THE WEAVERS OF ALAMAXA

A chill ran through Nehal. “And who might you be?”

“Would you care to venture a guess?”

Nehal had no patience for this. “Enough with the theatrics already. Who are you? Why am I here?”

The woman’s large dark eyes were like endless voids. “I am Queen Rasida of the Zirani Kingdom.”

Nehal’s heartbeat quickened, but she only laughed as loud as she could, though even to her ears it sounded forced. “I’m important enough to warrant the queen herself coming out to Alamaxa, am I?”

“Oh, but you are not in Alamaxa anymore, Lady Nehal.” The queen of Zirana swept a hand at their surroundings, a delicate and elegant gesture. “You are in the city of Tiashar. Welcome to Zirana.”

ALSO BY HADEER ELSBAI

The Daughters of Izdihar

ORBIT

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by Orbit

Copyright © 2024 by Hadeer Elsbei

Maps designed by Jeffrey L. Ward

Excerpt from Fathomfolk by Eliza Chan

Copyright © 2024 by Eliza Chan

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-356-52049-0

Orbit

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

For Shereen,
and everyone who loved her

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE DAUGHTERS OF IZDIHAR

NEHAL DARWEESH—waterweaver and former Academy student

GIORGINA SHUKRY—earthweaver and writer for the Daughters of Izdihar

MALAK MAMDOUH—windweaver and leader of the Daughters of Izdihar

LABIBA WAGDY—fireweaver and friend to Giorgina

ETEDAL WAGDY—Labiba’s cousin and friend to Giorgina

BAHIRA NAGUIB—secretary for the Daughters of Izdihar and accountant at Zubaida’s

PARLIAMENT AND THE ROYAL FAMILY OF RAMSAWA

HESHAM GALAL—Alamaxa representative and minister of defense

MOKHTAR MAHFOUZ—prime minister

HAMED DARWEESH—Parliament’s Darweesh representative and Nehal’s cousin

PRINCE HANI—son of Yusef and Zeinab, heir to the Ramsawi throne

KING YUSEF—king of Ramsawa

QUEEN ZEINAB—queen of Ramsawa

RAMSAWI WEAVERS AT THE ALAMAXA ACADEMY OF THE WEAVING ARTS

NAGI—waterweaving instructor at the Academy

FIKRY—a windweaving student

TALAAT—a waterweaving student

SARIYYA MAGDY—earthweaving instructor at the Academy

YURI SAROUKAN—windweaver and headmaster of the Academy

LEGENDARY WEAVERS

EDUA BADAWI—weaver of all elements, who destroyed Talyana

OTHER RAMSAWIS

NICCOLO “NICO” BALDINOTTI—Nehal’s husband and Giorgina’s lover

YUSRY SARHAN—Nehal’s friend

ATTIA MARWAN—corrupt, abusive police officer

MOHSIN HAFIZ—journalist at the Alamaxa Daily

ZIRANI

KING HALI—king of Zirana

QUEEN RASIDA—queen of Zirana

ATHAR—Rasida’s guard

KAOUTHAR—leader of the Zirani rebels

BAYOUMI—a member of the Zirani rebels

RAMIZ—a member of the Zirani rebels

IRATEN NABIL—advisor to Hali and Rasida

NAIIMA MOURAD—a scientist working for Rasida

RIYAD ZIYAD—a scientist working for Rasida

CONTENTS

1 Giorgina

2 Nehal

3 Giorgina

4 Nehal

5 Giorgina

6 Nehal

7 Giorgina

8 Nehal

9 Giorgina

10 Nehal

11 Giorgina

12 Nehal

13 Giorgina

14 Nehal

15 Giorgina

16 Nehal

17 Giorgina

18 Nehal

19 Giorgina

20 Nehal

21 Giorgina

22 Nehal

23 Giorgina

24 Nehal

25 Giorgina

26 Giorgina

27 Nehal

28 Nehal

29 Giorgina

30 Nehal

31 Giorgina

32 Nehal

33 Giorgina

34 Giorgina

35 Nehal

36 Giorgina

37 Nehal

38 Nehal

39 Giorgina

40 Giorgina

41 Nehal

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

GIORGINA

GIORGINA HAD ALWAYS ENJOYED THE ANONYMITY OF THE veils the Daughters of Izdihar wore, but never more so than she did now, when she was technically a fugitive.

