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Sarai had thought that Carthak would be a good, clean start. There was nobody filling the streets to get a look at her when she arrived, nobody throwing her flowers, nobody threatening to kill her because of some stupid prophecy and the adoration of the raka. There was, well, not no pressure to watch what she said (this was still a court after all, for all that Kaddar was a kinder ruler than any of the Rittevons had ever been), but considerably less than what she had to contend with in the Isles. And she had a husband who was handsome and kind and who cared about people—far more than what she could have expected had she stayed in the Isles.
But there was still slavery in Carthak. She hadn’t known that, not really, before she arrived. From the way that Zaimid had spoken, she had thought slavery was almost obsolete; she had known that Emperor Kaddar himself detested it. And yet it persisted. And was no kinder than the kind of slavery she had grown up around.
And Zaimid had not warned her about how restrictive some things were to women in Carthak. Perhaps her husband, being a man, had not realized. Perhaps it was because it was normal to him that he had not thought to warn her. And Zaimid had apologized to her when she confronted him. He said he was used to the more rural areas where women had more freedoms than Thak City. And that he hadn’t truly thought anything of the headscarves women had to wear, because men wore something quite similar to cope with the sun. And it was true—outdoors, going for a ride, Sarai found that the heat and the sun did bother her more than at home and the scarf did make glare from the sun more bearable. But she could not stand having to wear it indoors, at Court functions. And to not wear it—well, she’d only made that mistake once. The whispers about her, more common than she’d like due to her foreignness, had been unbearable. And she had thought she had been used to whispers at Court. But this was a court where she had no friends, no currency as a beautiful young woman because she now had a husband.
And then news from the Isles had come. Her baby brother, dead. Riots. War. Revolution. And the plan was apparently to crown her little sister. To crown Dove, to make her Queen Dovasary Haiming Temaida Balitang at all of twelve. Because they had initially planned to crown Sarai, until she had fled. Sarai had spent weeks crying in various gardens and rooms around the palace. From fear, for her sister, her stepmother, and the rest of her family and friends. From guilt, for eloping, for leaving Dove to be crowned, even if Dove could be a much better ruler than she ever would, with how her sister never failed to think things through. From regret, for leaving when she could have stayed and maybe overseen changes to her home herself, if she hadn’t been such a gods-cursed coward and fool. From anger, because why hadn’t anyone told her of their plans to crown her? Why hadn’t they trusted her enough to tell her when they would have trusted her enough to crown her queen? Why hadn’t she known—why hadn’t she had the opportunity to choose her life?
Empress Kalasin found her crying in a garden one day. Sarai knew better than to think that this was by chance, but her concern seemed genuine. Perhaps it was because the empress was also a foreigner in the court and felt sympathy for Sarai. “My dear lady Saraiyu, I cannot say I understand what you are going through. However, I have found myself in, if I may be so bold as to claim, a similar position, and if you have need of a friendly ear, I am here.”
Sarai could only stare at her Empress, startled out of her tears. Was she serious, Sarai thought, somewhere between incredulous and hysterical. Royalty did not do this. Bronau surfaced in her thoughts, and she added to herself, not without wanting something. But Sarai had absolutely no idea what she might have that Kalasin might want. Kalasin only stared gently, her blue eyes kind, as if all she wanted was to listen. Sarai knew she had to say something. “Your Imperial Majesty is too kind,” she demurred. “I do appreciate your offer—“
“Come riding with me, then,” Kalasin said, impulsively. “Not—not as Empress-and-subject, but as one foreign bride to another. It’s not as though either of us have much in the way of friends here.”
Sarai bit her tongue a bit, ignoring her first impulse to point out that Empress Kalasin had come with a staff and ladies in waiting, while Sarai had fled her grandfather’s celebration in the night and had been lucky to have enough clothes for the voyage. But Sarai had missed having someone who could keep up with her riding. Zaimid could, but he had lately been terribly busy with healing and hadn’t had much time. And Sarai had heard rumors that few noblewomen could keep up with Kalasin on horse, so the offer was probably genuine. “I would like that, your Imperial Majesty. I have missed riding with companions other than my husband.”
Kalasin smiled broadly; it seemed more genuine than most smiles Sarai had seen from her while holding Court. “I have heard you are quite the horsewoman. I’ve missed having a companion that can keep up with me.”
“I thought all Tortallan noblewomen were born horsewomen. At least—my maid, back in the Copper Isles, made it sound like that.”
Kalasin’s laughter chimed like bells as she tossed her head back. When she stopped, she said, “oh, don’t get me wrong, my Tortallan ladies keep up with me better than any of the Carthaki ladies I’ve met, but by no means is it all Tortallan women. Aunt Alanna could, mostly. But my mother and Aunt Buri taught me to ride like my mother’s people.”
Sarai looked at her quizzically for a second. She had only thought of Kalasin as Tortallan—luarin—but then she thought more, and remembered that Queen Thayet had been from Sarain—the half-K’miri princess. The luarin still told stories about the K’mir. Papa had never been the type but she had listened to Winna tell Elsren and Petranne stories more than once over the winter at Tanair that featured the K’mir as villains. Nothing had ever struck her as off about those stories until now, when she had the uncomfortable realization that many of the luarin families probably told similar tales with the raka as the villains.
“Are the K’mir women warriors too, like Tortallan women?” Sarai asked curiously.
Kalasin’s smile turned bitter and died. “I think your maid was telling tales of Tortall.” She sighed, softly. “But yes, K’miri women are warriors, often enough. More often than Tortallan women, at any rate.”
A sadness struck Sarai. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew Kalasin had been denied something and it just didn’t seem right. Kalasin would be glorious with a sword. The thought of it—well. It took Sarai’s breath away, for all that she wasn’t fond of swords after…everything. But she reached for Kalasin’s hand. “Raka women were warriors, too,” she said softly. She hadn’t been able to raise a sword after, after Bronau, but now she found new anger that this was something else that man had taken from her.
Kalasin squeezed her hand, her face reflecting back the same bittersweet smile that Sarai knew was on her own. Neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to.