Page 12 of Wings of Cruelty and Flame (Heir of Wyvara #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AMEIRAH

I woke up with sweat on my upper lip and the rest of my body encased in the ice of memory. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, didn’t recognise the mountain landscape hung on the wall, didn’t know the red curtains on the bed or the beautiful mosaic-inlaid furniture or the ceiling above me. I certainly didn’t know why my back was so hot or why there was a weight across my middle, pinning me to the bed.

My dream still had me in its talons, gripping tight, but after a sticky moment I remembered marrying Varidian, then the ride on Makrukh’s back to his villa in the mountains of Red Manniston. That was the city I could hear beginning to wake beyond the curtains blowing in a soft wind. And when I turned carefully, there was Varidian sleeping beside me, his face relaxed and more youthful in sleep. He didn’t look the sort to offer promises of murder because my father had never permitted me to bond a wyvern. Or even ride one. A smile tugged my lips into a tentative smile and I held that promise close as I climbed carefully out of bed, surprised my husband didn’t wake.

It was almost charming to discover he slept like the dead. I wished I could stay in bed and return to sleep myself, but I could still hear Shahzia’s screams, and there was no hope of more rest. Even if my head pounded and my eyes felt scratched dry, I was awake and staying that way.

I slammed my hands over my mouth when I got to my feet, muffling a grunt of surprise. Fuck, my legs hurt. And my backside, too. All my muscles strained and screamed at me, and it was a sign of the absolute madness my life had become that I didn’t know if the strain came from riding Makrukh or Varidian spreading my thighs to devour me.

My face burned at the memory. He’d seen everything, seen the most intimate part of me.

I like you Ameirah, and I don’t remember the last time I liked someone. I don’t want you across the hall in a separate room after I just watched you come so beautifully for me.

My tiny smile grew, but alongside the memory of Varidian’s voice was my sister’s screams and the clergy I killed. If I was going to survive today, I’d need coffee. But first, I needed to get out of this dress and find the baths Varidian mentioned. He said spare baths, so presumably this place had two? It would be nice to not have to use the public hammam like I did in Strava, to avoid the stares, the whispers. For all my father’s pride and gentry status, our villa had been tiny compared to Varidian’s. The perks of being the king’s son, I supposed.

I was now the king’s daughter. That was a thought I wouldn’t get used to.

I slipped quietly out of Varidian’s room— our room, I heard him insist in my mind—and down the corridor. Thanks to my explorations last night, I knew there were no baths down this hall, but they shouldn’t be too hard to find.

Wrong. It took me over ten minutes to find the entrance archway cut into a rugged mountain wall, but the second I stepped inside it was like entering a fairy story. Not the tales of old fae that bled with warnings and gore and curses, but the true, wonder-filled stories children grew up hearing.

These baths had been carved out of the mountain, the water gleaming pure turquoise, its heat sending steam spiralling into the air. It was smaller than I’d expected, a single room for Varidian’s wing of the house instead of the separate baths for men and women I was used to, but sinking into the water was pure luxury. I could get used to this.

Why should you enjoy a luxurious bath when your sister is dead? a nasty voice demanded in my mind. Why do you deserve this?

I ducked my head under the water, gasping when I came up for air. The voice was still there. So were Shahzia’s screams.

I bathed quickly, dried myself with a fluffy towel left for that express purpose, and helped myself to a closet stocked with simple yet fine clothes. They were wrinkled by the steam of the nearby baths, but I didn’t care when it felt so good to wear something other than the dress I’d flown in for hours. It was harder to find gloves, and I was only able to track down a brown leather pair that covered my hands, but they’d do.

I left the takchita with a bin of dirty laundry, bloody stain and all. No doubt someone would find it and word would spill across the city about my successful deflowering. Judging by the sheer number of cheers and chants yesterday, the empire would be thrilled.

Clean and dressed, I debated returning to the bedroom. But my head was still pounding and my mood was a little too raw to face Varidian. Instead, I went in search of the kitchens. The cook at our villa in Strava had been one of the few people who didn’t look at me with disgust or fear, so I hoped to find a friend in the kitchens here, too.

