The morning of the betrothal dawned clear and hot, the sky a hard, bright blue that seemed almost mocking in its perfection. Rafiq arrived before the sun was fully up, carrying a ewer of warm water and a bundle of fresh linens, and set about the ritual of preparing Zeid for the ceremony with the quiet efficiency of a man who had been doing this for twelve years and could have done it in his sleep.
The white silk coat had been laid out the night before, its fabric so fine that it seemed to float above the cushions. The green sash, embroidered with the seven-pointed star of the One Covenant, coiled beside it like a serpent. The turban was of plain white cotton, wound in the simple style that Zeid preferred—a statement of modesty, a refusal of ostentation, a message that this prince needed no ornament to command attention. Rafiq wound the bindings tighter than usual, because the cut of the tunic was unforgiving and the ceremony would be long and the eyes of two armies would be upon him. Zeid endured the pressure without comment. The ache in his ribs was a familiar companion, almost a comfort now, the one constant in a world that had tilted wildly on its axis.
“You are not eating,” Rafiq observed, setting the tray of bread and olives on the table with a pointed clink.
“I am not hungry.”
“You were not hungry yesterday. You were not hungry the day before. At this rate, you will arrive at your own betrothal as a ghost, and the Esberians will think we have sent them a spirit in place of a prince.”
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“The Esberians will think what they think. I cannot control their thoughts.”
“No,” Rafiq agreed. “But you can control whether you faint during the ceremony. Eat the bread, my prince. If not for yourself, then for the dignity of the House of Tahir al-Din, which will be somewhat compromised if the betrothed collapses into the ceremonial cushions and has to be revived with vinegar.”
Zeid made a sound that was almost, but not quite, a laugh.
He ate the bread.
It tasted like nothing.
The kohl went on last, a thin line drawn along the upper and lower lids, darkening the lashes and making the eyes seem larger, more luminous, more difficult to read. It was the final piece of misdirection, the last detail of the performance.
Look at my eyes, Zeid thought as Rafiq worked. Look at my eyes, and do not look at my hands, my hips, my throat. Look at my eyes, and see what I want you to see.
“Handsome,” Rafiq said, stepping back to admire his work. “Terrifying, but handsome. The princess will not know whether to strike you or run away.”
“Both, I suspect. In rapid succession.”
Zeid rose, and the silk coat settled around his shoulders like a suit of armour, and he felt the familiar weight of his own body, the bindings, the herbs, the performance. He was ready. He was not ready. He would never be ready, and the ceremony would proceed regardless.