A Child Without a Mother
For the first years of her life, Zarina knew her mother mostly through other people’s faces.
There were portraits, of course. Too many of them.
Her mother looked down from the eastern gallery in a gown of deep crimson, one hand resting against a marble balustrade. She appeared again in the Hall of Concord, painted beside the Supreme Ruler during the first winter of their marriage. In the private wing there was a smaller portrait that Zarina preferred, one without a crown or ceremonial dress. Her mother sat beneath a flowering tree with her hair loose across one shoulder, looking slightly away from the painter as though someone beyond the frame had just said something amusing.
Zarina liked that one because she looked like a person.
The others looked like history.
Whenever visiting nobles noticed Zarina studying one of the portraits, they inevitably stopped.
“You have her eyes.”
“Your mother used to stand exactly like that.”
“She would have been very proud of you.”
Adults said such things with great tenderness. Zarina learned early that the proper response was to smile.
She had no idea what any of it meant.
She remembered no voice. No scent. No hands lifting her from bed. Sometimes she thought she remembered singing, but Balif once explained that people could build memories from stories they had heard often enough.
After that, Zarina stopped telling anyone about the singing.
Her father never said she looked like her mother.
He did not need to.
Sometimes he simply stared at her for a little too long.
The Supreme Ruler was feared in chambers Zarina had never entered.
She knew this because people behaved differently when he appeared.
Ministers who had been arguing moments earlier suddenly remembered how to stand. Courtiers straightened their backs. Visiting envoys measured every word. Even commanders who had spent half their lives on battlefields lowered their voices when speaking to him.
Zarina found this enormously funny when she was little.
She had once crawled beneath the great council table during a meeting because she wanted the carved wooden lion that decorated one of its legs. Nobody had noticed until she tugged at her father’s robe.
The council went silent.
Her father looked down.
Zarina held up the lion.
“It won’t come off.”
One of the ministers made a noise that might have been a cough.
The Supreme Ruler stared at his daughter for several seconds.
Then he bent down.
“That is because,” he said, quietly enough that only those nearest could hear, “it belongs to the table.”
“I want it.”
“I suspected that.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then the table would have one less lion.”
Zarina considered this.
“There are seven others.”
Someone at the far end of the chamber laughed before hastily covering his mouth.
Her father closed his eyes.
“Balif.”
Balif, who had been standing near the doors with the expression of a man who had known this would happen, stepped forward.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Why is my daughter beneath the council table?”
“She disagreed with my assessment that the council chamber was unsuitable for play.”
“You said it was boring,” Zarina objected.
“I said you would find it boring.”
“You were wrong.”
Her father looked at Balif.
Balif shrugged.
The Supreme Ruler finally reached beneath the table and lifted Zarina into his arms.
“You are disrupting matters of state.”
“What are matters of state?”
“Things you will be very grateful other people worry about for you.”
She leaned against him and looked at the assembled council.
“They all look worried.”
“They usually do.”
That earned another badly suppressed laugh.
The Supreme Ruler shot a glance toward the offender, and the chamber became solemn again.
Zarina never understood why.
Her father was not frightening.
He smelled faintly of cedar oil and old parchment, his hands were always warm, and when she could not sleep he sometimes sat at the edge of her bed despite having half the realm waiting for him in the morning.
It would be years before she understood that very few people ever saw that man.
After her mother’s death, the palace changed.
Zarina was too young to remember the transformation, but Balif did.
The guards doubled first.
Then the routes through the palace were altered. Servants assigned to the royal apartments were questioned more carefully. Food was tasted. Carriages were inspected twice before leaving the grounds. Visitors who once might have wandered the inner gardens freely found doors closed to them.
The Supreme Ruler had lost his wife.
He would not lose his daughter.
By the time Zarina was old enough to notice these precautions, she regarded them as natural features of life.
There was always someone nearby.
A maid.
A tutor.
A guard.
Usually several.
Even the palace gardens had soldiers at the gates.
When Zarina asked why, her father gave her the same answer every time.
“Because there are people who might try to hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Because they cannot hurt me easily.”