It wasn’t hard to find this room at least; the rich, earthy scent of qahwa drew me along corridors and through a warren of rooms near the back of the riad. Instead of a cook tending to breakfast, I found a glamorous woman in her sixties cradling a cup with steam wafting into her face, throwing ribbons of fragrance through the air. She sat at a small table to the right of the room, dressed in a rich orange djellaba, the long kaftan flowing over her broad frame and draping the chair on which she sat. The fabric drew my eye, woven with lines of metallic gold thread that caught the lamplight, every bit as beautiful as anything worn to my wedding.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said awkwardly as the woman shifted in her seat towards me, a bright smile creasing her round face when she saw me. She was beautiful in a way most people weren’t—from within. Her skin glowed with radiance, her round face adorned with makeup that only enhanced her natural beauty. I envied the thick black braid she wore down her back, and the long lashes that framed brown eyes so dark they were like pools of ink. I’d craved brown eyes my whole life, my mismatched eyes another sign that I didn’t quite belong, like my violet hair.

I began to back out of the room, but the beautiful woman fluttered her hand in my direction. “Come, sit with me. Would you prefer mint tea or qahwa?”

“I’m fine, really,” I tried to protest but she shot me a searing look that froze me on the spot.

“No one’s fine so early without a drink,” she disagreed, getting out of her chair and approaching the other side of the kitchen. My eyes widened. I’d been so focused on the woman I hadn’t noticed the long counter piled with a dozen different tagines, plus twenty pots, dishes, plates, and yet more utensils. I couldn’t help but smile. This kitchen was nothing like the pristine room in Strava, and yet it was so charming it relaxed me instantly.

“Qahwa, thank you,” I said, rushing across the room when she reached for a sturdy coffee pot, my slippers slapping the tiled floor. “Here, I can carry it.”

She gave me a sly look when I lifted the pot before she could, grunting at its weight. Heavy, as I suspected.

“Do you think me frail, then, daughter?” she asked, an eyebrow rising slowly in arched question.

I startled so badly I nearly spilled the coffee. “Not frail,” I blurted, scrambling to save myself. “I just thought I could pour while you hold the cup. I don’t know where they’re kept, of course, so it’s better left to you.”

“Of course,” she agreed, a smile settling into her brown face. I got the sense she was deeply amused by me. “But you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of pouring qahwa for my daughter-in-law at our first meeting, surely.”

I winced. She laughed brightly, the sound echoing off the high, tiled ceiling.

“You walked very neatly into that trap,” she told me, finding a small cup among the chaos of the kitchen, unsettling a precarious pile of bowls in the process. They tumbled across the counter before settling into a suggestion of order. Varidian’s mother didn’t bat an eyelid. “Here, set it on the table and I’ll pour.”

I did as she ordered because she was smiling and I was mortified. It was the host's job to pour coffee for a guest, and while I now lived here… I’d fumbled this meeting. Badly.

Luckily, she wore the same amusement Varidian did when I almost stabbed him. I saw where he got his mischief from.

“Sit,” she said firmly, eyeing the seat across from hers. I dutifully sat, and she poured rich, fragrant coffee. I nearly groaned when I took the first sip. “So,” she said. “Are you already infatuated with my son, or have you entertained luring him onto the second floor to toss him out a window?”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “Neither.”

“There’s time yet,” she replied, and didn’t elaborate on which option she meant. When she reached for the pot to pour more qahwa into her own cup, I noticed the fine lacework of scarring on her arm, all the way from the top of her hand to her bicep where it disappeared beneath her clothes. I quickly looked away before she caught me staring.

“Be careful with his heart,” she said, setting the pot back down between us. When I glanced up, she was watching me. “He might be a warrior disproportionately fond of scowling, but his heart is delicate.”

“I’ll be careful as long as he’s careful with mine,” I said quietly, sipping my drink, its bitter richness clearing away the cobwebs of my nightmare. So too was this conversation and the woman across from me.

“A fair reply,” Varidian’s mother said, smiling again. I jumped when she reached for my hand, holding it between both of hers. Her palms were warm and soft as petals even through the gloves, comforting hands, nurturing hands. “I wish I could have been at your celebration and we could have met yesterday, but I’m glad you’re an early kitchen dweller like me. I’m Rawiya Marrakchi, Varidian’s mother.”

Not Rawiya Saber. A small clue about why Varidian hated his father so much; he’d never married his mother.

“Ameirah Jaou—Saber,” I corrected clumsily. I groaned into my coffee and hoped the universe would take pity on me with a distraction.

Rawiya squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, it’ll take some adjusting to your new name. And my sensibilities aren’t so easily offended. Are you very attached to your previous surname?”

