Racing the Sun Page 3

  All her begging doesn’t feel like enough. Coy, Hazel looks back at her cousin clad in the Brijesh family turquoise instead of the Delorrene red that she should be wearing. Pouting, the girl looks her up and down. ‘Say it again,’ she says.

  Rahat holds her gaze, only too aware of how people are actively trying to look like they’re ignoring their spat. She can’t help her mouth as it’s tugged into a grin which mashes her lips together. ‘You’re Delorrene. Come on, we all know you wouldn’t be this mental if it weren’t for my brothers.’ Brows knit, she hopes she doesn’t look like the tiny monkeys Hazel always rushes to in the menagerie. ‘Please?’

  ‘Ugh, fine,’ she groans, covering her ears and slapping Rahat’s arms, ‘I forgive you, let’s just keep going. You’ve dragged me all this way out into the heat already.’

  Just over the garden hedges, they at last lay eyes upon the giant creature that’s making enough noise to compete with the trumpets and drums. Rahat can’t hold in her excitement. It’s not every day that you see an elephant leading a royal train.

  Hazel pauses, eyes wide with amazement. ‘Is that a black Praitosí elephant?’

  Rahat can’t help her eyebrows from dancing. ‘Sure is.’

  Without catching a breath, Hazel snatches Rahat’s hand and pulls her through the crowds which part for them. People of all colours and cultures flit by as they dart through the gardens. The courtyards remain open, everyone from cooler countries choosing to remain in the shade. Only those with night-dark or mottled skin dare to sit out in the middle of the yards, spreading themselves out by the singing fountains.

  The palest remain inside on the staircases, their skin almost translucent. Ghostly, despite the light. Rahat swears she can see the snow in their blood, in their muted eyes.

  A shiver rolls down her spine. The Lyran people have always haunted her a little. So pale, so statuesque, her mother had once successfully convinced her that they were animated snowmen. Somehow, she’d believed it.

  Across the courtyard Hazel races. By the towering vines, half-hidden from sight, stands a bench free of visitors. She climbs up onto the closest step before glancing back at her cousin. The flush of her cheeks betrays her embarrassment. ‘Are you sure we should be out here?’ she asks, making Rahat laugh.

  ‘Look at you, playing like you’re not dying to see a certain someone.’

  Hazel scrunches her nose, but Rahat follows her up onto the bench to dig her hands into the lush vines.

  ‘You’re too cautious,’ she goads.

  ‘And you’re not nearly cautious enough,’ counters the Asthori.

  Rahat can’t argue with that. Peering over the green wall to the palace gates, she spies the Praitosí Empire. Before them traipse her father’s viziers, guiding the giant creature.

  Hazel’s eyes go wide at seeing the black elephant. Painted with hundreds of colours and patterns, it’s a walking mosaic. Matte charcoal skin covered in vibrant pinks, purples, oranges, and blues. Upon the elephant’s back is the Emperor’s royal box. The King of Kings.

  Rahat’s always thought Iliyah’s father a little full of himself.

  Still, the trumpets are roaring.

  Tassels of colour cover the elephant’s face, blowing gently in the breeze as the Emperor dismounts the giant animal. Emperor Bashshar Tyrikaara-al-Hiraj has always been an intimidating man. The white in his beard is almost undetectable by how precisely it has been trimmed. For as long as she can remember, Rahat has seen something strange in that man’s eyes and how they seem to stare for just a little too long. Like a tiger’s—they’re the same caramel shade.

  Rahat reaches back for her friend’s hand, trying to think of the last time she had seen this man in her homeland… And she can’t quite place it, now.

  Dark brows furrow over those deep-set eyes, casting a shadow over the Emperor’s face. The noise from the adjacent gardens is enough to make him anxious. Despite being the ruler of an Empire, Bashshar has never enjoyed a crowd. Surveying the courtyard, those palace gates casting great shadows behind him, he notices that while the royal family has not come to greet them, a collection of dancers is makings their way across the wide palace steps.

  The dancers twirl in their pluming skirts, spinning in time to find their place though they amount fifteen. Wild untamed hair billows about them as they break into their performance. With soft voices they sing, raising their hands to the sky as they trill praises of the Empire. Yet with each clap of their hands, each stamp of a foot, Rahat can see through their smiles. There is no Delorrene in this world that does not despise the Praitosí for what they have done to their people, all in the name of claiming land.

