The Death of King Tsongor by Laurent Gaudé

When Samilia presented herself she did not have to ask her father why he had made her come; she knew at once, on seeing his old lined forehead, that something grave had taken place. She watched him, and as he continued to observe the flight of swallows and the tall flames on the horizon, she said to him, her voice grave and quiet: "I am listening, Father."
King Tsongor turned round. He looked at his daughter. Everything that he had undertaken these past few months, he had done for the wedding of Samilia. This day had become the obsession of father and of king. That all should be ready; that the celebration should be the most splendid that the empire had ever known. This was all that he had worked for. To give his daughter to a man and to unite his empire with another for the first time, without war and conquest. He had personally thought out every detail of the celebration. He had lain awake for entire nights. Now the day had come and an unforeseen event made everything unsteady. He gazed at his daughter. What he had to say, he did not wish to say to her. What he wanted to ask, he would have liked not to have to ask her. But the flames were burning and he could not ignore their appetite.
"I have received Sango Kerim," he said.
"The women of my retinue informed me of it, Father."
Samilia looked at her father. She read on his face a degree of torment that she did not understand. Tsongor had chosen Kouame and she had accepted him. He had spoken to her with softness and sympathy of a young prince from the Salt Lands and she had joyfully offered herself for this union. She did not understand what, at this hour, could so darken her father's face. All was ready. All that remained was to celebrate the marriage and to enjoy the celebration.
"His arrival should have filled me with joy, Samilia," resumed Tsongor.
The king did not finish his phrase. A long silence followed. He was once again plunged into contemplation of the spirals that the swallows wove in the sky. Then suddenly, he recovered. His eyes fell once more on his daughter. And he asked her in a broken voice: "Is it true Samilia, that at the time when you were friends, you and Sango Kerim, you exchanged vows, you made a promise?"
Samilia made no reply. She searched in her memory for something which might resemble what her father was asking.
"Is it true," repeated Tsongor, "that you gave him your word, as he gave you his, to marry him when you were of age? Did you engrave those vows of your childhood on an amulet?"
Samilia reflected for a while.
Yes, I remember, she thought. I remember Sango Kerim and our childhood life; the secrets we exchanged, our promises. Is it of that that he wishes to speak to me? Why is he looking at me like this? I remember. Yes. I am not guilty of anything. The promises of times past, I bury them today. Sango Kerim himself will come to give me his blessing. I remember. I have not forgotten anything. I am not blushing in shame for anything. What does this all this have to do with the woman I am today? I offer myself to Kouame. Full of memories, yes. Beautiful childhood memories. And I blush over nothing.
She thought all of this, but she replied simply:
"Yes, Father, it is true."