I find myself cautiously enjoying the tour.
The king makes no more mention of cake. His manners are formal, almost stiff, but he takes obvious pride in showing me his home. The palace is a wonder of domes, minarets, and mosaics that leaves me dizzy with grandeur. Outside of Vasna, I’ve only visited the Sileshian palace, a great, hulking fortress built for protection, not beauty. The Tirenthian palace seems designed for both, though I do wonder how much protection could be needed when those within can transform into fire-breathing beasts.
More impressive than anything he shows me, however, is his memory. Every servant we pass, he introduces by name. I know every face at home, but Vasna’s palace and staff is minuscule in comparison to Tirenth’s.
“Greetings, Isaak,” the king says as we come alongside an older man pushing a wheelbarrow beside the covered walkway we stroll. “Are you in need of assistance?”
The man pushes his hat back and glances up. His hair is white but his eyes bright and smiling. “Ah, not today, Your Majesty. These old wings still have some life in them.”
He spots me, and the bright eyes widen. Dropping the wheelbarrow handles, he tugs his hat off. “The Water Bringer,” he breathes, dropping to a knee.
I startle at both the title and his reverence, but the king only says, “Indeed. This is Princess Serah of Vasna.”
The man lifts his shining gaze to me. “An honor, Your Highness. Truly.”
“Likewise,” I say, curtsying to the man who then looks apt to weep.
After helping the man up, the king guides me onward.
“Who was that?” I ask softly as we walk.
“Isaak, the chief gardener.”
A quick look behind shows me the man, hat clutched to his chest, still standing where we left him.
“Older dragons,” the king says as I turn back, “remember older days. They knew Tirenth when she was only sand and a few skinny palm trees on the ocean’s edge. They remember a time before canals and cisterns, Princess. They remember drought.”
It’s the most I’ve heard him speak at one time, and I take care to absorb his words. Doing so also distracts me from the feel of his bicep beneath my hand, a sensation I’ve been pointedly ignoring since we started out. “When was the last drought?”
“Now.”
I clear my throat to cover my shock. “Now?”
“Yes. The cisterns will run dry in two weeks.”
He says this with an ease that has me staring at him.
“But,” he says, his eyes trained forward, “you’re here now, so there’s no need to worry.”
I’m certain my mouth would fall open if not for all my tutors’ harping on composure. He expects me to end a drought? I swallow. “Water can be fickle, Your Majesty.” Fickle is putting it delicately. There are a dozen factors involved—the amount of water present, how deep it is, how far away. “It could take some time.”
“I have faith in you.”
A fine sweat breaks out over my skin. What if there’s no water to draw? Or what if the water I find is so far it takes months to draw near the city? What then?
Perform for me, Serah, and I’ll give you anything you want.
Is this what he meant? Perform by ending the drought? And if I can’t, does he plan on sending me home? Recalling Vasna’s debts?
Seemingly out of nowhere, a blistering wind sweeps over us, pelting me with sand. Whether from instinct or surprise, I draw nearer to the king. The wind is fierce, and yet I hear a sharp intake of breath; I feel his arm stiffen beneath my hand.
“A scorcher,” he shouts over the gale.
“A what?”
The king shakes his head and hurries our pace. He tucks me in tighter as the wind strengthens and I’m forced to shield my eyes. When I blink them open, we’re shielded from the wind in a stone alcove fringed in flowering vines.
“A scorcher,” the king says, his voice sharp as he guides me to a recessed bench carved into the wall. “That’s what the wind is called. They come hard and fast off the desert.”
I release his arm and sit, puzzled by his harsh tone. Did I do something to upset him? “Ah, I see. Are they common, these winds?”
When there’s no answer, I sneak a glance up at him. The lines of his face are rigid, his jaw tight. His chin quivers as if restraining himself from speaking.
He looks livid.
Alarm courses through me. What did I say? Retracing my words, I can find nothing offensive. Is he angry I didn’t sound more confident in my ability to end the drought? Should I not have moved so close to him when we could have been seen? Surely not. He held my hand in front of his subjects, in front of the wyverns even. He openly slept in my chambers for stars’ sake! And yet he stands here as if frozen by rage, every inch of him but his flared nostrils still.
I pretend not to notice his face lift to sniff at the air, his breaths quicken when he does. In truth, I’m wondering once again whether he’s fighting the urge to make a meal out of me. I glance about in hopes another servant is nearby, but we’re alone.
“Well,” I say, rising to my feet, “it sounds as if the wind has died down. These scorchers must pass quickly.”
I sidle over a couple of steps, my back grazing the stone wall. The king doesn’t move.
Think, Serah. Think. All I can think to do is run, but though my gown isn’t restrictive, I doubt I can outpace him in it. Perhaps if I kick him first? That can hardly be good for diplomacy…
“I can’t take this,” he snarls.
I gasp as he whirls toward me, plants both hands on either side of the wall behind my head, and leans in, eyes wild.
“Princess, I must ask you something. Now.”