The Assassin Bride: (The King and The Assassin Book 1)
The Assassin Bride: Chapter 24

WHEN ESHE FINDS ME getting ready, she all but shrieks when I say I’m not going to use the makeup in my drawer. I protest that scraping the dried blood off my skin and wearing the gown was enough. But she will have none of it, and forces me to sit still while she works on my face, applying a variety of creams and lotions to “even my complexion.” She dabs a thin brush in water, taps it off, and dips it into the powdery kohl before sweeping it across my eyelids. She follows that by rubbing rouge into my cheeks. Eventually, I stop tracking what she’s doing and just stare at the painting on the wall of the golden-haired woman.

She has a story. A story with the Neverseen King. I will not make promises to him until I know what it is.

I cannot bring myself to look in the mirror when Eshe is finished. Instead, I pluck at the gold bangles on my wrist, the rings on my fingers. Though the dress is light and shimmering, it’s a strange sensation to look down and see such a vibrant color. It’s like I’m wearing the blossoms of desert roses spun into cloth.

“Where should I fasten my knives?” I ask, peering down my sheer sleeves and inspecting my bodice.

Eshe tosses me a saucy grin. “The idea behind a gown is that you don’t wear knives.”

“Out of the question.”

She goes to my wardrobe, fishes around inside. “Ah ha!”

“What?” I turn. The swish of the gown’s skirt around my legs makes me feel vulnerable. Maybe I should wear my sirwal underneath.

She holds up a gold belt, complete with decorative sheaths for two knives, that had fallen to the back of the wardrobe. “Apparently your Neverseen King anticipated your needs.”

“He’s not my Neverseen King,” I grumble, taking the belt and inspecting the sheaths. Why am I surprised to replace they’ll fit my two biggest knives exactly? “You’re bringing your knives, too, right?”

Eshe lifts an eyebrow, hikes up the skirt of her own turquoise gown to show sheaths belted to each of her tan thighs.

“That is a horrible place to keep knives.” I clasp the belt around my waist. It slings low on my hips, a little looser than I prefer, but not too loose. “You can’t access them quickly, and you’ll expose yourself to attack while bending over and hunting through your skirts.”

“Actually, it’ll work in my favor. My enemy will be temporarily stunned by the sheer beauty of my leg, thus allowing me to finish him quickly.”

I snort before I can help myself. But before I can comment, Eshe taps her bound up hair, then the neckline of her bodice. A flash crosses her face—of solemnity.

“They’re small, but sharp. We both have our reputations to uphold, so I cannot just waltz in with a belt of knives like you. I’m just the silly friend who has somehow managed to stay alive this long.”

I catch her eye, hold her gaze. You’re not just a silly friend, I say to her in my mind. You’re everything to me.

She smiles. As if she knew exactly what I was thinking. Then I cross the distance between us, grab my smallest knife from the table, and bend down next to her.

“What are you—”

I grab her skirt, part the bright folds, and make a clean slice along her hip. My bangles rattle together with my movements. I check her knife and sheath quickly.

“Hey! You can’t just—”

“One more,” I say, and slice again on her other side. I stand and replace her glaring at me.

“This is the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn,” said Eshe, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’ve just gone and ruined it.”

“The folds of your skirts will hide the cuts. See? You can’t even tell. And now you have a pocket, as it were, to access your knives faster.”

Understanding dawns in her expression, and she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Sands and stars, Nadira, if you’re not careful, you’ll make me as paranoid as you one of these days.”

I scowl at her. She grins. Whatever my thoughts on how effective her plan at stunning her enemy with her beauty, she is beautiful. The color of her gown, with its silver embroidered sash, brings out the sun-bleached highlights in her dark hair. She doesn’t look at all like a thief; she could be a queen.

A knock sounds at the door.

We freeze for the span of a breath. And then Eshe bounds toward the door, a dazzling grin splitting her features.

“I’ve never been to a dance,” she says, grasping the handle. “And certainly never in a palace.”

