Racing the Sun Page 2

  Rahat pauses in washing the mehendi from her shaking hands.

  Without another word, the Maharanee Odelia Feiersinger turns on her heel as she rises gracefully, expecting her umber-skinned daughter to follow.

  She hasn’t a choice. The air about them grows hot as Rahat lays a hand over her heart. It’s hammering, pounding, racing as she tries to stand. The breath catches in the back of her throat. Looking at her mother the Maharanee, she knows that she will never be like that. That she can’t be like that. Every fibre of her refuses to be. ‘Ma—’

  ‘You were meant to be where I left you,’ her mother scolds, continuing inside.

  ‘Ma, I can’t breathe.’

  The Maharanee pauses. She becomes a blur of yellow and gold then suddenly her hands are cupping her daughter’s cheeks. Those foreign eyes stare back at her; their bright green like the ocean. Blue flecks encircle the hazel rim of her pupils, the green fading out to the sea; they focus so hard it’s like she’s staring into Rahat’s soul. ‘Do you need a rest?’ She asks in a whisper, pulling her daughter to her feet.

  Rahat isn’t sure why she’s whispering until she spots several of her younger siblings from the Maharaja’s harem milling about the open doors. With them are visitors with varying shades of skin, laughing as they are shown the palace grounds. Many of the younger children have spilled out into the gardens, throwing themselves into the water at Rahat’s feet to find shelter from the heat.

  Wet trousers sticking to her legs, Rahat takes a step back from the small children frolicking in the icy pool. Slowly, she shakes her head no. ‘I just need to calm down,’ she says.

  Her mother drops her hands at the speed of a glacier. They brush against her sides with the clatter of bells—adorning her from head to toe today, from her ears and bangles to the anklets hidden beneath the sweeps of her saree. This might have been what her mother had felt at her age, about to be married off to some exotic Maharaja for the sake of alliances. The similarities form a tight ball in her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ Odelia says, linking her arm with her daughter’s. Tactfully, she leads them away from the gathered visitors and tiny children.

  Through the doors, down the cavernous corridors, and into the inner workings of the palace they go. The closer they come to the centre of the colossal structure, the quieter the corridors become. Soon they are alone, their words like whispers bouncing off of the ancient carved ceiling stones. Their slippers hiss softly as they graze the floor, reminding Rahat of the sounds of the fields past the palace gates. Light flickers off the walls and their towering pillars, decorated in elaborate patterns and mosaics of legends long past.

  ‘I know too well what you are feeling,’ says the Maharanee at last. They’ve been silent for so long Rahat feared her mother would become her unfeeling self that she’s been of late. Ever since Ashrit’s lover deserted him for a prestigious heteronormative marriage, she’s been on edge. She refuses to let any of her children be hurt so. ‘Take deep breaths when it becomes too much,’ she tells her, patting her daughter’s hand gently. ‘Think of what’s around you; list them, count them, and keep breathing. Ground yourself in what is reality.’

  A man emerges from around the bend in the corridor. At spotting the Maharanee and rajkumari, he brings himself to a halt. His arms are laden with beads and furs, ready to be taken to the people he is representing. His swirling facial tattoos claim him as an ambassador from the south of Sā-Mares. Rahat has to tear her eyes away—it’s the brother of Ashrit’s former lover. They have the same nose, the same knowing grin, though their tattoos differ.

  The man averts his gaze as he passes the two women who do not move for him. He passes without a word, not even a brush of his fingers to his forehead in a sign of respect. The Maharanee’s eyes do not leave his face until he has disappeared down the corridor, leaving them once again in silence.

  ‘Ashrit must not see him,’ growls the Maharanee. ‘Your brother’s under enough stress as it is; seeing that man would destroy him.’

  Rahat ducks her head. If she only dares to speak up, all of this might be over. She can imagine it now: leading everyone into the Hall of Mirrors and parading about as she tells them all, It’s okay everyone, no need to unpack. In fact, we’re sending you back to your lands in style! There will be no wedding after all…

  Blocking out the thought, she grips her mother’s arm tighter until Odelia deigns to look at her.