This made no sense to her.
“So they would hurt me instead?”
“Yes.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It is.”
“Then why do people do stupid things?”
Her father looked across the breakfast table at Balif.
Balif continued eating.
The Supreme Ruler frowned.
“Are you going to help me?”
“No.”
Zarina giggled.
Her father pointed his spoon at Balif.
“This is why I keep scholars around. They are very useful until asked a question.”
Balif dabbed his mouth with a cloth.
“You asked why people behave foolishly. I am not certain the Arcanum has produced a volume large enough.”
Zarina thought about this, then nodded seriously.
Her father smiled despite himself.
That was how many mornings began.
It was also how Zarina came to believe that Balif belonged there.
Not as a courtier.
Not quite as a servant.
He was simply Balif.
He had been present for as long as she remembered.
He taught her to read before the official tutors thought she was ready. He showed her maps and let her put her fingers on places she could not pronounce. He explained why some histories contradicted one another and why kings often described their own defeats as strategic withdrawals.
He never told her that questions were inappropriate.
Other people did.
During one lesson, when Zarina was seven, an elderly court tutor was explaining the marriages of the old Ashkari dynasties.
Zarina raised her hand.
The tutor sighed.
“Yes, Highness?”
“Why did Princess Aveline marry Duke Haron?”
“To secure peace between their houses.”
“Did she like him?”
“That is not especially relevant.”
“It was probably relevant to her.”
Balif looked down at his notes.
The tutor stiffened.
“Royal marriages are frequently matters of duty.”
Zarina turned toward Balif.
“Would you marry someone you didn’t like?”
The room became uncomfortable very quickly.
Balif took longer than usual to answer.
“No.”
The tutor glared at him.
Zarina frowned.
“Then why should she?”
“Because,” the tutor said, “Princess Aveline was born into responsibilities greater than herself.”
Zarina thought about this.
Then she looked at Balif again.
He avoided her eyes.
She did not understand why.
Balif had known Zarina’s mother long before she became queen.
That fact was never hidden from Zarina, although the nature of their relationship remained unspoken.
He referred to her respectfully and rarely.
When Zarina asked questions, he answered them.
What flowers did she like?
White starblossoms.
Was she good at riding?
Better than she admitted.
Did she like court?
Sometimes.
Did she sing?
Badly.
Zarina laughed when he said that.
“Everyone else says she sang beautifully.”
“Everyone else is being polite.”
“Was she really bad?”
“She was dreadful.”
Zarina laughed harder.
Balif smiled, but only briefly.
That was one of the few times Zarina ever heard something about her mother that did not sound as though it had been carved into a memorial.
Afterward, she began seeking Balif out whenever she wanted to know something real.
Her father spoke of her mother lovingly, but carefully.
The Phoenix Queen spoke of her with fierce affection and occasional anger.
Courtiers turned her into a saint.
Balif remembered that she burned bread, disliked formal poetry, cheated at dice, and once threw a shoe at someone during an argument.
Zarina treasured these details.
They made her mother belong to her.
On the morning of Zarina’s ninth birthday, she announced that she wanted to see the Lantern Festival.
Not from the palace balcony.
Not as part of a royal procession.
She wanted to go into the city.
Balif had made the mistake of mentioning it during breakfast.
Thousands of lanterns would be strung between buildings. Bakers stayed open until midnight. Musicians filled the squares. Children floated little paper boats down the canals with candles inside them.
Zarina stared at him.
“You’ve been?”
“Many times.”
“When?”
“Before I grew old and sensible.”
“You’re not sensible.”
Her father looked up from a stack of correspondence.
“Finally, something on which we agree.”
Balif ignored him.
Zarina leaned across the table.
“Can we go?”
Balif immediately looked toward the Supreme Ruler.
Her father was still reading.
Zarina waited.
“Father.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I have thought about it every year since you were old enough to ask.”
“I’ve never asked before.”
“I know you.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“It is efficient.”
She folded her arms.
“I want to see it.”
“I know.”
“Balif can take me.”
