn’t matter—he refused my apology before, but maybe now, when he’s in a significantly better mood, he’ll be willing to listen. “I apologize for invading your privacy. It was your secret to keep, and I understand why you were upset with me.”

  Dima stiffens and his smile fades, but he doesn’t push me away or interrupt me, so I rush into the rest before he tries to stop me.

  “I just want you to know it’s okay, and I won’t say anything to anyone, but you don’t have to hide it from me.”

  His eyes harden and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it, Kora. I’d rather we both pretended it didn’t happen.”

  I frown. “
It doesn’t have to be that way—”

  “I want it that way. Do you understand? I won’t discuss this any further.” His grip on my arms is stiff as he stares hard over my shoulder.

  “Okay.” I bite the corner of my lip. “Just know if you ever need someone to talk—”

  “I don’t.”

  “I know, but—”

  Someone screams behind me, and the sound is a bucket of ice water down my spine. Dima stops in mid-step and I spin around to see who screamed. The crowd is surrounding someone and they’re looking at the floor. Someone collapsed?

  Black-coated guards rush forward and start pushing through the crowd. My breath freezes in my lungs. I quickly maneuver through everyone—they move out of the way as soon as they see I’m the one shoving them to the side—and my guards are moving toward me, but I have to see before I’m pulled away, I have to know what’s happening. I push through the final ring of the crowd and people are screaming for a medic and I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick.

  Serek is convulsing on the floor.

  “Neja!” I spin around and search the crowd for my doctor—then I spot her, struggling to move through the thick mass. My guards have almost reached me but I point to Neja. “Naï! Get her through now!” They spin around to reach her and Serek’s guards form a circle around him, pushing the crowd back. My eyes sting. I might be sick. How could this be happening?