The Fairest (Sample)
Chapter 17: Gift

Gift

MAGEIA UNKNOWN

As Prince Grisonce slipped out the back door, Rasheem sighed with a roll of his eyes. “He’s the one who’ll give me a heart attack.”

He faced her with his hands clasped before him. They stood like this for a good minute.

“So…”

Mageia’s eyebrows raised. “So…”

“Confirm his little disclosure upstairs to be pure nonsense or not.”

“Honestly … I think you need to present better hobbies for him.”

“Hmm,” he agreed with a slight nod. “Best ponder it. When the boy reaches a theory or an idea, it takes him years to extinguish it.”

“It was all foolish talk … religious talk … blasphemy.”

“Nothing true about it?” Rasheem asked with curious eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Hmmm. Bet you’re hungry. I’ll make you something.”

She did not refuse. He moved across the room to the kitchen, and she followed.

“Will he really try to plead my case?”

“He has done it plenty of times, but by means of a written letter. Too long, perhaps, for his father to take the time to read. So, he just gives Gris what he wants.”

I hope he succeeds, she wanted to say, but she didn’t want to place all her trust in the Strange Prince. His stuttering may not be his only defect. His eyes were haunting, especially when she brought up his mother.

“Would you say he has a clear mind?”

“You mean to say, is he crazy?” Rasheem gave a humored chuckle that exposed him to be more relaxed than he put on. “I’ve known that boy since he was a babe. He has more of his mother in him, I’d say.”

A hint of admiration appeared in his voice as it trailed off. His hands were quick though, pouring hot soup into a glass bowl. He grabbed silverware and placed her at one of the empty seats. She sat down, but he slipped back into the kitchen.

She observed the beautiful designs on the bowl and the silverware and felt out of place. If only Dean were here to see her dining with royal fineries. Grief flooded through the doors she’d been trying to keep sealed.

Blessed Naphri, heart goddess of health and emotions, give my family peace, especially Dean, she prayed.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Rasheem asked, placing a roll wrapped in a napkin beside her bowl. He sat down with his own bowl of soup and roll, and studied her face as she tried to suppress the flooding emotions.

“I’m okay,” she managed to say. “Thank you for this.”

This is most likely my last decent meal.

“No, do not thank me. I hate being thanked for being courteous.”

“But that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“Yes. I know, but we are supposed to be courteous anyways,” he explained. “Plus, I know how the prison guards work. They never feed the prisoners effectively.”

“I guess they don’t want to waste peeks on the condemned.”

“Perhaps …” he drifted off, directing his attention to his meal. Within seconds, he shook his head, sorrow flooding his own eyes. “I am so sorry about your ordeal, my lady.”

She shrugged. “The gods have spoken, apparently.”

“Well, if what Gris says is true, they may have other plans in motion.”

“I will be forgotten like all others before me in the Dungeons.”

“I guess you have lost all hope within the past hours,” he said. “Again, I am so sorry.”

She stared at the man. Despite his defect and being a slave, he was quite handsome and had a strong jawline. His left eyebrow appeared to bounce on its own accord, like it was dancing to the thoughts in his head. His back was straight like a wood slab, and the way he ate his soup with pristine movements, Mageia would’ve thought him a Royal in disguise. If she had the courage to say it, she’d compliment him on how much he and the prince looked alike. Especially their curly hair, though Rasheem combed his back in a smooth, elegant style. They seemed very close, she had noticed, which the man seemed to take pride in.

“My parents, they, um … always told me that I was special. ‘The gods gave you to us,’ whatever that meant,” she reminisced, shaking her head.

She recalled what the prince explained to her. Still, she couldn’t come to terms with this information. “I do have questions and concerns.”

Like how I survived my execution. She scratched her head and heaved a sigh, remembering some information her parents once told her.

“The Fair Trees of the Holy Lands, they possessed magic. I heard stories about how they weren’t like normal trees. They’d grow on their own with no seeds planted. Purple all over, from root to bark to the very leaves hanging from the branches. Like the Old Forest and the Dauntless Mountains, the Holy Lands were said to be the heart of magic, a portal, or a bridge to the Serene.”