Balif suddenly became very interested in his tea.
Her father put the letter down.
“No.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“There’ll be guards.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There would need to be enough guards that you would spend the entire evening surrounded by them.”
“I don’t care.”
“You would.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Her father gave her a look that suggested the matter had ended.
Zarina hated that look.
She pushed her chair back.
“I never get to go anywhere.”
“That is not true.”
“I go where you go.”
“You went to the summer estates last month.”
“With sixty people.”
“Forty-three.”
She stared at him.
He seemed to realize that correcting the number had not helped.
Zarina turned to Balif.
“Tell him.”
Balif exhaled through his nose.
“Your father has legitimate concerns.”
“You always say that.”
“Because he frequently does.”
“You said the festival was safe.”
“I said it was beautiful.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She looked from one man to the other and realized, with the sudden certainty of childhood, that they had conspired against her.
“I hate this palace.”
Her father did not react immediately.
Balif did.
“Zarina.”
“I do.”
She ran from the room before either could stop her.
She hid in the eastern gallery.
People rarely came there in the mornings.
Zarina sat beneath the largest portrait of her mother with her knees against her chest and decided that she would remain there forever.
After approximately twenty minutes, Balif found her.
He did not tell her to return.
He simply lowered himself onto the stone bench beside her.
“My knees object to this corridor,” he said.
Zarina stared ahead.
“They object to most things now.”
Silence.
“You told him not to let me go.”
“I did not.”
“You agreed with him.”
“That is different.”
“It isn’t.”
Balif considered correcting her, then apparently decided against it.
Zarina looked up at the portrait.
“Did she get to go?”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“To the Lantern Festival?”
“Yes.”
“When she was young, often.”
Zarina’s jaw tightened.
“Of course.”
Balif heard the bitterness.
“She was not the daughter of the Supreme Ruler.”
“So?”
“So fewer people had reason to wish her harm.”
Zarina picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“I don’t understand why being his daughter means everyone decides things for me.”
Balif had no immediate answer.
At nine years old, Zarina had stumbled onto a question that would follow her for the rest of her life.
He could have told her about duty.
He could have explained dynastic politics, assassination, ransom, succession, leverage.
All of it would have been true.
Instead he said, “Your father is afraid.”
Zarina finally looked at him.
“My father isn’t afraid of anything.”
Balif almost smiled.
“Oh, he is.”
“No.”
“He is very good at making other people think otherwise.”
“What’s he afraid of?”
Balif glanced up at the woman in the portrait.
Zarina followed his gaze.
It took her a moment.
Then she understood.
“Me?”
“Losing you.”
Her anger weakened, but did not disappear.
“That doesn’t mean he gets to keep me inside forever.”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
She turned fully toward him.
“No?”
“No.”
“So you think he is wrong.”
“I think fear can make sensible people unreasonable.”
“Will you tell him?”
Balif looked unhappy.
“You are remarkably eager to place me in dangerous situations.”
“You said people should tell the truth.”
“I regret many of my lessons.”
She smiled despite herself.
Balif rose with some difficulty.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“To speak with your father.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
That was another thing Zarina disliked about Balif.
He rarely allowed her anger to solve anything.
The Supreme Ruler was waiting in his private study.
He had dismissed everyone else.
Zarina entered behind Balif and immediately regretted coming.
Her father was standing near the window, arms folded.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then he said, “You frightened your attendants.”
“I went to the gallery.”
“They did not know that.”
“I wasn’t leaving the palace.”
“That is not the point.”
Zarina looked down.
Balif remained by the door.
Her father sighed.
“Come here.”
She did not move.
“Zarina.”
Reluctantly, she crossed the room.
He crouched so that they were eye level.
“You think I am being unfair.”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
She had expected an argument.
Her father looked tired.
“Do you know how many people attend the Lantern Festival?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. Thousands. Perhaps tens of thousands.”
“So?”
“So I cannot protect you in a crowd like that.”
“You protect yourself.”
“I am considerably more difficult to carry away.”
Zarina nearly smiled.
He continued.
