o.o.o
"The day after tomorrow?" Bis repeats in tones of mixed disbelief and amusement. "I'm losing my best friend so soon?"
"Shut up, Bis," Dastan grumbles as he shoves his armor into a saddle bag. Luckily he packs very light when he's out on a military campaign, so packing to move into the palace is the work of a moment. "Anyway, it's not like you're not going to see me; you and the rest of the company are staying here until we return to Nasaf."
"To protect you from the princess?" Bis grins, and Dastan sighs.
"I don't know what's worse, her sniping at me all day yesterday or pretending she doesn't doesn't mind marrying me today. Either way, the contrast is unnerving." He hesitates. "I've changed my mind: the pretending is worse. At least when she was insulting me, I knew where I stood with her."
Bis hesitates, then in a rare moment of seriousness, asks, "Can you blame her, though? We took over her city; we're an invading force. She probably came to her senses after the party and realized that she couldn't keep insulting you lot if she wanted to keep her head."
Dastan hasn't thought of it precisely that way, and he frowns. Trust Bis to see the other side of things. Dastan thinks of himself as straddling the line between the rich and the poor, given his strange upbringing, but the truth is that despite his drinking and brawling with his men, he's much more royalty than commoner these days; he lives among the rich and powerful and is treated as one of them. Bis, though, is the prince's best friend and a frequent visitor to the royal palace, but he's still a mere soldier whose family still lives in a humble house near the market. That gives him a unique perspective on the way the upper and lower classes interact with and misunderstand each other—or in this case, how the invader and the invaded interact with and misunderstand each other.
Dastan finishes with his armor and moves on to his weapons; most will stay out here, on his father's insistence, but a few small pieces will be brought in for protection, just in case. The last item to consider is the dagger still in his belt, the one with the glass handle that he seized in battle, the one that Tus and Princess Tamina both seemed to admire so. He's been wearing it since the battle—he can't put his finger on why, but he likes having it near him—and he decides to bring it into the palace and continue wearing it; it's a small piece, and more decorative than useful, but he rather likes the way it looks, and he doesn't want to risk some soldier wandering off with it. After all, the ruby on the hilt is likely worth a small fortune.
"But while we're on the subject of the princess," Bis goes on, mischief in his voice, "I do have to ask: can you admit you're at least a little bit pleased about marrying her?"
"Bis!"
"Come on, Dastan, she's gorgeous. Even you, the consummate soldier, have to have noticed that."
Of course he's noticed. He can't help noticing it every second he's in her presence. "She's a terror."
"Let me again remind you, you're the man who broke through Alamut's walls. You're the prince of the empire that just invaded her city. I bet she's really nice when she's not, you know, under duress."
Dastan thinks back to his interactions with her. "I doubt it. I bet even at her nicest, she can't help bossing people around."
"And you've spent your whole life listening to your brothers and the king give you orders. She'll fit right in."
Dastan chucks a rolled-up shirt at his friend's head.
"I'm just saying, I think most of the Persian army would happily give up a limb to trade places with you right now."
"You're ridiculous. Give me back my shirt."
Bis, still grinning, lifts the shirt as though to throw it, then hesitates. "I'll give it back on one condition."
"Condition?"
"I know you don't want to marry her, and I know that you don't like her any more than she likes you. But I just want you to keep in mind: you think your life has been turned upside down recently, but imagine how the last few days have been for her."
Giving him a small smile, Bis tosses the shirt back and ducks out of the tent, and Dastan is left alone with his thoughts.
o.o.o
The chambers that have been prepared for him in the palace are as fine and as large as any in the palace in Nasaf; the pile of belongings he's brought with him now look rather silly and tiny in comparison. It's the suite of rooms that are set aside for the ruling monarchs, he learns, with a large sitting room in the center, a bedroom and dressing room for the princess to the left, and a bedroom and dressing room for her consort on the right. The solemn-faced servant who showed him to the suite shows him the various cabinets and trunks where he may place his things, then leaves so he can get settled, explaining that he'll be back in a few minutes to take Dastan to be fitted for his wedding clothes.
It hardly takes a moment to unpack his things, as few as they are. The only thing he can't quite choose a place for is the dagger. He can't wear it to the fitting—it would be in the way as they tried to measure his waist—but he also doesn't want to leave it out in the room; a servant might see it and take it to sell the jewel on the hilt. (Equally possible, but which he likes thinking about less: if the piece is of recognizably Alamutian workmanship, a servant might realize he took it off an Alamutian soldier, and resent him for it.)