“Enjoy it. Just don’t let your guard down.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I glare at her. She opens the door, revealing one of the guards. When I don’t move after her, she peers back at me.

“I’ll follow in just a bit.”

“If you don’t come on your own, I’ll be back to drag you there. I didn’t spend an hour on your face just for giggles.”

“I’ll only be a minute.”

The door closes behind her. I breathe deeply, only to take in a lungful of perfume. On the vanity, in the midst of the opened pots and jars of cosmetics, is the copper mirror. In its reflection, I see a pair of dark, painted lips. My own lips. They look much fuller than I remember, and even when I pull them into a thin line, they stay looking fresh and . . . dare I say . . . lovely?

“That thief is a magician with paint,” I mumble to myself.

Then I strip my wrists of the bangles Eshe put on me, untie the tinkling decoration on my ankle, and cut the tiny gold bells off my slippers. I remove everything that makes noise except the dress. Nothing can be done for its soft swishing sound.

I fit two of my knives into the sheaths at my hips. But if the sultan thinks I’ll leave the rest behind, he’s sorely mistaken. My third long knife gets buckled to my thigh like Eshe’s—a final resort. My skirts aren’t as bountiful as hers, so I cannot get away with slicing open the fabric for better access. It hardly matters with the other ones at my waist. But I do stick my smallest knives in the caps of each sleeve, just behind my shoulders so the hilts are accessible enough but hidden by my hair that Eshe styled long and loose.

Soon, every one of my knives has a hiding spot. Except for Separator, which I leave behind. This is a dance, not an assassination.

I’m ready.

I draw a deep breath. Then I make my way to the door, almost giving into temptation to steal a glance at the rest of my face. But no matter how strong the pull, I cannot bring myself to look in that mirror.

A guard awaits me beyond the door. I let him lead me to the dance.

“NADIRA AL-RISYA,” CRIES THE announcer.

My heart rams in my throat, an erratic beat that pulses against the tempo of swelling flute music. The oaken double doors open before me, and though the late afternoon sun is at my back, I take one step into the hall—and I’m plunged into night.

The only light comes from tiny sparkling candles suspended from the ceiling. They look eerily like stars, glittering over a ballroom of darkness and shadows. Little sparks alight throughout the hall, as though the figures spinning through the middle of the room dance among fireflies.

The music is different from any I’ve heard. It twirls around me, as if it wishes to catch hold of my fingers and draw me into its sweet embrace, twirling me through the dreams of midnight.

The Neverseen King dances in the heart of the hall, Safya in his arms. They move in a dance I’ve never seen before, gliding across the room together as one instead of two. It’s dark, but not too dark to see the beautiful gown of deep crimson that Safya wears, its skirts flaring around her ankles. It’s not too dark to notice Safya’s smile, or the way she throws back her head and laughs.

Some of the other women dance too, with mysterious partners. The one dancing with Eshe, who has come aglow as though candles were lit inside her eyes, seems to be the steward.

“Enchanting, isn’t it?” Dabria sidles up beside me, sipping from a golden goblet. “Fitting, too, that the Neverseen King should throw a midnight dance.”

I say nothing. My eyes are locked on Safya, on the outline of the Neverseen King’s shoulders.

Say the word.

Every drop you bleed is a stain on my soul.

“You look ravishing,” continues Dabria, eyeing me sideways when I don’t respond. “I wouldn’t have put you in that color, but now that I see it on you it’s quite stunning.”

Her gown is golden, shining like a star in the shadow. The cut of it hugs her figure, though not so closely to be scandalous. In her typical fashion, it cuts away from her waist, revealing toned abdomen. Jewels practically drip from her neck, her ears, her wrists, her hair.

On anyone else, it would be overly gaudy. And yet, it suits her well.

“Thank you,” I say, deciding I cannot get away with more silence. Gaya dances in the arms of a stranger, while Fathuna leans against the wall with a massive plate of food in her hands. That leaves . . . “Where is Raha?”