“No,” I laughed, a little too quickly, too loudly. Was I attached to the family that had hated me and either pretended I didn’t exist or made my life a misery since I was seven? Let me think…

“Mere habit, then,” Rawiya said, sounding pleased. “Good. I’d hate for you to pine after your old name and your old family. Especially one so awful.”

Another laugh burst free. “They’re still my family. You can’t call them awful.”

She raised a thick black brow. “Are you disagreeing with my description?”

“Well, no, but it seems terribly rude.”

“Consider it payment for the qahwa pouring incident.”

“It wasn’t an incident,” I said, my mouth running faster than my mind. “A faux-pas at best.”

“Consider it payment for the qahwa pouring faux-pas,” she countered so quickly I smiled. I liked her instantly, and the knot in my chest eased. I relaxed into my chair, taking another drink. My hands were sweating inside my gloves, but I felt better, more comfortable, with them on.

“I see exactly where Varidian gets his humour from,” I remarked, setting down the empty cup. I’d been so nervous to meet his family, to be slapped across the face by their rejection, but this hadn’t gone how I expected at all. Then again, Rawiya didn’t know what I’d done. As if she could sense the flow of my thoughts, she gave the gloves on my hands a questioning look.

Well. Better to get it out of the way now, before I became attached to her as my mother.

“If I don’t wear these, everyone I touch will die.”

She tilted her dark head, confused.

“A single touch would kill you if I didn’t cover them,” I elaborated, having to look away from her. The sky was just turning navy blue outside the square window, offering a dark glimpse of the lawn where Makrukh landed yesterday.

“And have you killed before?” Rawiya asked, her tone impossible to decipher.

My chest tightened. “Yes.”

I waited for her face to turn stormy, for her eyes to darken with disgust, for her to yell at me to leave and never come back.

Rawiya made a small sound in her throat. “That’ll be useful.”

I jerked my head around to stare at her, my mouth hanging open. “Excuse me…?”

“My son has no shortage of enemies. A wife with death at her fingertips and a face so beautiful no one would suspect her of murder is everything I never knew he needed. You’re well suited.” She paused, seeing the heavy cloud over me. “Varidian isn’t a stranger to death. You should speak to him about it, when you’re ready.” She reached for my hands again, startling me by squeezing them despite what she now knew. “It’s a heavy burden to carry. Don’t shoulder it alone.”

“Why are you being kind to me?” I asked, my heart a tight knot. I kept waiting for her attitude to shift like the sudden storms that hit the desert.

“Because I am kind.” Rawiya raised that eyebrow again. “Why are you so resistant to kindness?”

“Because I am.” Because it was so strange and foreign and I’d glimpsed it so rarely I couldn’t help but be suspicious of it. “Because when I was seven, I killed a clergyman and my little sister and everyone has rightly seen me as a monster since.”

Rawiya’s eyes widened.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry.”

“Did you mean to swear?” she asked, a strange blend of kindness and humour in her voice. Or maybe the humour was a kindness, too.

I groaned. “No. Pretend I didn’t.”

She squeezed my hands again, her eyes on my face, measuring. “It would only make you a monster if you felt no remorse. And I can see with a single look in your eyes that you feel nothing but remorse. So talk to your husband.” She paused. “Oh, that’s so strange. My son as a husband. I know he’s fully grown, but he still seems like a baby to me.”

I was so confused by her blasé reaction to my confession. And she was still touching me. “I think all mothers feel that way about their sons.”

“No, he’s truly a baby. He refuses to eat any vegetables in lamb tagine and he’s hopeless at tying knots.”

I snorted, the dark cloud lightening over my heart. My head still pounded, but with every moment Rawiya sat opposite me, I was beginning to suspect she wouldn’t run screaming from me or cast me out of the house into the streets.

“But don’t tell him I told you that,” Rawiya added, brown eyes sparkling as she let go of my hands and rose from her chair.

“I’d never dream of it.” I would tease him about it endlessly.

“You can come to prayer with me,” she offered, washing her cup with quick, efficient motions. “I’ll introduce you to the best women in the Red Star. None of the cruel hags or the giggly teenagers. Well, Hiba is prone to fits of giggles and she’s fifty-five, but she makes the best coconut fudge cakes in the city, so we allow it.”

I smiled, ignoring the way my stomach tangled at the thought of meeting more people. This meeting was fine, I reminded myself. Better than fine. Miraculous. Rawiya seemed happy to have me as her daughter-in-law. Me, the killer, the monster who carried death with her.

I was about to speak when Varidian burst into the room, dressed in a stern black kaftan and black leather trousers with crimson stitching. Marrakchi colours, not Saber colours. Leather braces were buckled over his shoulders and forearms.