So he glances around the sitting room and his private rooms for a bit, trying and failing to find a place to hide it. His searching takes him out to the balcony that opens off the sitting room, which is large and ringed by a beautifully carved railing—probably the finest balcony in the palace, given that this is the room set aside for the ruling monarchs. It looks over a small, private garden, which has no other windows looking onto it; past the wall of the garden, he can see down into the city of Alamut itself, and then the desert stretching out before him. The balcony has obviously been carefully designed to give anyone standing on it absolute privacy from the rest of the palace, and that gives him an idea. Looking up, he sees a large ledge ten feet above his head, part of a bit of decorative carving. With the ease of long practice he scales those ten feet, then sets the dagger securely on the ledge. It's perfect: when he drops back down to the balcony and looks up, he can't see the dagger, and as they are on the top floor of one of the highest buildings in Alamut, no one will be able to look down and see it either: the perfect hiding place. Satisfied, he goes back into his private chambers and waits to be fetched for his fitting with the tailors.
The fitting is lengthy and boring; he gets no say whatsoever in the style of his wedding clothes, that having been decided by his father and bride-to-be, and the tailors say little to him except when to raise his arms. He keeps his focus on the door, wondering if someone is going to come in to direct the fitting—his father or . . . someone else—but no one does. When it is over he has only a few moments to return to his chambers and change his clothing for dinner, which he and his family will be taking with Princess Tamina in the palace.
Unwilling to face his father's admonishment for being late, he strides quickly into his dressing room—and then he stops. Something is different in the room, he's sure of it; all his life, both as a soldier and as a street rat, he has lived and died by his ability to notice details, notice things out of place. And something in this room is out of place: someone has moved a few of his things, ever so slightly. Ducking his head into his bedroom confirms that the same is true there. For a moment his adrenaline starts to rise as it does in the moment before a battle, but then it stops. There have undoubtedly been servants in and out of this room, and they do not yet know the youngest prince of Persia, and how he insists that no one touch his things, not even to clean them, unless he has specifically given them permission. That, he thinks, will have to change if he is to live here for another month.
He doesn't have much time before dinner, but he still takes a moment to return to the balcony and retrieve the dagger, and after he's changed he tucks it in his waistband and allows his flowing formal robes to cover it.
Dinner is an awkward affair, to say the least. Princess Tamina is too good at what she does to be anything but the gracious host, but Dastan's sure he can read her unhappiness in her movements and the way she glances at the Persian royal family. Tus is trying to follow her example, but while he's not nearly as bad at hiding his emotions as his two brothers, he's not as good as the princess, and Dastan can see a certain discomfort in the way the crown prince looks between the betrothed couple—still sorry that she's to wed Dastan, not him? Or just feeling, as Dastan does, that Tus's marriage proposal still hangs in the air around them? And Garsiv clearly doesn't trust the princess at all, based on the way he watches her carefully and never moves his hand far from his sword; most likely he's remembering Princess Tamina pulling a knife on them at their first meeting. Nizam is very quiet, as is often his way at meals like this; he seems to be nursing an injury on his hands, most likely something leftover from the battle. And Dastan? He doesn't know what he feels, but he's definitely uneasy.
Only Sharaman seems to be in unaffected good spirits; either he doesn't notice or, more likely, is choosing to ignore the tension in the room. He talks at length with Princess Tamina about the history of Alamut and of Persia, and compliments her city, and tells her about the wonders of Nasaf, where she'll be living in only a month's time.
"I look forward to seeing it," she says politely. "I have heard a great deal of Nasaf."
"Of course I'll be returning there before you," the king says, "and I will have some of our finest chambers prepared for you before your arrival. It is a beautiful palace, if I do say so myself. And I think you'll find Garsiv and Tus's wives to be excellent company for you, when the men are off at war."
The princess's smile seems to freeze for a moment before she regains her composure and agrees smoothly, "I have no doubt they will be." But it's too late; Dastan saw it. She has no interest in sitting at the palace with Garsiv and Tus's wives (and with Dastan's other wives, someday in the future, which is a thought he simply can't deal with at the moment so he puts it from his mind) while he's off fighting; mostly likely, having never been married and her father long dead, she has been used to a degree of independence that she fears she'll lose as a princess of Persia. Dastan wishes he knew how to reassure her that Persian women have a great deal of autonomy, and most of her time will be entirely her own, especially since he finds her a bit terrifying and is not likely to spend too much time in her company, but that's not the sort of thing you say in front of the royal family at a formal dinner.
"What will become of your city, Princess, when you are away in Nasaf?" That's Nizam speaking, his tone congenial and conversational.
"It will continue as it has done," she says smoothly. "There is a council that manages day-to-day affairs, and for more important decisions, I can write from Nasaf."
That bothers Dastan for some reason; it's not like he intends to keep her prisoner in Nasaf, able to contact her city only via letters, from a great distance. So he makes nearly his first comment of the evening and adds, "And we will visit often."
