reread the message. This is it? This is all he wrote? He hates goblins because they chew through magic? What does that even mean? I go back to the table, flip the note over and scrawl an even simpler message than his: Why?
The sun vanishes, and my world is plunged into night.
Slowly, I lift my head. When I set down my quill, the metal nib makes a louder clack on the wood than I expect. It echoes in the silence, but only for a moment. The wind picks up, stronger, whistling through the opening of my window, sending even the heavy canopy of my bed swaying. It catches tendrils of my hair, drives them into my face. The frantic pace of my breathing is swallowed up in wind and night. My chest heaves as I glance around my empty room, my lips parting. I lick them, swallow.
Tucking my feet beneath me, I carefully stand and turn toward the door.
Never leave your rooms after dark.
I move silently, trying to ignore the howling wind, the way it catches up the note I’ve written, and prowl toward the door. In a flash, I have a knife in each hand as I stare at the handle. I swallow again.
If I was brave, I’d open this door. I’d be willing to risk my life to discover what secrets my sultan keeps from me, from all Arbasa. If I were Eshe, I’d already be out in the darkened hallway beyond my room. She might be scouting even now as I hesitate.
I grit my teeth. I don’t want to act like a coward, but I also cannot afford to be rash or foolish. I ought to gather more information before I blithely disregard such ominous instructions, spoken so sternly.
But I don’t feel wise and self-controlled when I sheathe my knives and march toward my bed, not even bothering to undress. When I slip beneath the quilted covers, my hand fisted around the hilt of one of my knives, and my mouth begins moving by habit, I feel like a coward.
“Murtadi, Shawar, Tibon,” I begin to whisper.
An ear-splitting scream slices through the air.
I sit bolt upright, nearly choking on my own gasp. That scream—a woman’s scream—echoes through my mind, or perhaps I’m hearing it echo through the hallways, dancing off the glass ceiling and locked doors.
I throw the covers back, swing my feet to the floor, and slip off my bed, ducking into a crouch. My blood pounds furiously through my veins, the erratic pulse louder in my ears than the howling wind, than even the silence left behind after that scream.
My hands are slick with sweat around the hilts of my knives, and more sweat drips from my hairline down my temple. Deep breaths, I tell myself. Now is not the time for panic.
That scream came from one of the other contestants—or someone else, like a servant. Or perhaps it’s another monster like the goblins the Neverseen King released earlier.
Never open your doors after dark.
My breath comes faster and faster as I slink into the shadows wreathing my room, approaching my door cautiously. I’d bet almost anything right now that the scream came from one of the contestants sneaking out of her room, which is even more terrifying when I remember how the women hadn’t screamed when we’d been faced with a bloody onslaught today.
So what is making someone scream now?
Air shudders out of my lungs as I reach my door. I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth.
Is it Eshe?
A sob from nowhere bubbles up in my throat. I swallow it down fiercely, then leap to my feet, my heart pounding, and grab the handle of my door. Whatever Eshe is facing in the palace of the Neverseen King, I won’t let her face it alone. No matter how my bones quiver in their sockets, I’m not leaving Eshe.
My fingers flex on the knob, and then with a determined huff, I twist it, start to pull it open—
Something slams against the door above the knob, shutting it.
I gasp, jolt. Every sense floods with alarm. Then my vision focuses enough for me to see the shadowy outline of a huge hand forcing the door closed. Slowly, breath rapidly sweeping in and out of my parted lips, I twist. My fist still grips the knob, but my gaze travels up from the fist against the door, up the impression of a large wrist, a forearm, all the way to the shoulder of a darkened presence.
My awareness sparks with recognition, even though he is nothing but night beside me, tall and looming. For a long minute, I freeze, bracing myself for what, I cannot know. A blow?
But he doesn’t strike me. He stays still, and I think his eyes are studying me.
“Eshe—” I blurt, gasping, breaking the silence.
“Do not open this door.” His voice is much darker, much colder than I’ve heard, lacking every ounce of dry sarcasm.
“But someone screamed—Eshe, she’s in trouble!”
“If you take one step outside this door, you will die, and there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
My eyes widen, my mouth falling open. My crudely propped up courage crumbles in an instant, but even so my grip on the handle tightens. “I can’t—”
He leans forward so suddenly I flinch, and for a second I think I can see the flash of two eyes. But it’s his warmth that I feel strongest. Then I hear his voice, low and rumbling, saying as though between gritted teeth, “Do. Not. Open. This. Door.”
The wind howls, sweeping into my room, whipping around the curtains of my bed, sending my hair flying into my face, my mouth. It seems to give a last cry, blowing so hard I squeeze my eyes shut, tighten my grip on the knob of the door.
