The streets are still lined with flowers. Yesterday they were a vivid carpet beneath my slippered feet, but today their petals are crumpled like old tissue and turning a dull brown. I pick one up, the remnants of its sap stains my fingertips a brilliant fuchsia before I drop it in disgust. Such stupid fucking flowers. Such a stupid fucking city, at once obscenely bright and graying, like the blooms blanketing the streets.

"You look like you've tasted bitter fruit. Think of something beautiful and smile."

"If I meditate on severing your head from your body, I might even be able to manage a laugh." I pause. "Do we really have to do this?"

"Yes," he says simply. "Come now, it's not so bad. We're just walking, O'otani."

"We're parading," I sneer. "It's different."

"It's necessary," he clarifies, "that Arzsa sees us as a united front. This city is teetering on the edge of collapse, perhaps not so close to the edge as before, but still far too close for comfort. There is unrest, poverty, the vasayaste are at odds, and a member of the Shao Asha is still hovering around us like an angry ghost. Now smile and try to look gracious, darling."

"Your wish is my command, karu deme," I mutter. "But the next time this many Shikkans gather to see us it better be your funeral."

"The next time Arzsa takes to the streets to celebrate us will be the birth of our first child."

"Do you really think I'd let a child of yours live past conception?"

He ignores me, waving to the crowds lining the streets. His smile is wide enough to swallow even my distain of it, and it only grows wider as we walk up the mosaic path leading to the Goddess-House. The glassy Eyes of Zsavina embedded in the walk are only partly visible through the layers of browning petals, reminding me unsettlingly of a dead woman's face peeking out through funerary flowers. With each step I drive my heel into her sparkling onyx pupils, aware I'm being petulant and childish and not caring in the least. I hope she's pulling shreds of flower petals from her dark lashes for weeks, remembering how I crushed them beneath my feet and stained her pale irises a brilliant blue.

We're ostensibly here to satisfy tradition; the morning after their wedding, royal couples return to kneel at the feet of the goddess in an elaborate, and quite frankly performative, supplication. We carry with us offerings: sacred reeds from the river, Eye pendants, the shoes we wore on our wedding day, food left over from the night's feasting, wine blessed by a priestess. All for the sake of rededicating ourselves to the goddess, declaring that the path we choose to walk in our new life together is the righteous path leading to the gates of the Citadel eternal.

I step forward, expecting to cross the threshold and enter the warm darkness of the Goddess-House, but Sholu holds my hand fast in his. His feet are planted firmly, his eyes raised almost skyward as he begins to speak. I smile a smile as brittle as cracked glass, which I'd rather consume than listen to another of his self-stroking speeches

"What vows bind us most tightly?" He asks. "Those made in love, or those made in fear? Perhaps, though, all love has to it the slightest bitter tang of fear. Just a hint of flavor on the tip of your tongue you can't quite place, but equally cannot ignore." He takes a deep breath, looking out over the sea of faces before us and smiling like he's their captain. "Yesterday, I knelt in the holy river and made the woman at my side an unbreakable vow, and I did it for love of her. For all my affections, I agreed to be bound. To lose something of me in becoming us. And now, today, I'm called to the heart of our city and asked to do what has always been done: to rededicate myself to our goddess Zsavina, she who sees all. And I find that I cannot do it."

I turn to him, genuinely surprised. What's he playing at? What's his ploy this time? He's a rousing speaker, I'll give him that. If only the rousing wasn't him getting off to the sound of his own goddess-damned voice. I smirk to myself, the moment suddenly that much more bearable.

"Because she sees all, you know" he tells them with a penitent's eyes. "If I bend my knee and swear my fealty to her, she'll know the second the words fall hotly from my lips that what I offer is not mine to give." He pauses pensively, for effect. "Someone I love very much once told me that a man may be of many minds, but he will only ever have one heart. I believe the same applies to the soul. It cannot be given in parts or subdivided, and it must above all else be given in love, because nothing so chokes the life from our souls as fear. The dimaraste wanted you to fear them, to regard them with the same awe we regard the goddess Zsavina. When they bowed to her, they really bowed to themselves, to their own assumed divinity. And then they stood up again, and trod us into the dust simply because they could, with their hands still folded neatly in pious prayer."