She adjusted the black wrap to seamlessly hide her red hair, then carefully settled the thick wooden piece against her nose to ensure the veil wouldn’t flutter away in a breeze. Wearing the face veil was an old-fashioned custom, but it was not exclusive to the Daughters, so it would allow Giorgina—and Malak, who was donning her own face veil—to walk through the streets of Alamaxa unrecognized and relatively unaccosted.

Giorgina could hardly believe it had only been two days since their escape from jail, two days during which a sizable Zirani army had made itself comfortable at the city’s western border. The army had formed a large camp just outside the Alamaxa Citadel walls, with seemingly no intention of attacking.

The Alamaxa Daily was delivered to Zubaida’s brothel, where they were hiding out, but even Alamaxa’s most respectable newspaper struggled to understand what the army’s intentions were, besides intimidating Parliament. Zirana had not yet made any specific demands, and Parliament seemed willing to wait for them, as though attempting to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

“Cowards as always,” Etedal scoffed.

Giorgina had said nothing to this. Etedal had steadily grown more irritable and volatile in the past two days. They were all anxious, but Etedal had taken to constantly fidgeting and scoffing loudly in a way that seemed to demand an answer that no one had. Thus far, Giorgina and the others had done their best to ignore this.

Giorgina also suspected the stagnancy of the past two days had given Etedal little to do but think of Labiba. With that, Giorgina could easily sympathize. When she struggled to sleep at night, she alternated between luridly colorful visions of Labiba’s bloodied galabiya and Naji Ouazzani’s crushed body.

Yet Giorgina did not think she agreed entirely with Etedal’s assessment of Parliament’s character at this moment. She had little faith in the senators generally, but at this point it seemed waiting was far more prudent than blindly reacting, since they knew nothing for certain.

More frustrating for Giorgina personally was not knowing precisely how intent the police were on finding her and Malak. Mention of their escape had not seeped into the Alamaxa Daily as Giorgina had expected it to. Whether this was because the police did not want to reveal their incompetence or because other matters had taken precedence, Giorgina was not certain. Still, she doubted the police had simply forgotten. Attia Marwan, who had gleefully arrested them himself, was sure to remember them and note their absence. More likely their escape had been reported to Parliament. But there was nothing she could do about that now.

Bahira, who had settled back into the brothel with unease and worried she might draw the police after her escape from prison, now scowled at Malak and Giorgina as they adjusted their veils.

“You shouldn’t be going out at all,” Bahira insisted. “It’s too dangerous.”

Malak settled her veil down over her face so that only her eyes were showing. “No one will recognize us.”

“But there’s no point to this,” Bahira argued. “You just want to see her.”

Malak raised a single eyebrow, and Bahira looked away, a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Nehal and Nico have resources,” said Malak. “We can’t stay here forever, after all.”

“It’s been two days,” countered Bahira. “There’s an army at our gates. Half the city’s evacuating.”

“Those with money and second homes, anyway,” Etedal said. She was lying on Bahira’s mattress, moodily picking at a loose thread.

Etedal’s words brought to mind Giorgina’s own family. Were her father and sisters still going to work? Or were they hiding in their small home, frightened of what the army might do? Could they even afford to be afraid? To evacuate? They had an aunt who lived a few miles south of Alamaxa in a small farming town, but with what resources would they undertake that journey? The train didn’t go there, even if they could afford train tickets. The journey on foot would be perilous and would take weeks. No, they would not flee unless they were forced to. She was not certain if she wanted them to stay or go. She wanted them safe, but she also wanted them close, even if they were estranged from her.

Once they were both ready, Giorgina followed Malak downstairs to the first floor of Zubaida’s. It was too early for the brothel to be bustling with activity as it usually was in the evening, but Zubaida’s never closed, so there were still patrons being entertained in the darker corners of the parlor.