Then all is quiet. Deathly still.
The fragrant perfume of roses is suddenly, inexplicably, nearly overwhelming. I open my eyes.
Moonlight shines through my open window, illuminating what was almost pitch black just minutes ago. My room is silent, and the wind is gone. My curtains hang so still they could be made of iron instead of fabric.
The Neverseen King is gone.
A deep breath shudders into my lungs. My hand is still clutching the knob. A choice is yet before me. I must make it in the ringing emptiness after that horrifying scream, the wind, and my sultan’s deep as night voice.
If I open this door, I will die. Unless he’s lying to me, which is always possible. But no matter how I try to convince myself he’s lying, I believe his words. I believe I will die if I leave. Why, or how, I do not know.
Does this mean . . . does this mean that if Eshe has already left her room, that she is beyond saving? Does this mean . . .?
The risk-to-reward ratio for this situation is wildly imbalanced. The way the odds seem to me, opening this door is foolhardy at best, suicide at worst.
But if that was Eshe’s scream . . .
I let out a groan, one that’s half sob, and sheathe my knives. I release the knob, lean against the door, and slide to the floor until I hit it with a thud. Then I draw my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and fit my eye sockets to my kneecaps. And try to swallow my tears. I’m trembling, tasting salt on my lips.
“Just because you freeze when things go wrong doesn’t mean I do,” she’d told me during last night’s job. Sitting here—does it mean I’m trusting her to take care of herself, or does it mean I’m the stars-cursed coward I feel like?
“Eshe,” I choke, “if you die, I’m going to kill you.”
I clench my hands into fists so tight my nails nearly pierce my palms. I leap to my feet in a sudden burst of fury, and the wind picks up. I let it swirl around me, breathing it into my lungs.
Then I’m running toward my window, ripping one of my knives out of its sheath. I jump onto the sill, not losing my balance as my toes grip the edge of cool stone. I whirl around, away from the world outside my window, and fling my knife with all my strength at my door.
One, two, three. I throw them in quick succession, in a straight line down the middle of the door. They plink satisfyingly into the wood. Four, five, six.
I hop off my ledge, landing in a crouch, and then straighten to my full height. My shadow reaches out before me, dark and slim, outlined in moonlight. I lift my chin, swallowing the last remnant of my tears as I stare at my knives, perfectly spaced down the center of the door. I probably shouldn’t have thrown them into the door—it’ll take more work to sharpen them again. But it is enough. Enough for me, in this moment, to not feel utterly helpless.
I may be captive in an unfamiliar world. I may be alone, save Eshe—and I may not even have her anymore. I may be facing a deadly bridal competition with rivals I don’t know.
But I am not helpless here. Disadvantaged in about every way possible, certainly. But I am not helpless. I won’t be helpless.
I won’t break.
servant enters like the day before. I’m already awake and dressed in the fresh set of clothes left for me, tailored perfectly for my height and build, styled to be unassuming and simple. I’m awake because I barely slept—listening for another scream, for something that would tell me Eshe was still alive. Instead, I heard howling wind that wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the strange creaking and whistling noises. Once or twice, I thought I’d heard something like a yell, and another time there was definitely a distant crash.
Thrice, I’d thrown aside the covers, approached my door, and stared at it. And thrice, I’d eventually returned to my bed. But finally, dawn came at long last, and with it my dizzying terror to discover what had happened last night—who had screamed.
If Eshe had gone scouting last night . . . if she hadn’t survived the night . . . I didn’t want to think about it. I had anyway, and not even the familiar rhythm of sharpening my knives could soothe my shaking hands. This morning I feel wretched from the lack of sleep, bloated and sluggish, but I don’t care.
I’m ready and waiting when the knock comes, and the door opens.
“Good morning!” chirps the maid with a broad smile. Her arms are full of a pewter tray laden with what must be my breakfast.
It takes every ounce of self-control to not fly across the room, grab the poor girl, and demand answers. Instead, my hands clenched around the gilded arms of the chair I’m forcing myself to sit in, I ask breathlessly, “What happened last night?”
With a clatter of dishes, she sets the tray on the table, tweaks the arrangement of the dishes, and glances up at me with another smile. The sun shines brightly in her dark eyes. “Oh, just the usual. Would you like some qahwa? It’s freshly brewed!”
“One of the competitors left her room last night, didn’t she?” I say, unable to even think about qahwa or breakfast or anything until I know if Eshe is safe.
“Oh yes, one of them did. A shame. She was warned not to.” She sighs deeply and shakes her head. “And now she’s lost.”