  They spin and twirl like darts, deadly as cobras, with bangles and bells chiming at their wrists, their ankles. Hazel sucks in a breath as she watches the dancers move in their circle, keeping time like an undulating mandala.

  Behind the Emperor, his family emerges from their carriages; only the Emperor may ride an elephant. The rosewood carriage doors open slowly, the footmen standing guard with vigilant eyes as their masters emerge. This is it.

  Rahat holds her breath, unable to help it, as she keeps a close watch—not on the dancers, but on who she’s waiting to see. She’ll know simply by her slippers.

  As expected, the first to emerge is Empress Safia Hiraj, a dark-haired Praitosí, followed by Empress Mahala Tyrikaara, a native Delorrene and Iliyah’s mother. Arms linked, the two women are day and night: the first of slick raven hair and almond skin, the second an image of darkness: cinnamon-brown with large russet eyes.

  As their husband waves them closer, they move in brilliant bursts of colour: Safia in a kameez of periwinkle with sirwal pants of peach, and Mahala in an anakarli dress of sunset hues. Their gold glimmers as the rubies on their hands catch the sunlight, red as blood.

  Bashshar kisses them both on the forehead, his beard smearing the blessings marked on Mahala’s brow. As he again turns to the dancers, wiping the red from his face, the Empresses entwine their hands and lean into each other, making Rahat’s cheeks flush.

  Hazel turns to her subtly. ‘You okay?’ she whispers.

  Rahat does her best to ignore her. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ So why does she feel like a hot tangled mess inside?

  Following them from the carriage are Tahir and Zehran, Safia’s children. Rahat’s throat contracts at spotting Tahir, his hair hidden by his turban as he squints up into the sky. Chiselled features; a pointed chin with slight stubble. A little gangly. He’s Rahat’s future husband.

  Behind him is his younger brother, a man made of muscle. The way he stands is that of a soldier; shoulders pulled rigid as he stands tall. As the third brother, Zehran will never rule. Rahat half-expects to see their eldest brother Saadi with them, but as heir to the Empire, he never travels where there might be danger.

  Hazel whispers out the corner of her mouth, ‘Do you see her?’

  But the royal carriage is now empty. The footman closes the rosewood door and proceeds to that which follows.

  Rahat frowns. Iliyah should be in the carriage with her family; her letters had told her so. For weeks, both of them have been waiting to see each other, their letters sometimes no more than exclamations of excitement.

  ‘No,’ says Rahat, keeping her head below the vines, ‘not yet.’

  From the following carriages come the courtiers. The all-black Qadira dismounts from the back of the royal carriage, where she had kept watch throughout their journey. The Rehmayan with her cheetah’s eyes surveys the area. Rahat feels her stomach drop when those eyes spot her across the courtyards. They zero in, keeping her pinned. Just like the cheetah, her eyes are bright carnelian rimmed in black to reflect the sun. She’s one of the last remaining faerie races—perhaps one of the last of all faeries to survive after the Rapture. The light fabric of her garb keeps her figure hidden away, including the stems that had once belonged to wings down her back. Against all that black, the heavy silver-and-leather braided whip is a threat at her side. The travel scarf keeping the sun off her ebony hair hides her pointed ears. It swims about her face as it’s tossed by the breeze, caressing those high cheekbones and flat features. With skin as dark as her garb, she is invisible in the night.

  Those animals’ eyes do not leave her until Rahat ducks below the vines.

  She doesn’t pay attention to who comes after that. After the faerie, she knows none of them will be Iliyah.

  Yet as the courtyard fills with explosions of colour, bright sarees and qamis decorating them all, she can feel her heart sinking. The dancing comes to an end, the women ending their performance by sweeping to the ground, their skirts fanning out around them.

  Carefully, the Praitosí weave their way between the dancers to seek shelter from the blistering sun. The Delorrene viziers stand aside, ushering them into the shade of the promenade and through to the palace. With a look cast toward the gardens, the princes follow.

  An odd sound comes from Hazel’s throat before she slams a hand down on Rahat’s shoulder.

  ‘Wha—’

  ‘Zehran,’ pants the Asthori, her face flooding red.

  Rahat hangs her head. Not this again.