“The Holy Lands being?”

Mageia stared into her bowl of soup. “Fairlaana.”

Rasheem soaked in her words and nodded after a while. “I’ve heard the stories too.”

“Purple. Purple magic …” she muttered.

“Purple, like your eyes,” Rasheem offered. “I must say, purple eyes aren’t normal, which means you aren’t normal.”

She smirked. “Careful, Rasheem. You’re starting to sound like the prince.”

He smiled appreciatively and went back to eating his soup. Mageia didn’t want to think about this nonsense, but it was now stuck in her head. Probably for good. The prince’s theories had returned long-lost memories and conversations with her parents. She didn’t want to accept the fact that she might be special. Why her and not one of the many other Strange who deserved the honor?

Silence followed as they ate. She made sure to consume all of it, savoring every spoonful of the vegetable broth and thick chicken pieces. It was delicious and something she did not mind being her last decent meal. Despite it all, her belly still churned with unease, mainly about everything thus far.

“This was good,” she complimented as she wiped her lips.

Rasheem nodded. “Ah. Our Chef Lajé is a god in the kitchens.”

He rose and took their bowls back to the mini kitchen. Mageia rose and took an innocent stroll into the prince’s bedroom. Without the untidiness, she’d say the room was a nice living quarter for someone like Prince Grisonce.

Please, holy ones above, let him succeed.

To be honest, she’d rather work in the harsh air of the Runes or take lashes from a slave master than have to rot in a dark, dingy cell. Alone. Cold. No one ever left the Dungeon without rat bites, sores, sicknesses, or lying in the morgue. If she couldn’t get an appeal within two weeks, she would never get one. It was known.

Rasheem came in and started snatching up clothing left and right and plopping it over an arm. “He always hates it when I clean and touch his things, but …” Rasheem shrugged, “quite indecent, I say, especially when you’re planning to have female visitors. He never notices anyways.”

Mageia watched him salvage through everything, separating the clothes into piles on the bed. He even smelled some things and didn’t look at all disturbed or annoyed. She couldn’t tell whether his behavior was normal for a slave, or if he deeply cared for the Strange Prince in an intimate way.

“How long have you been his slave?”

Rasheem’s mouth opened and closed, his brow wavering with some unreadable emotion. For a while, he concentrated on the task until he finally answered. “Actually, young lady, I’ve been a slave since I can remember. His mother—gods rest her soul—assigned me to him after he was born. I was twenty-one, I think. Been there for him ever since.”

“You’ve been a slave for the Royals for a long time. Why hasn’t he freed you?”

“Gods, no. He would fall apart if I was to go. Believe on that,” he chuckled, although Mageia sensed he wasn’t telling the full truth.

She shook her head, unsure of why she suddenly cared. It wasn’t like she would be here after this evening to be included in their unconventional friendship. On that note, she’d rather be far away from Rasheem, the prince, and the palace, gathering the Lost Ones and moving out of Ardania.

Rasheem paused what he was doing. “My lady.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any family? Friends?”

“Family, yes.”

“Your thieving family, I assume?” he asked with a disapproving look.

Mageia smirked. “If you say so. We steal only to survive.”

“No need to explain yourself. I understand clearly the reasons for your actions. This kingdom has truly gone heartless as of late. You’d think the Golden King had our throne. But your family, they must be worried about you.”

“Probably.” She turned away to squeeze back the tears in her eyes.

“Awe, child.” Rasheem clicked his tongue and shook his head in empathy. “If you’d like, I could give them a message for you.”

Mageia spun around, shocked, with a pinch of joy igniting in her heart. “Would you really do that for me?”

He shrugged. “Why not? I may be strict, but I am not heartless.”

She approached him but was too fidgety with gratefulness to stand still or express her appreciation.

He laughed. “Grab some parchment from upstairs, write your heart out, then tell me how to deliver it to your family.”

For the first time since being caught, Mageia beamed, laughing with a mix of grief and joy. She wasted no time. She ran to the prince’s study, found paper and an inked quill, and returned to the dining table.