  ‘Mind your brother, Rahat,’ she says suddenly. ‘He’s been aggressive with his servants, and I saw what he almost did to you.’ A quick look up and down, and her eyes feel like scourers, peeling her daughter’s skin away to glimpse what lies beneath. It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. ‘He scared you, and I’m sorry for that. But he’s angry. You must understand, he’s going through a lot. That man—that—’

  ‘Ahomana,’ Rahat corrects, and her mother turns on her.

  ‘Don’t speak his name.’ Her expression is deadly. ‘We don’t speak his name on these grounds.’ Swallowing her disgust, the Maharanee shakes out her hair, as if that will help rid the thoughts of him from her mind. ‘I would not have minded, if he had wanted both your brother and that horned woman—’

  ‘You know she doesn’t actually have horns, yes?’

  Her mother ignores her. ‘—had they all worked something out and had a child. But to choose her over my son?’ The rage seeping into Rahat from her mother is almost unbearable. It squeezes her heart as they round the curved corridors entering the bedchambers of the royal family. Dozens of rooms, dozens of halls all interconnected like a spider’s web. ‘No,’ she says, stern as she snaps the word with her hands for emphasis. ‘No. I don’t care that he likes men, but to be unable to have children?’

  ‘Ma,’ says Rahat, at last drawing her mother’s attention. She sighs, not really knowing what to say. Because what in Hadria’s Halls can you say? ‘Never mind.’

  The salmon pink halls fade, changing colour in swift brushstrokes like thousands of chameleons coating the walls. From pink to the purple of dusk, the midnight sky, and brightening to the gleaming turquoise of the rajkumari’s silks.

  ‘Do you know how hard it is to find queer princes?’ asks her mother, and Rahat almost balks. The laugh that builds in her mother’s throat makes her want to scream. ‘No, it’s true, schätzchen. You have no idea how relieved I am that I don’t have to scour all of Abrecan for a princess for you—not only would I have no idea where to start on contrasting your sarees, but I find I have a little more trouble picking the women out.’

  Like the chime of a bell, Rahat goes still.

  ‘Not that you’re that way, my darling.’

  ‘Ma—’

  ‘Because if you were, I would be so very ashamed that you couldn’t tell me. It would… kill me.’ A sigh rolls through her, heavy with relief. ‘But you’re marrying Tahir, so you’re not. So thank the gods for that. Because if you were, well… I don’t know what we’d do.’ Turning to her daughter, her bright eyes go soft. She brushes a hand over Rahat’s rosy cheek. ‘You’re going to save us all, my beautiful girl.’

  The pain of tears pricks behind her eyes. Rahat clears her throat, seamlessly shoving her mother away as they continue down the hall. ‘You were saying?’ she prompts—anything to get the subject away from what’s about to happen.

  The Maharanee’s eyes go wide for an instant before she grins, revealing the gossip she truly is. ‘Ah, yes! I approved of…’ She waves her hand in a circular motion, coaxing the name from her daughter’s mouth.

  ‘Ahomana.’

  ‘Yes, him. I approved. Noble family, agreeable temperament, he was a good partner for your brother. Strong. And then he—’ Her hold on Rahat’s hand soon becomes a death-grip, till she notices her daughter’s pinched expression. ‘Deep breaths, Rahat,’ says her mother again, though her voice is strained through gritted teeth, ‘remember that.’

  *

  The lehenga choli wrapped around Rahat is l
ike something out of a dream. The silken blouse of gold, cream, and scarlet is open at her back, revealing patterns of mehendi that trail from her shoulder blades to her coccyx. Two tiny bells jangle at the end of beaded tassels which fasten the blouse at her nape. The front of the blouse is cut low enough to allow room for the elaborate work of gold that fastens her spidersilk mantle over her collarbones. Strings of beads trail about her bare waist, mehendi swirling over her stomach. She won’t be able to dance much in how heavy a garment this is. The seamstresses have already had to assure her that her dancing lehenga will be prepared for when she performs the traditional Khumaani after the ceremony, where she will execute the dance of her ancient people for the last time. Where she will announce that the war is over, and they will be free.

  The pressure alone is enough to make her feel faint.