Dabria sips her drink daintily. “She never made it out of the maze, from what I hear.”

Did she call for the Neverseen King to get her out? To remove her from the competition? The crack of her arm echoes through my mind. The room darkens.

“You’re finally here!” cries Eshe, gasping as she stumbles to my side and grabs hold of my arm. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to come fetch you.”

“I was a mere ten minutes behind you.”

She waves her hand, still gasping. “You need to dance. They’re completely different from the dances back home. They’re so exhilarating.”

Dabria chuckles. “You should convince Fathuna to join you. She could use some exhilaration.”

Eshe chortles. “Why?”

“She’s more disagreeable with each passing day. She says she wants to go home.”

“Then I’m off to rescue the grump! Have no fear, I’ll return her to you so agreeable that she’ll even volunteer to make you baklava.”

“I’ll let you eat it. I fear baklava is not good for the physique.” Dabria pats her flat stomach.

“Baklava is good for the heart, and what’s good for the heart is what’s good for the physique,” chirps Eshe as she scampers off.

My lips twitch in a smile.

“I’m not angry with you, you know,” Dabria says abruptly.

I look at her, startled. Her gaze is fixed on the dance before us as she sips from her goblet.

“You’re different from what I always imagined the Mourner to be. Until Lord Kishon’s death, I assumed you were a man in your thirties or forties. Lord Kishon and my father were close friends, you know. Sometimes it felt like our families were the only supporters of the Neverseen King in Arbasa, but I know that’s not true. I’ve been waiting for my father to be killed, just like my uncle was.”

I stand as stiff as a board. But I have questions, questions I need answers to. “Who told you I was the Mourner? And why did you tell Raha?”

“I don’t know his name. We only share the mutual goal of desiring to save Arbasa before it collapses.”

This man—this was who she visited last night.

“As for Raha . . . I thought she should have a chance at her justice. Perhaps I wanted a little of my own, too. But I cannot hate you now that I’ve met you.”

Pity limns her words. I want to run away from that pity, to hide from it. I can’t, so I keep my tone distant and detached, my spine straight when I ask: “Why are you telling me all of this?”

The look Dabria gives me is completely void of her usual smiles. “Because you need to decide whose side you’re on.”

What does that mean? What sides are there to take? I want protection from Jabir and Eshe’s safety. That’s it. I am not for or against the Neverseen King, and I am not for or against Dabria’s family, Lord Kishon, the people of Arbasa.

The song ends. The Neverseen King bows over Safya’s hand and escorts her off the dance floor. Toward Dabria and me. I force my hands to be still at my side and not fidget with my skirts or the knives at my waist.

His gaze is heavy on me. My breath goes shallow at the sight of his tall silhouette, at the warmth that seems to trail me from head to toe, as if he’s giving me an assessing once-over.

Does he like what he sees? a small voice inside me asks. No matter that it’s entirely irrelevant if he replaces me pleasing to his eye. It’s a strangely vulnerable thing to stand here, unmoving, having put effort into my appearance for the first time. If he hates me in bloodstained clothes, I can blame that on the clothes. But now, I am as beautiful as I can be. So if he replaces me lacking, there is no recourse.

It is a challenge to meet his eye. Or, at least, where his eyes should be. But I finally do.

He stops. Lets go of Safya’s hand. For just a hair of a moment, he doesn’t move.

Then he bows.

My mouth has gone dry. Am I supposed to bow back? Or curtsy? I’m supposed to do something, right? My indecision paralyzes me.

He extends his hand. Mine twitches in response. But then he speaks. His voice is deep and rich, like the midnight ballroom around us.

“Dabria, would you do me the honor?”

A smile breaks across her face. She accepts his hand with a dainty twist of her wrist. “It is I who am honored, Majesty.”

The music begins anew as the Neverseen King leads Dabria out to the floor. Eshe is gesturing to Fathuna, who pops a grape in her mouth and spits the pit nearly on Eshe’s gown. Eshe laughs, grabs Fathuna’s wrist, ignoring the plate in her other hand, and makes to drag her to the dance floor. Food spills off the plate onto the floor.