Everything she wanted to say to Dean, the teen Elders, and the children poured out of her. Rasheem smiled and shouted across the room. “Where should I deliver it?”

“Um …um …” she was unable to gather her thoughts. When she did, she chuckled at herself. “The Arynliit Bakery on Grinner Street in Midlaan. Just tell the owner it’s from me, and he’ll know what to do.”

“Arynliit?” Rasheem paused for a moment and fell deep into thought. The food in her gut felt heavy with fear. He looked at her; his mouth pursed with wonder. Mageia remembered that Trekon once worked at the palace and would’ve had to cross paths with Rasheem before.

The back door thudded open, and Mageia turned with a start, her lowered defenses rebuilt. She expected to see a royal escort checking in on the prince, or that soldier Dargany, or even better, the prince himself with good news. Instead, a slave girl rushed in.

“Rasheem,” she called.

“Right here,” he responded.

The teenage girl scurried up the steps and crossed the kitchen. The lighting of the room brought her face to life and exposed her visible defect. All over her dark brown skin were pinkish-white patches. They reminded Mageia of Dean’s pink birthmark along the side of his face. The girl’s defect did not affect her beauty, especially with her long black hair pulled into a single braid down her back.

When she saw Mageia, the girl gave a dark, accusing look in place of the possible questions flooding her mind.

“Hasana,” Rasheem greeted.

She came around the curtain and pulled it back just a bit. “Hala, Rasheem. Didn’t Mira tell you to tell the maids to do this?”

“I don’t mind,” he said, dismissing the topic. “What’s wrong, now? How are things going downstairs?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Those you place in charge are getting things done swiftly.”

“Good, good. Best show my face eventually.” He checked his timepiece with a frown. “I’m waiting for Dargany to return. He’s running a bit late.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, cutting Mageia a nasty eye.

Mageia pretended not to notice and finished her letter to the Lost Ones. The girl had to be close to her age, making Mageia curious about her life before being condemned to servitude.

“And the progress of the luncheon? The pack up for the trips to the border? The carriages for the parade? Everything—”

“Good, good, good, and good, Rasheem. No worries,” Hasana assured. “Seems like everyone is less nervous and works better when you and Gris aren’t around.”

Rasheem chuckled. “Oh, really now?”

She grinned at her taunt and handed him a hanger to help him in the task of preparing a pile of clothing for the wardrobe.

“So, are you checking in on me, young lady, or do you need something?”

“Checking on you because you know… you’re old,” she said, and Rasheem scoffed. Mageia frowned at their familiarity. “No, but really, Orlan sent me.”

“From the luncheon?”

“Uh-huh. Said Gris wants you to return the gift immediately.”

“Gift?”

She nodded. “That’s what he told Orlan. Said it may be the wrong kind.”

“Wrong kind of what? Are you sure you received the message, right?”

Mageia’s eyes widened. That gift was her. Something’s wrong. She folded the letter, quietly; but fast, and rose from the chair. If something went wrong, the prince needed her back to the Doomed right now. She glanced at the open door and felt her pulse rise with adrenaline.

This is your chance. Maybe your only chance.

She had to make her escape now. With the ceremony preparations going on, there was no possible way of escaping once she was back in the hands of guards and within the gates of the Doomed and then the prison.

She pretended to stroll into the kitchen, eyes focused on the open door. Rasheem grabbed a few garments and turned to the wardrobe. This gave her the only opportunity to make a run for it. She liked Rasheem and thanked him mentally for his kindness, but apparently the prince failed, so she had to take matters into her own hands.

“I’m sure, although Orlan was kind of confused. Perhaps Gris bought something he didn’t like.”

“Gift?” Rasheem shook his head. “If he brought something, I’d know about it.”

Hasana picked up a pair of Gris’ trousers, scrunched her nose, and flung them into the dirty pile.

“Gris said it was urgent. That you’d understand.”

“Return the gift …” He pondered on the message, then froze. He gave a great gasp that startled Hasana. He spun around to look at Mageia at the table, but she was already gone.