  ‘Is it possible that he could be any more attractive?’ The girl squeals, and Rahat has to drag her below the vines to remain unseen. A strangled gasp is stolen from her lips, but Rahat throws up an arm to keep her from talking.

  ‘Are you an idiot?’ she hisses. ‘Do you want us to get caught? You know what my Abba would say if he knew we were spying on them before they’d been properly welcomed.’

  Hazel raises a brow with that challenging grin. ‘So you mean he’d be okay with it if we spied on them after we’d welcomed them?’

  Chuckling, Rahat almost pushes her off the stones. The girl flashes her that
smile, turning her attention back to what lays over the vines as she slowly rises to her feet. Careful on the aging bench.

  ‘Oh, what will I do with you…’ sighs the rajkumari.

  ‘Well, for one,’ starts Hazel, and Rahat’s laugh almost has them discovered now that the music has died. When the Emperor snaps a look in their direction like a falcon, they shoot back below the vines.

  ‘Did you see that?’ the girl pants.

  ‘The way he looked like he’d behead us if he knew? Yah.’

  Hazel shakes her head, her eyes glazing over. ‘Zehran looked at me,’ she says.

  A jolt runs down Rahat’s spine. The force almost makes her stand upright, but she remembers at the last second to keep low. It’s one thing to be seen by Qadira; she has the tact to mention it later. But by Zehran? She’s just waiting for him to blurt it out, landing them all in trouble.

  Not taking any more risks, she climbs down into the safety of their alcove hidden from the crowded gardens by the thick vines. Those nearby linger close to listen, though pretend to pay them no heed. ‘Did he see you?’ she asks.

  ‘That’s generally implied by he looked at me, yes.’

  ‘No,’ Rahat shakes her head and guides Hazel down from where she could be seen. ‘I meant if he’d realised it was you.’

  ‘Oh.’ The girl pauses for a moment, keeping her eyes on the rings decorating her hands. Rings from her mother, her sisters. Her breath becomes shallow when she finally raises her eyes to Rahat’s. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Through the garden wall separating them from being very much in trouble, they listen as the servants lead the elephant away to the menagerie. The chattering of courtiers fills Rahat’s ears.

  ‘Who do you think they brought with them?’ asks Hazel tentatively.

  Rahat bites her lip to suppress a grin. ‘Thought you wouldn’t be interested in anyone but Zehran, little commander.’

  The girl frowns at the literal translation of her name. ‘I never should have told you that,’ she pouts, eliciting a mockingly haughty laugh from her cousin.

  Linking her arm through Hazel’s, she brings her down from the marble bench. The scent of the sugar vines is sickly-sweet, like honey left out in the sun. It makes her hungry as she thinks back on the chai and braised figs they’d missed earlier. The sun against her skin is a warm embrace, blushing over her arms. The calls of birds make the courtyard feel larger. Yet when she turns to see the dignitaries and children scattered about the courtyards, she has to hold back a groan.

  ‘I didn’t catch a glance,’ Rahat says suddenly, explaining before Hazel can ask. As she leads her back inside, she feels guilty somehow. The saliva sticks in the back of her throat. The air feels thinner. The way Hazel’s looking at her doesn’t make this revelation any easier, either. ‘Did Iliyah look all right? I didn’t spot her, but—her last letter made me worry.’

  Hazel’s eyes remain on her cousin’s face for a touch too long. ‘I didn’t see her,’ she says quietly as they pass by a towering waterfall. A sculpture of a tiger lingers beneath the falls, its front submerged as if it’s about to dive under and gobble up the fishes swimming lazily about the cerulean pool. ‘You saw as much as I did that she didn’t ride with her family. Maybe she sat with her friends,’ she says, not quite able to look her in the eye. She knows how much the Praitosí shehzadi means to her. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about—and she’d feel awful if she knew you were worrying over nothing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ sighs Rahat, ‘you’re right.’

  ‘Now let’s get you bathed and ready for the welcoming ceremony tonight.’

  Rahat purses her lips. ‘I bathed just this morning,’ she reminds her.

  The girl squeezes her arm, pulling Rahat into the shade of the palace with a gentle laugh, ignoring the looks of those around them. ‘If I hadn’t’ve been there myself, I wouldn’t believe it.’