"So, I ask you again: what vows bind us most tightly?" He asks, staring out over the crowd, seeming somehow to meet all their eyes at once and hold their gaze in a profoundly intimate way. It's always unsettling to see the effect he has on a crowd. His charisma is almost hypnotic and he has such a talent for knowing exactly what they want to hear. If I could, I'd coat his silver tongue in molten metal and make it too heavy to lift, let alone carry on conversations. "Because tradition has a strangle hold on us, Shikkah; because fear of rebelling against what has always been perpetuates a status quo that has never, never been good enough. The vows you made to the dimaraste, you made in fear. The vows they made to you, they made in fear as well; they were endlessly terrified that you'd realize your true power and come against them, because they knew they could not win. The vows they made to Zsavina, they made in love of themselves, because they saw themselves as her chosen sons and daughters. And they were bound so tightly, Shikkah. They were so tangled up in their own divinity and ideology that they choked on it."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I don't want to choke. Nor do I intend to. I will be bound by love alone; my duty shall arise from my affection. I love the goddess," he says so earnestly even I almost believe him. "I am a man of faith; I pray, I fast, I observe the holy rites the same as you do. But we do not need another deme and dizsa sworn to serve a goddess who they have perverted into a warped reflection of their own faces. We do not need any more vows of fear, and the urge to cling to tradition comes from fear of change. But Shikkah, oh Shikkah; things absolutely have to fucking change." I watch their faces as they watch him, becoming more and more sickened by the credulity I read therein. How easily he leads them- how little substance there is to these people I am meant to love! I could sooner love the sand burning my feet.

"And so today, I will not bow low and offer myself to the goddess. As I said, I am a man of faith, but the faith I evince at this moment must be in you. It is mere recompense for the faith and trust you have placed in me, in the lowborn son who now towers above the ashes of dead giants. You are the beloved of Zsavina, and my own heart is heavy with love for you." He pauses, takes a breath, and then sinks slowly to his knees. In an instant I understand his ploy- it's not complicated, a child could see through it- but all the crowd sees is something new.

"You are the meat and marrow of this land, the light unceasing, the power eternal. I rise by your leave, and I'll fall by the same. I kneel before you, Shikkah, and I make of myself an offering. I am not a god. I am not a noble. But I am yours, wholly and completely yours. And that is, above all else, what binds me." Somehow his words sound at once like a prayer and a lover's confession. If anyone else notices this discord, their faces don't show it.

I read something written in their eyes and scrawled across their parted lips that cuts me deeper than his words ever could. There's a light there, a reflection of his own false sun, and I realize with certainty that they really do love him. It's not mere distress or fear or compulsion driving my people into his open arms. They want to be his flock; they want a newer, shinier shepherd. I almost laugh, thinking of how meekly he'll lead them to the slaughter. But only almost. Because, ultimately, that blood is mine as well.

They stare at him kneeling obscenely on the stone steps, symbolically fellating the dusty city that calls him their new king. And I know with one look at their faces that he's won them. His eyes look up at mine, and I'd take pleasure in him debasing himself if those gray orbs weren't asking me to kneel beside him. Expecting it, even. He makes a subtle gesture, a tilt of the head and a flick of the hand to indicate that I am supposed to join him in the dirt.

I don't know why I can't do this, of all things. Yesterday I followed him out into the muddy river and swore through gritted teeth to be his, body and soul. I followed him into our bedchamber knowing well what he could do to me the second the door closed. Yet as I try to kneel beside him, my knees lock and my back straightens, leaving me in a rigid posture my aunts would have greatly admired. Perhaps enduring such ignominy these past two days has obliterated my capacity to smile through my own degradation.