  The deep scarlet of the skirt is made brighter by its golden details. Layers and layers of patterns and flowers bedeck her, blurring into one as she spins. The heavy sash gets in the way when she lifts her arms, and the seamstress stands to adjust its folds. Draping it over Rahat’s head, she fastens the gossamer in place with a small clip at her crown, hidden away under a circlet of gold. A ruby the size of her thumb rests against her forehead, held in place by the golden band.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ says the Maharanee to the seamstresses.

  Rahat glances down at her feet, hidden beneath the voluminous skirts. Her feet are covered in patterns of lace and flowers. In two days time, they will be adorned with real blooms and bells and gold, making each step toward her husband sacred. It makes her flesh crawl. She can’t bear to look at her mother and the women who have worked so hard to turn her into this creature of glittering silks. They know not that they work to beautify a liar.

  In the corner of the open room stand the younger seamstresses and servants.

  The open window tosses its white curtains lazily, the cloth twirling and dancing with feather-like touches as it brushes against Rahat’s cousin’s shoulders. The pale girl makes her way from the windows to stand beside her aunt, the fair-skinned Maharanee.

  The fifteen-year-old glances up at the Maharanee, who gives her a proud grin and clasps her hand. ‘What do you think, my Hazel?’ she asks.

  The freckled girl finally lets her eyes rest on her best friend, and Rahat does her best not to make a face that will land them both in trouble. Rahat’s shoulders twitch when she tries to smile. ‘Well?’ she says.

  Hazel gives her aunt’s hand a squeeze. Her freckles seem to flit across her nose and cheeks as her expression shifts. ‘I wouldn’t think it’s you,’ she jokes, earning her a pinch to the ribs from the Maharanee. The Asthori girl only grins, taking a step from her aunt and her painful pinches. Rahat doesn’t miss noticing her hands massaging her fleshy side. ‘You look beautiful.’

  As the shame washes over her, Rahat ducks her head. ‘Thank you.’

  The Maharanee has to stop herself from crying as she watches her daughter twirl for them, the skirts fanning out like blooms in the dawn’s light. She turns her eyes on the seamstresses. ‘I want this lehenga to glow,’ she tells them.

  Standing before the open windows, Hazel is hardly more than a silhouette as she moves away from the gauzy curtains. The midday sun sparks her auburn tresses, braided about her crown in the Asthori fashion. The girl is virtually invisible to the handmaidens along the wall, though the servants smile her way as she summons one close for a glass of water.

  Rahat knows her mother’s still talking when she gazes back into the mirrors arranged in a half-circle before her. The candles’ reflections are almost blinding, but she is even more so. The seamstress moves to allow her a clear view, and what she sees almost breaks her heart. The lehenga choli is too ornate, too perfect. And, as her mother had hoped, it glows like a thousand lanterns. Tiny circular mirrors in the beads of her necklace, and stitched along the folds of her skirt, capture every fractal of light in the darkened room.

  ‘Her shoulders will be brushed with flakes of gold, of course,’ purrs one of the women—she doesn’t know which one in this light.

  Silent, Hazel brings Rahat her glass of water, though the rajkumari might have preferred wine with how she’s shaking. Hazel winks, her smile so kind that it makes Rahat want to cry.

  The ruby feels too large against her forehead. The ring looping gracefully through her nose feels too heavy. A small pearl sits against her nostril, linked to a chain that leads to her left earlobe. Two chains rest against her cheek; one a simple cord, the other tiny intricate loops.

  In two days time, she will be a great bride. A great bride with a heavy duty.

  The seamstresses speak amongst themselves when the Maharanee slips her daughter a look. Hazel’s too busy sliding her fingers over some of the finer details of her cousin’s skirts to notice. Catching her mother’s gaze, Rahat returns the water to Hazel, not having taken a sip and knowing she won’t be able to keep it down with nerves like this. Her shaking hands betray her; Hazel grips one tight when the others aren’t looking.

  The sudden swell of trumpets from outside saves Rahat from having to answer a question she didn’t hear. Almost immediately, dhol drums take up the call.

  They’re here.

  It feels all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room.

