Beyond the Red (23 page)

I smile and step toward them. “Okay,” I say. “I’m as ready as I ever will be.”

And so Eros opens the door.

Just before I step into the ballroom, Jarek opens the door and announces my arrival. I barely hear my name over the pounding of my pulse in my ears, and the drumming of my heart in my throat.

The ballroom looks beautiful. A pair of long crescent-shaped stone tables are on either side of the large landing area of the ballroom—those on the left hovering waist-high, packed with bowls and plates of fruits, vegetables, pastries, breads, snacks, and drinks of all shapes and sizes, those on the right lower to the ground and twice the size of the food-covered tables with a red setting for each guest. Behind the dining area is a curved triangular partition brimming with colorful dried herbs and leaves for brewing or smoking, as well as beautiful flowers and plants from across Elja.

Beyond the partition is a set of steps, leading down into the lowered section of the room where dancing and performances take place. On the far side across, a gigantic-sized Eljan crest is carved into the white stone wall, glistening with water that runs endlessly over the entirety of the far wall. But my favorite part is, and always has been, above. Fist-sized white lights fly above our heads, rotating ever so slowly around the room, like the stars have come down just to join the celebration. And beyond that, the largest glass ceiling in the palace reveals an expanse of true glittering stars and the regal moons of the night skies of Safara. Each one is visible from the ballroom tonight—a rarity I haven’t seen since my seventh celebration. Mamae always used to say that when the four moons of Safara came close together, it was because they were gathering to watch what was happening below.

How nice it must be, to sit on the moon and gaze down at the world below. Away from responsibilities and assassination attempts and marriage proposals. Surrounded with silence and the beautiful array of
Kala
’s eternal canvas.

But that’s not my reality.

I move slowly. My head is light, and my feet are numb, and I’m terrified I’m going to fall over before I even step inside. I’m walking, somehow, and people are staring and I haven’t even seen Serek yet and I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can tell him I’ll be his mate. I don’t know if I can agree to be anyone’s mate, agree to bear anyone’s children.

Kala
, I’m going to pass out.

A strong arm slips around mine and a warmth passes through my skin and spreads to my stomach. “You look beautiful,” Serek says.

I smile so widely that my cheeks hurt. “Thank you.”

I look at him for the first time and my breath catches. He’s wearing his customary black and gold, but the dress uniform could not fit him better and the gold accents, buttons, and cuffs mirror the golden rings in his eyes, and his smile… His smile steals the air from my lungs and blows it down my back.

The lights dim, and my brother strolls across the far side of the room, where a large, circular tracking light follows his movements and brings the crowd’s attention to him. He’s dressed in deep red traditional-style pants bound up to his waist, and crimson ceremonial patterns are painted across his chest and face, swirling around the light markings of his skin and the black text on his arms and chest, accentuating his status.

I’ve never been one for performance, and today, one isn’t expected of neither me nor Dima—our role of host in tonight’s celebration is enough. But every cycle, my brother has opted to be in the center of the spectacle that is the opening ceremony, and tonight is no different.

A red streak of light bursts through the darkness for the briefest of moments, splitting the lowered section of the floor in two. The stone platform beneath Dima rises, slowly floating higher off the ground as he bows low and sinks into
Enjo
, the stance of power. He centers his weight and brings his fists together over his abdomen, and the crowd falls quiet as the floor silently rises until it’s level with the first half of the room. Serek’s lips brush my ear and I suppress a shudder.

“It would appear the opening ceremony is about to begin,” he whispers. “I will return.”

“
Kala
’s blessings,” I whisper, and he smiles at me before disappearing into the gathering.

My brother stands before the crowd with his eyes closed, in a perfect demonstration of focus. The room is so quiet you could hear the wings of an insect—not a whisper breaks the hush.

A hand touches the small of my back and I jump, but it’s just Eros. He drops his hand before anyone sees and nods toward the front of the crowd, then guides me through them, making way so I stand at the front, just before the banister that divides the room into the lower section. I almost invite him to stay there with me, but the moment I’m in place, he melts back into the mass.

Then Dima shouts and pounds his chest, and a line of men step beside my brother together. These are Dima’s best warriors—I recognize a couple faces, Jarek among them—and they wear the same ceremonial warrior garb of the time of old Elja. Traditionally,
kazim
blood was used to paint their torsos and dye their pants, but that custom was banned and replaced with dyes many cycles ago, thank
Kala
.

Together, they change stance in perfect choreographed synchronization, pounding their feet and chests and chanting in Ancient Eljan—a tongue long ago discarded upon the unification of the eight territories. They move with power and grace, eventually picking up long carved
huni
staffs, slamming them against the ground and twirling them in complicated combinations around their bodies. I was never particularly adept with the
huni
staff, but Dima was born for it. He moves with it like an extension of himself, completing complicated kicks, flips, and turns with the staff.

Then most of the men step back, falling away into the darkness, leaving Dima and Jarek. They face each other and bow deeply. Along the right wall, drummers set the pace with a powerful beat that rumbles through the room like thunder, and the men begin to spar.

My brother is the best fighter in the entirety of our guard, but Jarek is a close second. They move around each other with ease, dodging spinning kicks and twirling staffs. This isn’t a true sparring match, per se, as ceremonial matches aren’t about injuring the opponent, but showing off their expertise—and I don’t doubt for a breath that Dima and Jarek are the two most skilled fighters in all of Elja.

The ceremonial match ends all too soon, and I join in as the crowd cheers and my brother and his second bow and step back into the shadow.