  Rahat laughs accusingly, unable to keep the smile from her face when Hazel abruptly spins on her heel and bolts down the hall. Not missing a beat, Rahat follows at full speed, weaving between visitors. Their laughter echoes through the east wing, dancing off the high domed ceilings.

  The rajkumari sprints along the half-open walls of arched windows overlooking the gardens. Handfuls of half-siblings look up as the girls pass, their joy infectious as they race to the inner chambers.

  Hazel disappears around a bend and Rahat doesn’t hesitate to follow. This part of the corridor is empty, free of voices. Yet as soon as she banks the bend, she spots her uncle staring at them with wide eyes. Rahat’s mojari slip on the polished floors to the point that Hazel, standing in the alcove of a doorway, reaches out for her. Hazel’s hand steadies her for the second she needs, before she looks up into the face of her uncle Badal.

  ‘Uncle,’ Rahat pants.

  Badal looks between them, an unsure look upon his scarred face. ‘You shouldn’t be running like this through the halls with so many people about—what if you’d knocked an old aunty over?’

  ‘We apologise, uncle,’ says Rahat, bowing her head. ‘We hadn’t thought of that.’

  Once again, he sweeps his beady eyes over the pair. ‘No,’ he agrees slowly. ‘No, I don’t think you did.’

  

  The Hall of Mirrors is the oldest mecca of the palace of Ajrapur. Thousands of mirrors decorate the walls, the floor, the domed ceiling. Great pillars stand in circular formation, raising overhead the balconies, set into the ceiling like niches. Beneath these balconies is seating, up a step or two from the main floor decorated with a mandala of gold, marble, and those brilliant shades in-between. From the ceiling hangs a tiered chandelier, its candles flickering against the mirrors surrounding. The room glows as Rahat watches people finding their places. There are faces from all across this world. They gather in the seats of the circular hall, leaving the floor clear for the performance they know will soon come.

  Above in the balconies is the Maharaja’s harem with their children, gathered in their best. Sarees of brilliant shades—greens and ice blues being preferred over yellows and reds—light the golden room with vibrant blooms of colour. From the stands of these balconies hang stretches of flowers from all over the Summer Lands, beautiful blossoms of every colour imaginable. And their perfume? Divine.

  In one of the balconies are trumpeters, harpists, and various musicians tuning their instruments. Their all-white uniforms make them invisible within their marble alcove.

  Raised a dozen steps above his guests sits the Maharaja Ram Brijesh on his cushioned throne. Sitting cross-legged beside his Maharanee, he overseas as dignitaries gather into the Hall, taking note of those who sit closest. Cultures from all over the world are gathered at his feet; he cannot deny that it makes him a little giddy. It had been his idea to sit and view his audience as they arrived. To remind the people that he is not a true part of the Empire, perhaps, though Rahat has a feeling it’s for other reasons. Her father has always been an anxious man.

  Great swirling patterns become blurred as she tries to spot the woman she desperately wishes to see. Amongst the chaos, she spots Hazel in her favourite dirndl. Worn over a frilled short-sleeve blouse, embroidered black silk gives way to damask pleats that fall to the knee. Thick braids cover her crown, woven through with tiny blooms and crystal beads. All eyes are on her plump figure as she makes her way not toward the Asthori ambassadors gathered, but to the Maharaja’s dais. A small bow to her uncle and aunt, and she takes her place beside the royal family at their right.

  Sitting beside her is Karnan, who leans over to smile. Warmth floods through Rahat as she watches Hazel fix Karnan’s collar, patting down his shoulders with a frown to fix what his fidgeting had undone while waiting. The rajkumar’s eyes gleam as he looks over his cousin in her new dress. Rahat knows the exact moment he gives her a compliment—Hazel’s cheeks flood a red bright enough to rival the sarees of those gathered about them.

  By their side, Ashrit lifts his head from where he sits with his hands folded in his lap. The golden shoulders of his black sherwani glint in the fractals of light reflected throughout the mirrored hall. A scarf of red hangs lazily over his shoulders, so long it gathers in his lap. Loose golden-threaded sirwal pants finished with black sandals make him look his part as the Crowned Prince. Vermillion lines his forehead in blessing. His buoyant hair sits untamed about his shoulders. Determined, he keeps his eyes firmly away from where the Sā-Marish representatives are seated. It’s with a sinking heart that Rahat realises their mother has told him of Ahomana’s brother.