Only the barkeep glanced at Malak and Giorgina as they crossed the parlor and exited into the streets of Bulaq, one of the biggest slums in Alamaxa. It was not necessarily where Giorgina might have chosen to shelter, but given her dire circumstances, she was grateful for Bahira’s employment as Zubaida’s accountant and for the brothel madam’s willingness to shelter the four of them.

Giorgina and Malak walked down winding alleys splattered with mud and donkey droppings. A skinny stray cat tangled in Giorgina’s ankles and would have tripped her if Malak had not caught her arm. They walked hand in hand until they emerged from the depths of the slums and onto a wide main street where they could hail a mule cart to carry them the rest of the way.

Giorgina stood close to Malak, who held out her hand for a passing mule cart, which stopped to allow them on board and rushed off before Malak and Giorgina were fully seated. Giorgina’s fingers scraped against the wood of the cart, sending vibrations through her body. She gritted her teeth, forcing the discomfort down.

The cart took them as far as Ramses Street; they had to walk the rest of the way to Nico and Nehal’s house. By the time they arrived, Giorgina was sweating beneath her black garments and veil, but she would not dare to remove a single layer until she was safely indoors.

But that respite wasn’t imminent. There was a commotion at the door of Nico’s house; the familiar palanquin was at the ready. Malak gripped Giorgina’s hand to stop her walking and tugged her back. The two men standing at the door were uniformed police officers; one was tapping his foot impatiently, arms crossed, while the other had his hands on his hips.

A moment later, another figure joined them, one Giorgina recognized with a slight lurch: Nico. She felt, upon seeing him, a wave of relief, but she tensed at how disheveled he looked. It was as though he had just been pulled out of his study; he held a travel suitcase that looked full to bursting. He spoke to the police with big gestures that conveyed irritation, but they only stared solemnly back, shaking their heads. Finally, with resignation, Nico motioned for them to go inside the house, but he did not follow them in; instead, he made for the palanquin. The police disappeared inside.

Giorgina’s heart pounded, but she tugged Malak forward. “Come on.”

“The police—”

“We’ll make it.” Giorgina was not certain where her confidence came from, but she was very aware that they needed to speak to Nico, and that need eclipsed her fear.

She and Malak rushed to the palanquin, where a young man Giorgina recognized was preparing the camel.

Giorgina lifted her face veil. “Medhat,” she said quietly.

He turned to her with a slight startle, then gave her a bemused smile. “Hello—you’re Lady Nehal’s friend, right?”

Giorgina returned his smile. “That’s right. Giorgina. I was hoping my friend and I could speak with Lord Nico?”

“Oh, sure, just give me a minute to ask.” He knocked on the palanquin door and stuck his head inside; barely a moment later, he was helping them in.

Nico pulled Giorgina in with some relief. He did not let go of her hand, even when Malak joined them and removed her own face veil. Giorgina settled beside Nico, their hands still intertwined. After the past few days, it was a comfort to be near him again. She wondered when they would again have a peaceful moment together.

Nico knocked on the roof of the palanquin, and they began to move. He turned to Giorgina.

“You’re all right,” said Nico, sighing with relief. “Thank the Tetrad. I went to try to post your bail but they said you weren’t in your cell and I didn’t know what—”

“I escaped,” interrupted Giorgina.

“She helped all of us escape.” Malak was watching them with something like fondness. “She’s gotten far better at controlling her earthweaving.”

Giorgina swelled with pride, but it mingled with guilt at the memory of the death of Naji Ouazzani and the knowledge that she had inadvertently caused the current siege of the city. She glanced down at the hand in her lap, loathing the mixture of triumph and shame she felt. Nico squeezed her other hand without a word.

“Now, where is Nehal?” asked Malak.

Nico grimaced. “Oh no. I was hoping you knew.”

Malak went very still for a long moment, until she blinked. “What does that mean?”