Princess Tamina turns that smile on him that she's been wearing all evening, the one he's coming to recognize as her diplomatic smile. "You are kind to say so, my prince. I would be very happy to see Alamut often." He wonders what she looks like when she smiles and means it.
"And, of course," Sharaman chimes in, "Alamut will now be under the protection of Persia. Any threats that arise will be dealt with as though they threatened Nasaf itself."
"My city will indeed be in good hands," says the princess, inclining her head gracefully, and Dastan can't handle it any longer.
So when the meal is done and they are leaving, he pulls his betrothed to the side for a moment. His family members smile indulgently and file out of the room quickly to give them privacy, and when the couple is alone, Dastan says, "How do you actually feel about this wedding?" It's the first time they've ever spoken with no one else to hear them.
She wasn't expecting that, clearly. "I'm sorry?"
"You're a good liar," he says, "but I can tell you're only pretending when you act like you're happy about all this."
An odd expression crosses her face, a crack in her careful armor. "Why do you ask?" she says in rather a different tone than he's ever heard her use.
Why does he ask? That's a good question. He casts his mind about, and the only explanation he can think of that makes sense is the following: "I don't like being lied to."
Her face goes back to its habitual diplomatic expression so quickly that he almost doubts whether he ever actually saw that facade drop. "I wouldn't dare, my prince. What kind of start would that be to a marriage?" And with a beatific smile, she inclines her head, then strides out of the room, leaving Dastan blinking in surprise after her.
o.o.o
He doesn't see her at all the next day; he learns from the Alamutians in the palace that she is, in accordance with the customs of the high priestess, spending the day in prayer and contemplation.
His day is much more entertaining. In the morning he wakes early and decides to take a walk through the city, dressed in his most common clothes. He doesn't blend in—his clothes and his light eyes and skin clearly mark him as Persian—but he doesn't look like a prince and he doesn't look like the man who is to marry the Alamutians' princess, and that's what he wants. The townsfolk he passes are cautious around him, but mostly they carry on with their lives, and he sees that they appear to be a happy, prosperous people. The city is clean, the roads are in good repair, and there are fewer street urchins than in Nasaf. It speaks to good leadership, and he is once again reluctantly impressed with Princess Tamina and her advisers and councils.
After returning to the palace—he manages to sneak in without being seen, which is good, as the servants here aren't accustomed to the street rat prince of Persia yet, and might be baffled as to why the princess's future husband is wandering about dressed like a commoner—he has a second fitting, where the tailors bring him nearly completed pieces to try on; they must have worked through the night to complete them.
He has lunch with his company of soldiers in the camp outside the city walls, which is meant to be a relaxing way to spend time with his men but ends up being anything but as they bombard him with a constant stream of questions and comments and good-natured ribbing about his upcoming marriage, and each word only serves to deepen the unease he's been trying to bury since the moment his father announced the betrothal.
"So, you looking forward to it?"
"Of course he's not! That means he has less time to spend with us! I bet he's furious about it."
"Have you even seen the princess, you numbskull? Nobody would be furious about marrying her."
"I bet she's a harpy, though. Remember how she pulled a knife on the princes when they showed up?"
"One of Tus's guards overheard her yelling at Dastan once—called him 'brutal' and 'dishonorable,' didn't she, Dastan?"
"Looking like that, she can yell at me all she likes."
"So, you looking forward to the wedding night?"
Challenging Bis to spar after lunch seems like a good way to get away from all the talking, but now he has too much time to think, which he's been avoiding doing for a while now. There's no point wallowing in his thoughts, is there, because he's already agreed to the marriage? But now that his soldiers' questions have brought all his feelings to the surface, he can't get away from them. He really had been hoping to dodge marriage for a few years yet; he's seen how Garsiv and Tus's wives had taken up so much of their time when the princes are at home. Not to mention that, loving Persia as much as he does, he has a hard time imagining being married to someone who seems to think so little of the greatest empire on earth. And he fears that after the wedding has occurred, Princess Tamina will eventually grow tired of feigning politeness, and will revert to the angry firebrand he'd met on his first day in Alamut.
But on the other hand, his father has asked it of him. He knows that political marriages happen every day, and he's always suspected he'd have to make one, and why should he get out of that when his brothers have both fulfilled their duties without complaint? And while he doesn't want to be married just at this moment, he has to admit he has always wanted to be married. Blame it on his orphan childhood, but he's always found something very alluring about the idea of having a family of his own—about being there for a wife and children in a way that his own parents, whoever they were, were not for him. He very much favors the idea of children of his own, who he can teach to ride and fight, who'll come running to greet him when he's been away. He just can't imagine Princess Tamina being the mother of those children.
