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Zaimid hadn’t gone to the Copper Isles (more properly, and perhaps soon? the Kyprish Isles) to find a wife. He already effectively had one, and a husband too, in Carthak. Oh, not in any legal sense, and he was in fact in want of a legal wife. But that’s all he expected his wife to be—a legal fiction and alliance and bearer of his children (it was a position that several Carthaki ladies would kill for). That was not what Saraiyu Balitang would be. It was not something that she would tolerate. (It was certainly far less than she would deserve.)
He had first noticed Saraiyu and thought that she was like Kalasin, if Kally hadn’t left Tortall. Beautiful, headstrong. So clearly holding her own court that she by rights had no business holding. She was all spirited mare and radiant ornament and subversive force, both of her own choosing and by birthright. She was dangerous.
And then he began watching Sarai—how could he not, with how lovely she was? With how masterfully she played with the young men like chess pieces on a board, too. He scarcely thought he had seen a more skilled woman. And then he noticed that she was so like Kaddar too. Not the Kaddar-of-today, the Emperor of Carthak. No, Kaddar-third-in-line to the Imperial Throne, then Kaddar-second-in-line for the Throne. Kaddar on the night before being announced as Imperial Heir, knowing that the trap was closing around him, the jaws of his uncle starting their bite, unable to escape before he too would be left as only bones for his mother to dishonorably bury, like his cousins and brothers before him. It was in the way that she censored herself (and as imperfectly as Kaddar had—she must have had the Trickster’s blessing the way Kaddar seemed to have had the Hag’s). It was the way her eyes darted around, the whites showing, rolling, full of knowing that there was a net forming around her to keep her, to hold her, to contain her (to likely kill her) as she was powerless to do anything. She was in danger.
And then Zaimid actually talked to her, and discovered that she was both those things and more. He discovered how Sarai was not only deeply proud of being raka, but she was deeply connected to what that meant and to her people in a way that not even Kalasin was. She was passionate in a way that only someone not raised as royalty could be—there was not an ounce of calculation in her body. That was fine—Zaimid had long been able to calculate for two. There was a bone-deep awareness that everyone around her wanted to use her: the Rittevons to either prop up their rule or to make an example of her to the rest of her family (it didn’t seem to matter to them which). The raka wanted to use her for their liberation—a worthy goal, surely, and one she stood by, though she worried at its cost and whether it would even work. The young men at Court wanted to take her as their trophy, barely seeing a person and not just a decoration to flaunt at Court. Even her family wanted to use her for their security, so they could rise, so that her brother could stand beside the boy-king as his friend (or as his heir). Zaimid discovered that while Sarai laughed like bells at court, her truer laugh featured a snort. He learned that she had held her dying father, victim to the last man who sought her for his wife (and his own purposes) and that she still had nightmares about that. He learned that she was quite possibly the best rider he had ever met, and definitely the most skilled lady at losing a veil pinned to her hair, to the despair of her maid.
Zaimid hadn’t expected her to say yes when he had asked—half blurted out like in a fever dream—her to run away with him. He had told her that he could protect her. (He had offered her a way out of this cage.) After all, Kalasin would never had agreed to an elopement—she was too proud, too settled, too clever by half to have to flee for her life. Nor would Kaddar—after all, he had not accepted Daine’s frankly rather superior own offer that would have kept him free of any Court. Zaimid hadn’t been lying about being able to protect her, but the Carthaki court was still one of vipers. But they would truly be like vipers, uninterested in striking unless Sarai came too close to their schemes, threatening them. They were not the prowling lions of the Rittevon court, circling. Hunting.