“Lost?” I sit up straighter. My nails are almost being pried off their beds with how hard I’m gripping the chair arms. I’m just a hair’s breadth from racing out my door, screaming Eshe’s name, and trying to find where her room is in this labyrinth of a palace. Instead, I force myself to sit rigidly still. “What do you mean, lost?”
At this, the servant girl finally meets my gaze, the chipper light gone from her eyes as she says plainly, “She’s dead. She opened her door during the night, so of course she is dead. Now come eat your breakfast. It’s not much, because of your competition in a couple hours. But the Neverseen King was concerned you might not have enough to eat, so he bid me bring you this.”
“Who?” I demand.
“The Neverseen King?”
“No, who is dead? Who left her rooms?”
The girl shrugs as she pours a cup for me. Fragrant steam wafts from the spout, the rich liquid so strong it’s almost black. “I don’t know who.”
My lungs close, my panic escalating so rapidly I can’t catch a breath. I can’t think a coherent thought, even as the maid’s brow wrinkles and she says something, offering me the cup she’s poured. I can’t think of anything except that there’s no way it wasn’t Eshe who left her rooms.
Eshe is dead. I haven’t stopped it. I couldn’t have stopped it—but could I have if I was braver? I cannot—absolutely cannot—lose her. It’s my fault that she left. It’s my—
Everything darkens around me suddenly. But I can’t think of it. I need air, air, air. But my lungs are throttled by some unseen force.
Until something warm presses against my throat at the same moment that a hand cups over my forehead.
“Breathe,” comes the low command.
And I can. I can finally breathe. I draw in a deep lungful, sagging backward in my chair. My panic eases away, my heart rate lowering to a steadier rhythm.
That’s when I have the wherewithal to process what is happening, whose fingers are pressed to the hollow of my throat and on my forehead, who is standing behind the chair I’m all but collapsed in. The darkness that filled the room wasn’t a curtain being drawn over the window, but the entrance of the Neverseen King.
The maid is nowhere to be seen.
My relief over simply being able to draw air into my body again is short-lived. My sweat-slicked hands clench the chair arms once more, my blood starting to pound in my veins. My sultan doesn’t remove his hands, and this time I can sense the effects of magic, of some spell he’s asserting on me to calm me down. It is like the rocking tide of cold waves against my body, lulling but forceful.
While I’m glad I can breathe, I don’t want to be calmed into a puppet. I need to know if Eshe is dead. I jerk away from his touch, scramble out of the chair, and whirl to face him.
The darkness recedes the moment I look, until I’m standing in my sunny room once more. But I feel him, can almost see the towering height of my sultan against the wall, nigh invisible in the shadow of my fluttering curtains.
“Is Eshe alive?” I demand. “You must tell me. I cannot bear another second of not knowing.”
“Yes.”
My gaze shoots up to where I think his must be. “She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
My knees give out. I fall back into the chair, not caring that he is still behind me. My head sinks into my hands, every muscle in my body from head to toe quivering with relief. “She’s alive,” I say, not quite believing the words.
I’m almost able to swallow back all my tears, but a couple slip free, run down my cheek, and drip from my chin to the rug. I feel my sultan watching me, but I cannot care. I cannot be bothered to ask him any of my questions and make use of this time that I have with him before the second competition. If I were smarter, I’d ask what the next competition was.
But I’m too relieved that I haven’t lost Eshe to care about anything else.
There’s a shift in the air the moment he leaves. Bird song floats through my window. The sun shines brighter. I let out a breath, then drag my hand away from my face and stare at the tray the maid left for me.
I sit bolt upright. There’s something on that tray that wasn’t there when she first brought it in. A folded piece of yellow paper. My eyes widen with realization, darting around the room even though I know it’s empty. I lean forward, pluck up the note, and read it.
Your request lacks clarity. Fortunately for you, the answer to either question—why I hate goblins and why they chew through magic—is the same. Goblins are insatiable and stupid. Also, have some faith in your friend. She has more sense than you give her credit for.
Something about the note further eases the knot inside my chest. I hesitate over my reply for some time, nibbling on tangy za’atar spread across manakish as much as my unsteady stomach allows. The sesame seeds keep getting stuck in my teeth as I think. I use the side of my thumbnail to dig them out, except for one stubborn one I resort to using my smallest knife to remove.
Finally, I write.
Who left her room last night? And why didn’t you stop her like you stopped me?
And then I wait. Staring at the parchment on the tray. Hoping for any answer as the hours trickle by until footsteps come down the hallway toward my door. I rise to my feet, check my knives by habit, and run my hands down the front of my vest, smoothing it. A deep breath gusts out of me.
The same guard from yesterday opens my door. Beckons me to follow.
It’s time for the second competition.
When I glance back at the tray, my note has disappeared.