“Get off me, wench!” Fathuna shouts.

“If you’re determined to be dull!” Eshe retorts, letting her go and instead running back to the floor, all but throwing herself in the arms of the steward. “Dance with me!” she cries.

“Is she drunk?” asks Safya, who has been standing very quietly at my side.

Nope. That’s just Eshe. I shake my head, still trying to decipher Dabria’s cryptic words and nursing my wounded pride that the Neverseen King chose her over me. Perhaps I should have forced myself to check that mirror back in my room. For all I know, Eshe could have played some fool joke on me and drawn black circles around my eyes or painted my cheeks blue instead of raspberry.

Safya and I watch the Neverseen King twirl Dabria around. She flirts coyly, with little laughs and batted eyelashes. She’s lovely. Lovelier than either of us, with far more elegance and stately bearing.

Gaya, who has abandoned the dance floor, comes to join us. Her gown is a deep purple, and it’s almost iridescent in the starlight, especially as the fireflies light up near her skirts.

“Has he kissed either of you yet?” she asks, standing next to me.

I can’t help the jolt of surprise that goes through me, or the memory of last night in the courtyard. I blink away the feel of his hand around my waist, focusing my attention on the way Dabria beams in his arms.

Against my will, Kolb’s voice resurfaces in my mind.

Win the competition. Become the Neverseen King’s bride. Betray him.

Safya scoffs at Gaya. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

Gaya’s eyes sharpen. “He kissed me. This afternoon. While you were getting ready for tonight. He—”

“I said”—Safya draws out the syllables in a firm tone—“I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

“You’re only jealous because he hasn’t kissed you.”

Safya leans against the wall, making me realize that the wall is covered in flowering vines. After recent events, I won’t go near vines voluntarily.

“If you knew the Neverseen King at all, you’d know that he wouldn’t kiss any of us in these circumstances,” said Safya.

If you knew the Neverseen King. The implication is unmistakable. Part of me falls a little lower at her words. I shouldn’t keep watching the sultan dance with Dabria. I shouldn’t be like this.

You will never be safe with me.

Truer words have never been spoken. If I don’t replace a way to free myself of him, he’ll be my doom.

“Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think,” Gaya says. With that, she turns and saunters toward the table at the far wall piled with food.

I stand by my earlier statement about Gaya being more bark than bite. Though I doubt many things regarding my standing before the Neverseen King, he didn’t kiss Gaya.

If he asks me to dance, I can ask to confirm.

I catch myself. Of course, I can’t ask. He’d think I was jealous.

The dance comes to an end.

The Neverseen King escorts Dabria to the food table—hopefully there’s something there that is good for the physique—and then bows before Gaya. Safya and I stand there in silence through that dance, neither of us speaking, as the scene unfolds before us. The dance finishes. The sultan asks Eshe to be his next partner.

When he at last approaches us and I’m the last woman he hasn’t danced with, I try to hide my dismay when he asks Safya again. He doesn’t trade partners for two dances.

Is he punishing me? For . . . something? For my questions? He said to ask them, didn’t he? Then was it a particular question that offended him? My questions about his previous wives, the portrait on my wall?

Something has made him angry with me, and now he intends to humiliate me at this ball.

“You look sour. Have some baklava.”

I glance down at Eshe. She offers me a winsome grin and a half-eaten pastry. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Feeling snubbed.”

“Jealous.”

“Feeling punished.”

“Jealous.” She pops the rest of the baklava into her mouth and chews loudly.

“Well, what if I am?” I demand. “It’s not fair, and certainly even less polite, that he—”

He’s suddenly here, right in front of me, a towering silhouette of night. I stop abruptly, but I don’t turn toward him. After all, he’s probably only here to ask Eshe. He bows. I keep my gaze on the floor, my shoulders stiff.

“Dance with me, Nadira?”