Sarai had been the one to do most of the planning, which seemed to surprise her more than Zaimid. Winna’s father’s birthday provided the perfect opportunity (there was no way to sneak out of Rajmuat’s harbor, not with how they had increased the patrols). Sarai had been the one to say that the servants would need to be poisoned. Zaimid had hesitated—he had not trained to use his Gift to harm. Sarai had snapped that she knew about herbs that could accomplish more-or-less the same thing, but with more risks of dangerously poisoning someone. And more risks of them getting caught. Zaimid had acquiesced. Sarai had worried about one maid in particular, a Tortallan girl, who didn’t cope with the spices in Islander cuisine well, and would avoid the sambar Zaimid had poisoned.
Zaimid had remarked that they would need luck—that they needed luck anyway, and that the Graveyard Hag would respect a solid gamble and might grant them some of Her luck. (He would never know how right he was, or how the Hag interfered for him that night.)
It was only once they were shipboard, Sarai staring back at the Isles for every last chance of looking on her home she could get that Zaimid realized the magnitude of what he had done. They had found a priestess to the Goddess before boarding, and had a hasty wedding ceremony. They would need another when they landed, of something that might come to half the consequence as they required with their position. But it meant that nobody would question Sarai’s virtue. It meant that he had legal reason to bring Sarai home. It meant that he and Sarai were irrevocably linked together now.
It was only once Zaimid was embracing his wife, her head on his shoulder, his head on hers, that he realized that perhaps Kalasin and Kaddar would not be pleased with him. Oh, they would both be rightfully furious at the political mess he had just caused with the Isles (at least as long as they were the Copper Isles, which…Zaimid wouldn’t wager that would hold for long. Sarai even had a sister to stand in her place, even if he did feel slightly ashamed to leave a, what, twelve year old girl, even one as wise as Dove to stand as a figurehead ruler. It was no way to treat a child). Kaddar would be irate at Zaimid doing anything without his express approval, and he would likely be spending many evenings groveling in Kaddar’s bedchamber as a result. Kalasin—well, Kalasin would be unhappy that he would choose a wife without allowing her any input, considering she would have to spend at least significant social time with whoever he had chosen. Kalasin would also be icily rankled on Sarai’s behalf. He could almost hear her cold, sarcastic tones, that she was glad he was so considerate to not tell his wife about his lovers before he married her—only after he had spirited her away from her home and left her entirely dependent on him. How chivalrous.
Sarai was crying softly now, and Zaimid stroked her shoulder. She turned into his chest, tears turning to sobs as the last of her homeland vanished into the horizon with the setting sun. There was nothing to do now but cleave to his wife. It was his duty. Not that he thought it would be an unpleasant one—he could still scarcely believe his luck at being able to marry her. At her choosing him. So he held his wife as she cried, soothing her.
When she finished, he said softly, “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
She looked up at him, fairly incredulous. “I don’t think there’s any other way we could have married.”
“Your marriage should be a grand affair—one of state, with your whole family and mine gathered, with jewels and a banquet, and innumerable gifts, and the whole world to know of the alliance between your homeland and mine.” Because though Sarai was not titled a princess, she was of royal blood. Of twice-royal blood, even. “You deserve that.”
She smiled weakly, eyes red-rimmed, hair askew from the sea breeze, and she was still the most lovely woman he had ever seen. “I think you’re a better husband than I deserve.” The guilt of leaving was written across her face. She knew she had saved herself, potentially at the cost of the rest of her family. It depended on how treasonous Prince Rubinyan and Princess Imajane found her actions. But staying would have only launched all of them into the belly of the Rittevon beast, with no better chance of survival.
“Sarai, you deserve the world.” And he meant it. He truly, sincerely meant it with all his heart. He had never believed anything more.
Sarai’s answer was to reach up for a kiss. He met her lips—his wife’s lips!—halfway. He had read love poetry about kisses tasting sweeter than honey and now he found that not a single one had accurately portrayed kisses with a woman like Sarai. Every single one of them left things insultingly understated. “Come to bed?” He offered, the way he had offered to run away together.
Her smile had gained confidence this time, verging on pride, and she all but towed him to their cabin. He happily followed, because he would follow her anywhere.