As is custom across the territories, when royalty hosts a royal guest from another territory for an extended period of time, the guest must show his gratitude in some grand gesture. Oftentimes in celebratory situations such as this one, the gesture is some kind of performance.

So when Serek steps out of the darkness next, I am not surprised. He has stripped off his shirt and shoes and now wears just his black and gold pants. He reaches into the shadow at his feet and picks up two long chains with metal cage-like spiked spheres at the end. At first I don’t recognize the strange contraption, but when the lights fade, plunging the room into total darkness and the two spheres burst into flame, understanding hits me in the gut.

They’re
shi
, instruments of fire dancing, occasionally used as weapons.

Serek begins slowly, twirling the balls of flame in large, lazy circles, spinning carefully as he moves across the floor, and the
shi
begin to accelerate. Then, as the drums grow louder and beat faster, Serek picks up speed, whipping the fireballs around his body in smooth revolutions of deadly light. As the fire dances around him and he spins through the air with a powerful and unquestionable grace, I stop watching the
shi
trace orange paths of light in the darkness and focus on him instead. The way he moves with such precision, the way the bronze light catches the angles and valleys of his perfectly sculpted arms and torso … he has never looked more beautiful to me. And by the end of the night, I will be engaged to marry him.

The
shi
go out, and the lights turn on, and everyone cheers as Serek bows and the platform lowers into the floor. Chatter fills the room and music plays as people migrate down to the dance floor. I stand awkwardly by the tables full of assorted pastries, frozen candies, creams and juices, and flutes of powerful drinks as passersby bow and wish me a blessed lifecycle, and my brother converges with his warrior friends, deep in conversation. They occasionally smile or wink at attractive women, particularly Dima, who is already partaking in a carafe filled to the brim of clear blue
azuka
. The women bombard them with flirtatious glances, and the only one of my brother’s crew who doesn’t seem to be enjoying the attention is Jarek, though it’s hard to say whether Dima’s really relishing their advances, or just pretending to. Jarek stands stiffly at my brother’s side, his arms crossed and his lips pressed into a thin line. Dima nudges him with his shoulder and says, “
Naïjera.
” Relax.

Jarek grunts and takes a carafe of
azuka.

“Would you honor me with a dance?” Serek asks, stepping in front of me. He’s back in his dress uniform—though how he changed so quickly is beyond me—and he offers me his hand.

“Of course.” I take his outstretched hand, and though I feel silly grinning like a giddy child, I can’t help it. A dance is the only time it’s acceptable to publicly touch anyone outside the family, and his brilliant grin is contagious as he leads me down the steps and twirls me to the center of the floor. I swear I’m floating a measure off the ground.

The beat of the drums twisting with stringed
alaja
and
nejdo
plays somewhere in the back of my mind, but all I know is the strength of Serek’s hand on the small of my back, his grip on my hand, and the way his eyes pull me in and hold me in his gaze. I’m swimming in his eyes, in his smile, in the strength of his arms and the smoothness of his hands. We drift apart, then together, weaving back and forth through the steps of the dance with the rest of the crowd. We shout and stomp at all the right times, and when we come together, his warm breath rolls over my neck, my cheek. We twirl apart, connected by the tips of our fingers—we twist together, our hips moving in sync. His lips just brush my skin as he tells me how beautiful I am, as he asks me if I’m enjoying myself, as he wishes me a wonderful lifecycle and a blessed eighteenth cycle.

I think I speak. I think I answer his questions, but maybe I’m just smiling a lot. Maybe I’m just melting in his arms and moving when he moves, and smiling when he smiles, and maybe my heart is beating in tune with his, or maybe it’s beating so loud that I can’t hear the music. I don’t know, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter.

Right now, the only thing that matters is the way Serek is holding me, and the way his eyes sparkle every time I meet them.

“Your brother is watching,” Serek murmurs in my ear. “He seems to be in good spirits tonight.”

“Does he? That’s a surprise.” The music slows and I rest my cheek against his chest as our bodies slow and sway. The heat of his skin warms the side of my face and his heartbeat echoes strong and deep.

“How so?” Serek’s low voice rumbles in his chest against my ear.

“Our courtship isn’t something he wanted,” I say.

“And you?”

I pull away enough to look up at him. I’m so close I can make out the markings on his chin—they’re in Old Inaran, a language I’m not quite so well versed in, but I can work out enough to know they’re lines from the sacred texts, written in their original language.

My gaze rises to his, and his eyes are stunning and focused solely on me. A thrill shoots through my stomach as I process his question. “What about me?”

“Is this what you want?” he asks.

I blink. “You have to ask?”

His gaze travels somewhere above my head—to Dima, I would guess—then back to me. “You say it’s not what your brother wants, but what about you? What do you want?”

This is the moment—the one I’ve been terrified of since he first asked me that night in the garden. But now, somehow, with his gaze swallowing me and our bodies swaying together, I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

I close the gap between us, stretch onto my toes, and bring my lips close enough to his to taste his breath. “I want this,” I whisper. “I want to be your mate.”

His lips touch mine and his tongue swoops across my bottom lip. My mouth opens and he deepens the kiss slowly, taking his time, like every breath is ours and we have eternity. His hand slides to the back of my head and he pulls me close, our bodies pressed tightly together, his fingers caressing my hair. My heart skips a beat and drums faster as our breaths mingle together. He breaks for just a moment, then kisses me again, harder, with an eagerness that warms my belly. My fingers brush through his hair and he tastes like spice and sugar and his scent fills my nose—the faintest hint of firewood and herbs.