“I don’t know where you think you’re going, but you can think again,” Rawiya said in a firm voice. She pointed a stern finger at him before she scooped up my coffee cup and cleaned that, too. As if the man wasn’t thirty-nine years old. I smothered a smile.

“A missive arrived from the Wall of Hydaran,” he said, crossing the cluttered kitchen—to me, I realised with surprise. He wrapped both arms around me from behind and gifted a kiss to the top of my head. I went warm all over—my face, my body, and deep down in my soul.

Oh, I could get used to this easy show of affection. That was more dangerous than any magic.

“I bet it did,” Rawiya agreed in the same tone. “But still no. You just got married, Varidian.”

“I know,” he agreed against the top of my head, stirring my fine hairs. He sounded to be smiling. “But a border village is under attack and it sounds dire. They have a single gentry and an ageing wyvern to defend them. It’s an easy slaughter, ummi. They don’t stand a chance.”

She gave him a flat look, pointing a wooden spoon at her son. “Married. Yesterday.”

I tried to hide my emotions as my stomach sank. He was so eager to ride off without me less than twenty-four hours after our celebration. So much for my hidden thoughts of seducing him into consummating our marriage.

He kissed the top of my head again, lingering. “I’ll make it up to you, Ameirah. There’s a flower market at Wyfell; I’ll buy their whole stock on the way back.”

Great. Pity flowers.

Rawiya scoffed, deep and throaty. “Wives don’t want a stall’s worth of flowers, they want time, Varidian. Care and effort and appreciation. Riding off the day after your wedding is a mistake.”

“People will die,” he said gravely. “Hundreds.”

Rawiya sighed, her sternness fading. “And I raised you with too good a heart to ignore people in need.” She shook her head. “It’s not my approval you need. Make him suffer,” she whispered to me, like Varidian wasn’t right behind me.

I laughed, but it didn’t dispel the tight bundle of hurt in my chest. Oh, this was worse than annoyance—I was hurt he was riding off without me. I was hurt he’d leave me behind. Which was a stupid, selfish way to feel when hundreds of people would die if he stayed and I’d barely known the man a day ago.

“If you ask me to stay, I’ll stay,” Varidian said, letting go of me to take a seat beside me. His honeyed eyes were soft and sad, haunted by all the lives that would be lost. Or rather taken by the armoured tigers and their Kaldic riders.

“You can’t stay,” I sighed, knotting my fingers together. “Those people need you too much.”

His lips pressed to my forehead in a long kiss that only made his impending absence worse. “I’ll make it up to you,” he repeated. “I’ll spend the whole month with you when I’m back.”

He was the commander of a wyvern legion; he couldn’t promise that. But I appreciated the sentiment. It didn’t make me feel any less unwanted, but it was a nice thought.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Two days at the most.”

Two days! I thought he’d be gone all today, not two.

When Varidian began to rise from the seat, impulsiveness made me blurt, “Take me with you.”

Varidian blinked, settling back in the chair, staring at me. “You… want to come with me? To war?”

“I want to go with you,” I agreed, my heart rushing into a gallop. Not necessary to war, but… I didn’t want to be left behind, didn’t want to be forgotten.

“Menace…” he began softly, a refusal forming. Calloused fingers rubbed his jaw.

“Please,” I whispered, locking eyes with him.

I saw him cave, watched his chest rise and fall with a sigh. “You do realise having you so close to danger will drive me crazy?”

“Staying behind will drive me crazy,” I countered, getting to my feet. I’d run and mount Makrukh now if that was what it took. I refused to be left behind. And the part of me that cried out for adventures was singing in joy.

“If anyone comes close,” Rawiya said, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the counter, watching us, “just stab them in the eye with those deadly fingers of yours.”

My eyes widened. She was encouraging me to kill?

“It’s never wrong to do what it takes to survive. Survival is nothing to feel shame for. Use all the weapons at your disposal, daughter.”

Varidian’s face split in a smile, making him so handsome it hurt to look at him. I still didn’t believe he was mine.

When I got to my feet, he joined me, something fierce and proud in his eyes alongside the haunted sadness.

“You’ll need armour,” he said, considering me. “And small, lightweight weapons, nothing to weigh you down. Nothing too difficult to handle.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rawiya approach, but I jumped when she cuffed his ear and then gave me a stern look. “Prayer first, warring later.”

And there was no arguing with that.