Sultana (2 page)

Then thin, almost womanly, fingers rested on her captor’s shoulder. At this silent command, the one holding her nostrils released the brutal hold, though the other hand remained on her mouth. Wonder at whether this was the leader of the intruders died away, as the first blessed lungful of air burned at the back of her throat. Despite the burning, she sucked in the next breath with a heavy wheeze, before she stared at the trespassers. Tears spilled from her eyes but she immediately swiped them away. She was not going to let them see her cry or show them that she was afraid.

She could not make out their features in the darkness, except that both hadheavy lidded eyes lined with
kohl
, gazes that returned her watery stare. The one standing her side had a smaller frame than his companion did, but beyond the differences in their shapes and the size of their hands, she could not discern anything else. Who were these people? She felt sure they hid their characters further by not speaking. She would have known any of the eunuchs or retainers in her father’s palace by the sound of their voices alone. Had their servants risen against her father and betrayed the family?

Fists tightening at her side, she trembled with fear and a growing rage. If they had hurt her father or kept him captive like her, not knowing of the danger to his children, she would…. She sagged against the pallet. What could she do, a girl who might now not live to see her ninth birthday?

She glared defiantly at the cloaked intruders. If they had harmed her father, she prayed Allah would give her some means to avenge him.

The tall man bent toward her. His eyes were large and luminous in the dark. Soft fingertips glided across her wet cheek, startling her. She jerked her head away, pulling away from the unfamiliar touch.

“Take her.”

His nasalized voice barely rose above a whisper. The hand over her mouth withdrew for the course of one breath. In the next, a cloth, thick with the smell of horse manure and camphor, covered her lips and nose.

Fatima awoke to the glare of lamplight. She blinked against the golden glowcast by iron brackets hanging from a wall. She rested on a pallet in one corner of an otherwise empty room. At its center, the lamplight shimmered and reflected in the depths of a pool lined with marble. Fatima trembled anew at the unfamiliar surroundings. She could not be at home in her father’s palace.

As she sat up and tucked her legs into the folds of a silken coverlet, a brisk wind raced inward and rippled through her curly hair. A shudder ran through her, as the chill penetrated the thin, calf-length tunic she wore. She looked around her, wondering where the breeze had come from. There were no windows in the room. She pushed aside strands of ink-black hair from her face.

A water channel connected to the pool, carrying the liquid around a corner. From that direction, a feminine voice echoed.

“…she wanted to see her, Abdallah. How could I have refused her request?”

A man answered, “You risk too much. You should not have brought the girl here, all for the whims of an old woman.”

“A dying woman, Abdallah. My mother.”

“Still, it is a heavy burden you bear. Now, to involve the child and expect her to….”

“I ask nothing more from her than her grandfather has already demanded. He knew the risks when he married her off. If you had seen her earlier today at the wedding…. She is barely eight years old and already a bride. She cannot begin to understand the consequences of this union, what it may mean for her and for us all. This husband of hers,” the woman’s voice rose a pitch. “Prince Faraj has his father’s selfishness. He shall ensure his own protection, not Fatima’s. The Sultan and his son are responsible for her final fate. She is a mere child, not a pawn in this game of her father and grandfather.”

Fatima frowned at the woman’s words. How could a person be a pawn? Pawns belonged on the chess board with which she and her father played in the evenings. She did not recognize the voices, though each person knew of her. Had they brought her to this unknown place? Even more, she hated the way the two talked about her, her grandfather and father. Who were these people?

The man continued, “It is finished now. The girl has done her duty.”

“Duty! She had no choice. Just like me. My husband thinks I am a fool, who knows nothing of the Sultan’s plans. He thinks to keep me an unwitting fool, a prisoner caged within the walls of his palace. I have been nothing more than his broodmare, forced to endure birthing after birthing. I can hardly bear the sight of the children, knowing they are his.”

“They shall not understand your actions.”

“By the blessings of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, they are too young to know why I must leave this place, except perhaps for the boy. His eyes have seen things…he is always watching, like his grandfather. When the children are older, their father’s lies shall comfort them.”

“We must leave the city at first light when the gates are opened. My coming to Gharnatah cannot remain a secret for long. Are you certain of this course? Your husband shall believe the worst of you, that you have betrayed him. He shall hate you.”

“No more than I have hated him.”

Fatima pushed away the silken coverlet on her legs and crept across the marble floor. She winced at the coldness of the tiles and peeked around the corner into anantechamber.