Nico ran a hand through his hair, which he did often when he was frustrated; the blond curls became even more disheveled. “She vanished the night of your arrest. She’d been speaking with one of our guests on the roof, and then the bells rang, and I went to find her, but she was nowhere to be found. Then I heard you’d escaped, and I thought maybe she’d had something to do with that.”

“We haven’t seen Nehal at all,” said Giorgina slowly. “I don’t understand. Where is she?”

“I have no idea! The police seem to think she’s become a fugitive, and since she’s out on bail, they’ve seized the house.” Nico grimaced. “My father summoned me home, ranting about Nehal as always.”

“Nehal wouldn’t run away,” said Malak. “That’s not in her nature.”

“Wouldn’t she?” argued Nico. “If we’re talking about her nature, I’m sure the last thing she wants is to risk being trapped in prison for any length of time, so is it so unlikely she tried to find freedom?”

“Were her belongings missing?” Malak asked.

Nico hesitated for a moment, as though giving this question the utmost consideration. “Well, no, her things are still in her room.”

Malak waved a hand, as though this explained it all.

And to Giorgina, it did. While it was not an entirely outlandish thought that Nehal might flee, the logistics of it made little sense. Why would she run so suddenly, without any belongings, and without letting Nico or Malak know? Why would she not avail herself of her parents’ resources? Surely if she intended to skip bail she would have asked for their help to return to her hometown of Ramina and vanish there.

So no, Georgina didn’t think Nehal had run away. But that meant she hadn’t left of her own accord.

“She wouldn’t just leave,” said Malak, coming to the same conclusion as Giorgina had. “She’s in trouble. She must be.”

Frowning, Nico looked out the tiny window of the palanquin, though he must not have been able to see much of the outside through the intricate lattice design. “If she is, I have no idea where to even begin looking for her.” He looked at Malak. “Do you?”

Malak’s lips pursed infinitesimally. “I don’t.”

“And what about the massive army camped at our gates—you know people are starting to evacuate?” He shook his head. “It’s all madness. I’m tempted to evacuate myself, and . . . Giorgina, you should come with me,” he blurted. “We can leave together, leave all this behind.” He looked at her imploringly.

Giorgina was startled by her unwillingness to flee Alamaxa. This was her home, after all, and her family was still here. She told Nico as much.

“Bring your family!” Nico waved a hand in the air, as though bringing her entire family along with them or convincing them to come was no matter at all. “I’ll work it out, somehow.”

But it was not just her family. Giorgina had started something, however inadvertently, and was it not her responsibility to finish it? She couldn’t simply leave the chaos behind and hope someone else would take care of it. That had never been in her nature, not since the day she’d decided to join the Daughters of Izdihar.

Before she could tell Nico this, Malak said quietly, “The police will likely be overseeing any evacuations out of the city.” She exchanged a quick look with Giorgina. “Giorgina’s name and image could be on some sort of fugitive list, even if they haven’t advertised it. She could be arrested trying to escape. It’s safer to stay put for now.”

Nico looked stunned, but recovered quickly. “Fine. Then I’m not leaving. Where are you both staying? Are you safe? I could—”

“We’re all right, Nico,” Giorgina interrupted gently. “We’re staying with Bahira, at a place called Zubaida’s, in Bulaq.”

“Oh, in . . . Bulaq? I—all right.” He looked somewhat flustered, as though he had far more to say about their residing in Bulaq, but instead he just reached into his pocket. “Then take this. Both of you.” He pulled out a wad of money and split it in two.

Somewhat to Giorgina’s surprise, Malak accepted the money with absolutely no hesitation. When Giorgina wavered, Malak gave her a wryly amused look. “We’re in rather dire straits, and pride does very little for the desperate.”

At that, Giorgina took Nico’s offering with a nod of thanks, though she could not quite meet his eyes.

“I just want to do something to help,” Nico said. “Anything you need, whatever I can do.”

“I’ll certainly let you know,” said Malak. “At this point, though, I’m not entirely sure what there is to be done.” She sat back, brow vaguely furrowed, gaze directed at nowhere in particular. “I’m convinced Nehal’s in trouble, but I have no idea what kind.” She refocused her gaze on Nico. “What do her parents think?”