“If something happened to you because I wanted you to have one pleasant evening, I would never forgive myself.”
“It wouldn’t be your fault.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Adults often claimed children could not understand certain things.
Zarina would remember years later that sometimes adults simply could not explain them.
Her father touched her cheek.
“It would feel like it.”
She did not know what to say to that.
So she hugged him.
For several seconds he held her very tightly.
Then, over Zarina’s shoulder, he looked toward Balif.
Balif gave him a small shake of the head.
The Supreme Ruler frowned.
Balif nodded toward Zarina.
Her father understood.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“All right.”
Zarina pulled away.
“All right what?”
“You may attend the festival.”
Her face lit up.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She threw her arms around him again.
Then he added, “There will be guards.”
Zarina groaned into his shoulder.
“Not sixty.”
“Certainly not.”
“Not forty-three.”
Balif coughed.
Her father gave him an irritated look.
“We will discuss the number.”
That was good enough for Zarina.
The Lantern Festival began at sunset.
For weeks Zarina imagined it.
She imagined walking beside Balif through crowded streets, buying honey cakes from vendors, watching lanterns rise above the rooftops.
Her father kept his promise.
Technically.
The royal party entered the city surrounded by twelve mounted guards, another dozen walking soldiers, four palace attendants, two physicians, several city officers and a captain who spent most of the evening looking as though every citizen of Ashkar personally intended to murder the princess.
Ahead of them, guards cleared the street.
People bowed.
Musicians stopped playing as Zarina approached.
Merchants refused payment.
Children were pulled out of her path.
At one point a boy of roughly Zarina’s age began running toward the procession, waving a paper dragon on a stick.
Two guards immediately stepped between them.
The boy froze.
His mother dragged him backward and bowed repeatedly.
Zarina stared at him.
He stared back.
The paper dragon had one wing folded incorrectly.
Zarina wanted to ask him where he had bought it.
She wanted to fix it.
Instead the procession continued.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” one of the attendants asked.
Zarina looked up.
Thousands of lanterns glowed above the street.
Gold.
Red.
Blue.
White.
They swayed in the evening wind like stars that had descended between the buildings.
It was beautiful.
Exactly as Balif had described.
And nothing like she had imagined.
People watched her everywhere.
Some smiled.
Some whispered.
Some bowed.
Nobody bumped into her.
Nobody shouted at her to move.
Nobody treated her as though she belonged among them.
Her father rode several paces behind, speaking with the city magistrate.
He caught Zarina looking at him.
He smiled.
Zarina smiled back.
She knew he had done this for her.
That made it worse somehow.
At the canal, children gathered along the stone embankment and placed their candle boats into the water.
Zarina was given one of her own.
It had been made specially for her, edged with gold leaf and painted with the royal crest.
She hated it immediately.
Balif stood beside her.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
She crouched at the water.
A little girl nearby released a crooked paper boat with a candle barely staying upright.
The current caught it.
The girl ran alongside the canal, laughing.
Zarina looked at her own perfect boat.
Then at the guards.
Then at the hundreds of people watching.
“Balif.”
“Yes?”
“Next year can we come without everyone?”
Balif followed her gaze.
His expression softened.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what adults say when they mean no.”
“Frequently.”
Zarina lowered her boat into the canal.
It floated beautifully.
Straight and steady.
The little girl’s boat bumped against it, spun halfway around, and continued downstream.
The girl laughed again.
Zarina watched her disappear into the crowd.
Behind them, the Supreme Ruler called her name.
She turned.
Her father was smiling, genuinely pleased.
“Was it worth all your arguing?”
Zarina looked at the lanterns.
At the soldiers.
At the people kept carefully beyond arm’s reach.
Then back at him.
She smiled because she loved him.
“Yes.”
Her father looked relieved.
Balif said nothing.
Later, long after the procession returned to the palace, Zarina stood at her bedroom window and watched the distant lanterns burning above the city.
From there, the walls could not be seen.
Only the lights.
For the first time in her young life, Zarina wondered what it would feel like to stand somewhere nobody knew her name.