  Yet the seamstresses ignore the disruption, instead deciding to talk louder about which sash and mantle would look truly best with the lehenga. All varying designs, their colours make them look the same in the shadows. And Rahat couldn’t care less—the sash will be worn for an hour at most, before she strips off all these heavy layers to dance the Khumaani for hours and hours. For the last time dancing the dance named for the country her Delorran was before it was broken apart into the Summer Lands.

  The look Hazel gives her distracts her from this fact for only a second.

  ‘Auntie Odie?’ asks Hazel over her shoulder, keeping her eyes on Rahat.

  The Maharanee pauses in her conversation with the seamstresses. Hands looped under a stunning sash threaded with both gold and crimson detailing, she glances their way. ‘I think this one,’ she tells them, before nodding. ‘Yes, girls, you may go. Enjoy the music.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rahat breathes, feeling as though she’s about to fall off her pedestal. A single movement of her arm has the unoccupied servants rushing forward to undress her. The seamstresses stand well out of the way, gathering the rest of their fabrics into their arms. ‘I cannot wait to see Iliyah,’ whispers Rahat over the women’s heads, coaxing a kind smile from her mother.

  It takes a while to untangle her from the fine clothes before Rahat and Hazel are able to bundle her up in a dhoti saree—a shock to the elder women, who might have preferred to see her in fresh clothes to see her guests.

  Meanwhile outside, the trumpets still sing their calls of welcome.

  The palace is so full they can hardly breathe. Staircases are strewn with foreign dignitaries all conversing, speaking the layered speech of those avoiding war. Vicious whispers of hatred slither through the crowds amongst the calls of the trumpets. The Praitosí Empire is here. The Praitosí Empire—which is ruled by three.

  ‘Unnatural,’ whispers a woman from behind her fan, ‘to have three people in a marriage on the throne? No, couldn’t trust it.’

  Rahat glares at them over her shoulder as they pass, but Hazel lingers long enough to knock the woman’s fan from her hand, sending it a-clattering down the stairs. The woman hmph’s, but there isn’t time.

  ‘Hazel,’ Rahat growls, taking her cousin by the hand.

  The drumming dies down, becoming quieter as they approach, and Rahat feels like screaming. Too many people block their way.

  Ever since she was a child, she’s always enjoyed the welcoming dance performances. Music and lanterns in the middle of the day, with drinks and wonderfully delicious spiced treats.

  Her stomach rumbles. If only this dreaded day were over already.

  Servants rush by them with plates of steaming food, so
me carrying trays of gilded tea glasses full to the brim with cardamon or sugarcane tea. One rushes by with chai, the scent lingering in the air even after they’ve disappeared from sight.

  ‘Looks like we missed the chai,’ laments Rahat.

  She doesn’t even need to look to Hazel to know she’s pouting like a child. ‘But I love chai,’ she whines in a small voice, quickly adjusting her expression at spotting an Ellasían ambassador looking her way.

  ‘How’s the trade in the northern isles these days?’ asks a bronze-tanned seafarer as they pass in one of the lower corridors. The glaring light bounces off his sandy blonde hair.

  The girl raises her hand in mock manner as she breezes by. ‘I haven’t been to the Isles in years, but I assume it’s fine,’ she calls out.

  ‘Hazel,’ Rahat growls, grabbing a tighter hold of her hand and drawing her around the corner. ‘Be polite—you know some of the trade-ways have been cut off. And some of these people don’t even know you live here.’

  ‘Then why—’

  She cuts the girl off when they reach the bottom of the stairs outside, weaving around people gathered in the gardens by the glittering pools as they listen to the swelling music. None are allowed to watch the arrival of the Praitosí Empire, save those welcoming them.

  ‘Because you still look like an Asthori,’ Rahat hisses in reply.

  She stops mid-step. ‘And what does that mean?’

  The rajkumari sighs, tugging at her cousin’s chubby hand. ‘Well, just look at your hair and what you’re wearing,’ she tells her. ‘The Asthori ambassador may have ignored you when they arrived but that doesn’t mean you’re not one of them.’

  The sounds of the gardens become too much all at once. Hazel takes her hand from Rahat’s, slowly turning her back on her as Rahat grapples for something to say.

  ‘Hey, no—you know that’s not true. You’re Delorrene, you’re one of us, you goat-head, hey, no, please—Hazel, look at me.’