In my head I hear echoes of the words they threw at me the day I almost hung. Traitor, savior, whore, protector. We saved Shikkah during the droughts; we protected our people. They repaid us by selling themselves to a traitor with the audacity to call himself king, unaware that they're damning themselves each second they choose to believe in his false promises and fever dreams. The words speed up, repeating over and over until the syllables run together like paint into muddy water. Traitorsaviorwhoreprotector. I can't bend my knee to this feast of fools- I can't be a whore to the whores, a supplicant to the traitors. I can only protect myself, save myself, in this moment by refusing to join him in the mire. Pride is a sin and, yes, I am a sinner, but I'm also the mast of a ship jutting out of troubled waters, the rest already sunk beneath the waves, refusing to let the once-proud vessel completely disappear. I will not sink myself today, not for him, not for them, not for anyone. And so I tell them.

"I am not like my husband," my words come quickly as a sudden gust of wind blows my hair out behind me like a flag. "I will not kneel before you and call you my own heart. I won't."

Sholu looks at me and mouths a single word. It's the only one he ever needs to control me.

He says Shira.

"Because my own heart is already kneeling before you. Sholu and I have always been of one mind, and by the power of our most ancient and inviolable vow we are now one heart. And that heart beats with the hot blood of our great nation, and swells with pride and love seeing the great work we've only just begun. As he kneels before you, see his flexibility, his humility, his vision. As I stand before you, see my determination, feel my strength, and hear my promise that none of us will be kneeling in the sand for much longer. Shikkah, we rise with the blinding brilliance of the desert sunrise.

"One heart stands before you in two halves, and if you listen to them beating you'll hear two separate songs mingling together: that of tradition and reformation. I carry within me the best of the dimaraste, while the man at my side, my husband, possesses all the art of the vasayaste and all of the venom of the noraya. We are your humble servants, and your proud protectors. Your past and your future, all at once. And as we move into that future together, I say to you, be blessed. May the goddess keep you forever in her unceasing eye. May you be unbound from any chains that still shackle you; may you bind yourselves to us out of love and choice, not blind faith or adherence to the way things have always been. Because," I say, swallowing, hating myself the entire time "the way things have always been has never been good enough."

He looks up at me and smiles. There's genuine admiration shining in his gray eyes, which makes me all the sicker. But Shira- I made promises, and I'll keep them, whatever it takes. I can't afford to do that again. I walked to close to the edge I almost couldn't recover; a few more steps and I'd have fallen irrevocably, our charade would collapse in on itself like a dying star, and the one life I know still worth saving would be forfeit.

As Sholu stands up, beaming at me, I smile weakly at the crowd. And I consider whether it's love or fear that has me dangling from this leash.

"You spoke beautifully. I almost believed you, and that's saying something, given that just this morning you launched ourself across a table at me and punched my eye a vivid purple. Hopefully they'll just think it the result of exceptionally vigorous lovemaking."

"We cannot make love, whoreson, only war. Haven't you seen that by now?"

He smiles, eyes shining with undisguised mirth. "Oh, my dear, didn't you hear yourself? Because I just heard the last daughter of the Amarin dimaraste, the steadfast and loyal Izsaiki of Arzsa, wax poetic about our shared heart. Don't think I missed those subtle jabs about the art of the vasayaste and the venom of the noraya, though."

"It was an act."

"It was a good one."

"I've learned from the best acting instructor in the west," I mutter. "Smile at a woman one day, shoot her between the eyes the next. Kill a woman's entire reason for existence, say you saved her. Say you love her. Oh, that talk of love and fear," I chuckle, with completely sober eyes and a shake of my head. "You do not know fear, Sholu, because you don't love anything enough to fear losing it. You don't know love for the same reason. You are empty words. You are the pause at the end of a sentence, and pretty soon another hand is going to take up the pen, scratch out the drivel you've scrawled in the incidental margins of history, and return Shikkah's rightful prince to his throne."

I expect invectives to match my own, but his face grows strangely soft. He looks at me a long moment before saying, quieter than I would have expected, "my words are never empty. I keep my promises, O'otani."