But imagine if she came to love you, says a voice in his head, imagine her smiling genuinely, imagine her gazing up lovingly at you with those beautiful eyes, imagine her kissing you— and that is the moment that Bis's foot connects hard with his stomach and he staggers backwards, the breath knocked out of him.
"Are you even paying attention, Dastan? That move never works on you."
"I'm a bit distracted," Dastan admits, reaching for the towel.
Bis examines him for a moment, then suggests, "Why don't you speak to your brothers? They have a lot more experience with marrying than I do."
It's a good idea, and Dastan sets out to do just that. Unfortunately, Garsiv is in the process of saddling his horse, as he's leading some of his cavalry on a patrol, and he has time only for a very unhelpful piece of advice: "Keep an eye on your princess. That one's tricky."
Tus isn't much better, at first; he's back inside the city, leading the search for the weapons forges, and is getting very discouraged by their lack of success so far. The tight smile he flashes at his brother can't disguise his unhappiness as he discusses the search with a handful of his captains.
"It's only been a few days," Dastan comforts him when they're alone again. "You've got time yet."
"Yes, but I was sure we'd have found at least a hint by now," Tus insists. "What if we're wrong, Dastan? What if there's nothing?"
"We all saw those weapons," Dastan points out.
"They could be forgeries."
"Yes, but why? From whom?" This conversation sits rather oddly with Dastan; he wants to keep Tus's spirits up, but he's perfectly aware that if forges are found, then he will find himself married to someone who sold weapons to Persia's enemies. (And what will happen to Alamut, to the people he saw this morning, to Tamina herself, if this is proven? They'll all have to be considered potential traitors, potential threats. Martial law may be required in the city, at least at first, and how can he ever trust his own wife after that revelation?)
Still, he'd do anything to keep Tus from feeling so unhappy; he loves his brother, and as crown prince, the poor man has always felt the weight of expectations—from their father and the entire world—so keenly. The possibility of being proven to have invaded a holy city without cause, with all the condemnation that would earn him from Sharaman and from Persia's allies, must surely haunt him day and night. So Dastan feels that distracting Tus from his search for a moment is really an act of service.
"I actually came here to ask your advice," he says. "Seeing as you've got the most marriages out of all of us."
This successfully distracts Tus, whose expression lightens as he laughs. "Nervous about tomorrow, little brother?"
Dastan grins sheepishly. "Were you ever nervous?"
Tus glances around before leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell Garsiv this," he says, "but the night before my first wedding, I was a wreck. Barely slept, nearly paced a hole right through my floor." He grins. "Of course, I was younger than you are now, but still."
"Really?"
"I was terrified of Mandana."
"Now you're just teasing me."
"No, I was! She was stunning, she was brilliant, she was older than me, and she looked at me like I was a spider she'd crushed under her shoe. I was certain the marriage was going to be a disaster."
"Mandana? Really?" Dastan has never know his sister-in-law to be anything but kind; no one who saw her and Tus together would ever mistake them for being in love, but they get along well and treat each other with respect. But then, Dastan supposes, they married only a year after the youngest prince of Persia was adopted. He'd been too young to care about things like his future sister's feelings toward her betrothed, and too busy trying to prove himself to Sharaman and annoy Garsiv to watch the new couple.
Tus nods. "But we both had a duty to perform. And it was nerve-wracking at first, but in time, in the course of performing that duty, we came to . . . an understanding. We came to admire each other and enjoy each other's company. And you and Tamina will do the same, I'm sure of it. Just remember, you both have a duty to perform."
"A duty to perform," Dastan agrees, with only a little hesitation. "I can do that."
o.o.o
He's so cheered and encouraged by his conversation with Tus that he hardly minds spending the next three hours being bathed and scrubbed and perfumed to within an inch of his life. He smells like a garden by the time they're done, and his hair feels strange, being so clean and soft when he rubs it between his fingers. He hasn't been this clean since . . . well, since Garsiv's last wedding. If he's got to perform his duty and marry Tamina tomorrow, at least she'll have no reason to complain about the way he smells.
He maintains this serenity until he returns to his chambers after his bath and sees that once again, someone has been moving his things in both the dressing room and the bedroom. It's subtle, but he's so certain someone's been rummaging around in there that with a sudden burst of suspicion, he runs out to the balcony to check on the most valuable thing he has with him—but no, it's still up there in its hiding place, and he shakes his head at himself as he places the dagger under his pillow. No one knows that he has the bejewelled dagger, and why would anyone steal it anyway? Surely this was, once again, servants of the palace, preparing the suite for the princess to move in tomorrow—
Princess Tamina. Sharing these chambers with him. Starting tomorrow.
And suddenly he is fighting not to panic again.
o.o.o