Nico shrugged again. “They’ve been asking around, and they spoke to the police commander, but no one seems to know a thing.”

Malak shook her head. “Where could she possibly be?”

2

NEHAL

NEHAL FELT HERSELF GOING IN AND OUT OF CONSCIOUSNESS. She opened her eyes, stirred, and felt the fog in her mind begin to clear, but almost immediately she went under again, her limbs too heavy to move, as if a wave had overtaken her.

She had no sense of time or place. When she opened her eyes, the world was as dark as it was when she had them closed, so she kept them shut. She was tired, so tired, and the strength it would take to sit up felt monumental.

Then, minutes or hours later, she felt herself coming awake and staying awake. It took effort to peel her lips apart; her mouth was so dry her teeth stuck together. With great effort, she lifted her arms and pushed herself up, inhaling sharply. Nausea and dizziness overtook her immediately, and she shut her eyes until she felt steady enough to open them again. It was some time before the room stopped spinning.

Even thinking felt like too much effort. She struggled to pull her thoughts together, to make sense of where she was and what had happened, but she could not seem to focus long enough to do so. She settled for examining her surroundings.

She was . . . somewhere very dimly lit. A single lamp hung in the corner of what appeared to be a very small limestone room; scratchy yellow stone formed a sort of cave entrapping Nehal, with metal bars forming the fourth wall. It was so silent Nehal could hear her own rapidly fluttering heartbeat.

At the foot of the bars was a tray holding a jug of water and a bowl of medjool dates. She was so weak she could barely even feel the water. Weakly, she crawled over to the jug and, with shaking hands, lifted it to her mouth. A great deal of the stale liquid dribbled out and over her blouse, but Nehal’s parched mouth sang in relief. She set the now half-full jug down and reached for the dates, devouring all of them before she could even consider whether it was wise, whether they might be poisoned, or whether her stomach could tolerate such sweet food at the moment.

When she was finished eating, her head began to clear. She still felt weak, off-kilter, but not so much like she was going to die, which, she supposed, was a marginal improvement. Her thoughts began to coalesce, and she tried to marshal them to order, to recall what had happened to her.

The last thing she remembered was standing alone on her rooftop, and then . . .

Attia Marwan.

Somehow, he had been there, in her home, and he had injected her with something. She touched her neck where the needle had gone in and winced, surprised to find the injection site still sore. She had lost consciousness after that, and now she was here, wherever here was. Was this his revenge, then? Nehal felt a prickle of fear but buried that with rage. That son of a dog had kidnapped her!

How dare he kidnap her? Who did he think he was? Who did he think she was?

Her fury brought on a rapid heartbeat. She took deep, slow breaths to try to calm herself. She was not especially successful.

Very slowly, she dragged herself to her feet, leaning on the bars for support. She pressed her forehead against the metal in an effort to see, but the lamp provided very little light. She could barely see her own hand if she stretched it out.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed eerily in the cavern. No response came, though Nehal had not truly expected it to. Halfheartedly, she kicked at the bars; they gave a bone-shuddering clang that made Nehal wince, but still no one came.

With a frustrated sigh, she sat back down, leaning her head against the cold, hard wall.

Where could Attia be keeping her? He could not possibly have snuck her into the police station jail cells, could he? But these walls did not look like the prison cells. Could Attia have taken her to a prison outside the city? It seemed impossible, but with the latitude he and his fellow officers were given, perhaps he could have. Nehal grimaced. Perhaps no one would have even blinked at seeing Attia carrying an unconscious woman. The thought turned her stomach, and again she marveled that Uncle Shaaban, the man who had bought her presents and lifted her onto his shoulders, was one of them. She hated that it had taken her so long to see through him.

Exhaustion overtook her once more. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Minutes or hours later—time meant little to Nehal down here—she heard the scrape and creak of a door being pushed open. Nehal opened her eyes with a start, at first unsure if she had dreamed the noise. But then she saw the glow of a lamp in the distance, just beyond the bars. The lamp was held high by a tall figure preceded by a much smaller one, gently illuminated in the light. The woman stopped in front of Nehal’s cell and simply looked at her. Nehal could only stare back.