"Oh, what honor! What grand heroism! Should I get you a medal, maybe write a song eulogizing you?"

"Elegizing, dear," he corrects.

I sniff. "I know what I said."

He pauses, and that damned gentleness creeps back into his eyes. And I hate it more than anything. I hate it worse than his sneers, his threats, even his moments of aggressive passion. I hate it more than his silence, his circumlocutions, his pedantic lecturing, and the poetry he occasionally quotes. Then he opens his mouth again, and says something I hate even more.

"You're wrong if you think there's nothing I fear losing."

"Power. Control. Admiring glances."

"Do you know how much it took to save your damn life? Do you think it was a mere matter of giving an order, a wave of my hand, and bam! You're pardoned. Everything is good again. You're free to move into the palace, they'll all call you queen, huzzah!"

"Don't mock me. Or if you intend to mock me, do a better job of it."

"Listen to me," he says with a sudden burst of intensity. "It took hours locked in a room with some of the most insufferable lords you have ever heard of, expounding on why a marriage to the forever-loyal Izsaiki who killed two of our own men and threw soup and sundry other sharp and or hot objects at ten more would benefit this state. It took finding a way to say no to Penomah Rylas or Zovi Ahamel or any number of profoundly eligible, trustworthy vasayastisi. There were prejudices to be overcome. Promises to keep. Lies to tell. I wove you a door out of a present you could not have survived without me. I did it with my words, and I made it clear that I would do it with a blade if it came to that. And Manit Revanas- you never paid attention to the vasayaste, did you? You have no idea who he is."

"He was the captain of my guard. A perpetually bored man who's very good with a sword."

"He is one of the best soldiers I have ever known, and he still hasn't forgiven me for in his mind demoting him and making him, what was it he said? Oh, yes. Babysit the angry princess. He is the equivalent to using a stick of dynamite when a match would do, so yes, there is something I fear to lose very much. You, you stubborn, self-righteous, fickle, blind, selfish, beautiful little madwoman. Now stop throwing a tantrum and smile. Take my arm. Laugh, like I've just said something so incredibly amusing. Yes, there you go," he says. "They're looking."

"They're always looking."

"Yes," he says. "And so you have to be a better actress if you want to keep your boy alive. Make them believe it, kyonaiki. Kiss me."

"Fuck you."

"Not in public. At least not the first time," he smiles roguishly and I close my eyes and take a calming breath to avoid blackening his other eye.

"There will never be a first time, you dumb fuck," I snap. "You want acting? You want believable? You want to threaten him every three sentences to assure a rousing performance on my part? Fine, then. Fine. I'll do it all in stride because, you see, I actually love him that much. I fear losing him more than I hate even you. And I am a better actress than you know. I've spent this much time watching you, haven't I?"

So I kiss him, for the first time of my own volition. And it's not a chaste peck on the lips. My hands tangle in his hair and I kiss him in a way that masks my rage for passion, my violence for lust. I'm lucky, I suppose, that they overlap so easily.

He's shocked. That was half of why I did it, really. To throw him off-kilter, break that blasé confidence he wears like jewelry. To rattle him as much as he rattled me this morning. He wants to trifle with me? Well, then, I'll trifle with him. I'll set his head spinning around so fast it'll break his stupid neck. In a sudden flash of insight, I realize what a blessing this morning has been. He doesn't love me. What he calls love doesn't deserve that name. But he does think he loves me, and consequently, he wants me to care for him back. He doesn't see the impossibility of this the way I do, and perhaps I won't either, going forward. Because what I want, what I really want, is to cut him open like he cut me. To gut him and leave his entrails rotting beneath the relentless desert sun. Let the other vermin and vultures have him.

And so, I decide, I will play the hand I've been dealt. And I'll do a damn better job of it than I have up until this point. No more pure, blind rage without direction. He's given me a clear target, and I'll aim for it. After all, I was always a good shot.