She looked so . . . elaborate, like Nehal did when she was going to fancy dinner parties or to the opera, only more so. Her milk-pale face was framed by a thick black fringe of hair, much like the old-fashioned Ramsawi style, only this woman’s hair was pin-straight, and her fringe was flat and shiny. The rest of her hair was a mixture of braids and twists woven through with golden beads and pulled up to sit behind a pure gold headdress dangling with rubies.

But it was her clothing that made Nehal sit up straight. She wore a traditional Zirani caftan with billowing sleeves and a wide jeweled belt, and, even across the darkened room, Nehal could see the fine quality of the fabric.

For a moment, the two women only stared at one another, until Nehal cocked her head. “Are you the welcoming committee?”

The other woman smiled slightly, but the gesture did nothing to soften her sharp, hooded eyes. She gestured to the person holding the lamp, which was rather larger than the one in Nehal’s cell. They set it down on the ground beside the woman and disappeared into the shadows before Nehal could look at them closely.

“Are you going to say something or just stare at me?” Nehal demanded.

The woman took a step forward, the patronizing smile never leaving her face. “You do not much resemble your portrait.”

If the woman’s clothing had not been revealing enough of her origins, her Zirani dialect would have betrayed her.

Nehal crossed her legs and rested her elbows on her knees. “And why, precisely, have you been staring at my portrait?”

The woman’s fingers, clasped together at her waist, were heavily bejeweled. “Naji Ouazzani showed it to me, when he reported to me the existence of a highborn bloodweaver.”

A chill ran through Nehal. “And who might you be?”

“Would you care to venture a guess?”

Nehal had no patience for this. “Enough with the theatrics already. Who are you? Why am I here?”

The woman’s large dark eyes were like endless voids. “I am Queen Rasida of the Zirani Kingdom.”

Nehal’s heartbeat quickened, but she only laughed as loud as she could, though even to her ears it sounded forced. “I’m important enough to warrant the queen herself coming out to Alamaxa, am I?”

“Oh, but you are not in Alamaxa anymore, Lady Nehal.” The queen of Zirana swept a hand at their surroundings, a delicate and elegant gesture. “You are in the city of Tiashar. Welcome to Zirana.”

Nehal stared at her. How long had she been unconscious? From Alamaxa’s western border, Tiashar was at least a ten-day trek across the Sahi Desert. Going by boat was far quicker, but it was still a three-day journey. How could she not remember three full days? Fear began to skitter its way down her back, but she ignored it. “Attia kept me drugged, then.”

“Yes.”

“He’s working for you.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Nehal dug her nails into her palms. There was a riot of rage within her, and she could no longer deny her fear. She was in Zirana. As impossible as that seemed, there was too much evidence to doubt it. Which meant she was alone in a country that had made its hatred of weavers like herself very clear. She glanced at the water jug, which was still half full. It was not nearly enough to attack with, but it was better than nothing.

“All right.” Very slowly and with a grunt, Nehal got to her feet, but Rasida was much taller than she, and Nehal had to lift her chin to meet the other woman’s gaze. “You clearly sought me out specifically. Why?”

“You are very direct, Lady Nehal,” said Rasida. “I appreciate directness. I appreciate honesty. So I will be direct and honest with you in turn: you are here to prove a point. To change the fates of millions of people.”

“For someone who claims to be direct, you’re being rather vague,” said Nehal wryly. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

Queen Rasida tilted her head, considering Nehal. “You know of Zirana’s crusade against weaving, yes?”

“Oh, it’s a crusade against weaving, is it?” said Nehal. “That’s what you’re calling it now, to make it sound honorable and righteous?”

Rasida ignored her sarcasm. “It is honorable and righteous. In fact, we have struggled to find an equitable solution. My king and I have no desire to harm weavers; after all, none of you asked for your affliction. But recently, our scientists have made a brilliant discovery.” She paused, as though hoping for Nehal to ask what this discovery was, but Nehal only stared flatly back at her, and so Rasida continued, “A medicine. A simple injection, and the solution to all of our problems.”

Rasida smiled, her expression almost gentle, almost pitying, but not quite.

“What are you saying?” Nehal asked slowly.

Softly, Rasida asked, “You’ve not realized yet?” She glanced at the water jug.

“Realized what?” But even as Nehal asked, she was beginning to understand, and as her hand went up to her sore neck, the realization came crashing down upon her like a physical weight.

They would not have left her here with water if they thought she could weave.

Nehal’s stomach twisted. Heedless of Rasida, she dove for the water jug, knocking it over in her haste. The water spilled across the tray, onto the rough dirt floor. Nehal flattened her palms against it, feeling the physicality of the water, the damp.

Rasida was wrong. Nehal could feel the water, her natural awareness of her element seeking it out. The connection was weak, yes, but only because Nehal was exhausted.

Then she tried to weave.

Her muscles seized. She was overtaken by a wave of pain that seemed to come from deep within her body, as though it was rebelling against itself. She gasped and doubled over, her gorge rising. She felt water in her throat, water in her nose, but there was no water, only pain, pain so deep the room was swaying.

It took a long time for the pain to abate.

“No . . .” Her voice came out raw. On her knees, Nehal scraped her nails against the dirt. No. It was not possible. This was not possible. Weaving came from the Tetrad, surely nothing man-made could block it. She was only tired. She just needed food, rest—

But even when she had been sick, even when she had felt her worst, Nehal had always been able to weave.

Nehal shook her head, gritted her teeth. She lifted a hand, slamming it down on the tray, splashing water. She tried again to weave, as though the pain from a few moments ago had been nothing more than a fever dream, a nightmare from which Nehal could wake if she only tried hard enough.

But the pain was just as real the second time. Nehal seized with it, curled up so stiffly she could hardly breathe. She took short, slow gasps until her heartbeat slowed enough for her to take a deep breath. She looked up at Rasida, who was staring down at her sadly.

“No.” Nehal struggled to her feet, dragging herself over to the bars, flinging an arm out towards Rasida. Her guard, who had thus far remained hidden, stepped forward, wrenching out a sharp, curved sword and pointing it at Nehal’s head.

Rasida had not flinched. She placed a hand upon her guard’s wrist and they slowly lowered their weapon, but their gaze did not leave Nehal, and it was only then that she realized the guard was a woman. Nehal blinked, confused, but she had no time to process this revelation. She looked at Rasida.

“What have you done to me?” Nehal’s voice shook with fury. “Where’s my weaving? What have you done?”

“We have given you a gift, Lady Nehal,” said Rasida calmly. “Do you not see the brilliance? Weaving is an affliction, but how can one fight an affliction that brings no suffering? The gods made your path a difficult one, but we have brought you salvation. Whenever you attempt to weave, you will feel the pain of your affliction, and so, over time, the desire to weave will erode. We have saved you, just as we will save weavers across this continent, and eventually, all the known world.”

“You . . . are fucking insane,” snarled Nehal. “Give me back my weaving. Give it back, give it back to me!” Nehal could hear herself descending into hysteria, but she did not care. She couldn’t care, not when she couldn’t weave.

Rasida only frowned. “You’re rather vulgar for a highborn lady, aren’t you?” She swept the train of her caftan forward as she turned her back on Nehal. “I’ll give you some time to calm yourself. We will discuss this further at a later time.”

“Don’t you dare leave!” Nehal shouted after the queen. “We’re not done, get back here! We’re not done! Rasida! Give me my weaving back!”

But Rasida did not even pause. As though they had not heard Nehal, Rasida and her guard left and shut the door behind them.

Nehal’s eyes stung with furious tears. She stumbled back, falling to the ground beside the overturned water jug. Drops of water fell slowly from its sharp mouth. Nehal stared at them with longing. She reached out, but her fingers trembled, and she felt, with overwhelming acuity, something she had never before experienced.

Nehal was too afraid to weave.