A copper brazier pierced at the sides cast a shadow against the wall. The smell of ambergris and musk wrinkled her nostrils. Opposite the brazier, a rectangular channel at the base of the floor held copper bowls, each connected at the top by a thin, metal shaft. A bronze water clock dripped fluid from a tiny hole at its base, which collected in the bowls below. Three of the vessels already overflowed with water. The last of these dribbled its runoff into a fourth bowl.

The man and woman had settled before a lattice-covered window, where the pool’s water channel disappeared under the wall. Behind them, yellow damask curtains edged with gold filigree flapped in the breeze. The man knelt beside her while she sat on a low, wood carved stool. Deep pockmarks pinpricked his cheeks. She wore silver silk robes and a black
hijab
covered her hair. The opaque veil trailed to the floor. The man placed his large, olive-brown hands over her smaller, slender ones. Her sun-browned skin glistened with health and vigor, and her cheeks colored a tinge of pink. She inclined her head toward him, dark brows flaring beneath the fold of the
hijab
.

“There is hope for Fatima. You have given it to me, Abdallah, the means to save her from the schemes of her father and grandfather.”

“Neither of them can trouble you here. Still, I regret my part in this. You risked too much in coming. I should never have asked it. I have placed you in grave danger, Aisha, you and your daughter.”

Fatima drew back and pressed a hand to her chest. A sudden tremor pounded in her heart. She recognized the woman. She had seen her only briefly in the past. She could never forget the familiar face, yet the woman was like a stranger to her.

The woman withdrew one hand from her companion’s grasp and smoothed a lock of his thick, brown hair away from his forehead, where deeps lines burrowed. “I have known danger most of my life, Abdallah, ever since I married the Crown Prince of Gharnatah. Why should tonight be any different?”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the fingertips. Fatima smothered a cry behind her hands, but not quietly enough. The pair jerked toward her.

The woman’s wide, green eyes, lined with
kohl
and painted with malachite, sparkled like emeralds. At first, Fatima imagined those eyes filled with tears, but that could not be true. 

A sharp pain dug into Fatima’s brow. Her hands fell at her side, shaking. “How could you do this to my father? Steal me away? Be here with another man? Why are you letting him,” she stabbed her finger at the stranger, “touch you?”

The woman rose and approached, her bejeweled fingers clasped together. A lock of her hair slipped from beneath the folds of the
hijab
, in a thick coil of burnished copper. The warming pink flush of her face faded to a muted, cream-colored sheen. She seemed like a stone carving in the garden – beautiful, but cold and hard.

The pockmarked man behind her stood. He towered taller than any other person Fatima had ever seen. “Ignorant child, you know nothing of what you are speaking. You are being disrespectful to your mother.”

The woman hushed him. “Do not chide her, brother. If Fatima is ignorant or willful, it is because her father and grandfather have allowed her to be so.” She paused and held out her hand. “Come, daughter, it is time you learned the truth.”

Fatima drew back. “Don’t touch me! You’re not my mother, you never were.”

Prince Faraj

Brass lanterns sputtered in an orange haze of fading light. Evening shadows lengthened as defeat cast its grim pall over Faraj. He faced his opponent on a familiar battlefield. Muhammad ibn al-Ahmar, the Sultan of Gharnatah leaned toward him and smiled a predatory grin, before he delivered the deathblow. “Do you yield, nephew?”

Faraj stared at his adversary. The Sultan’s piercing hazel eyes looked at him from a careworn, olive-skinned face, with laugh lines around the mouth. Faraj shared similar features with the old man, family traits like the heavy brows and the hawk-like nose. The Sultan covered his thinning hair with a
shashiya
. He rarely wore any head covering except the brown skullcap. 

Faraj returned his attention to an ebony wood chessboard, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, his father’s last gift to the Sultan. Despite the passing of several years, Faraj still admired this elegant piece of handiwork. A wall of his white pawns now lined the other side of the board. He shook his head in dismay, recognizing how the earlier, reckless positioning of his cavalier had heralded his downfall. He rubbed at the corners of his burning eyes and wracked his mind for a counter-move. Yet, he could not deny the truth. As in all other things, his uncle held the advantage.

He barely recalled the time when he had not lived by the Sultan’s whim and desire. After his arrival in Gharnatah nine years ago, a wearied and bloodied boy, the old man raised him alongside his own royal sons. At nearly seventy-four, the Sultan’s mind remained formidable. Despite his advanced years, he appeared rested and focused, but then, he probably slept well most nights.

For his part, Faraj could not remember the peace that sleep had once brought. The memory evaded him, just as easily as contented slumber had for nearly ten years.

“Do not succumb to idle thoughts, nephew. You have already lost pawns, as a result.”

“I do not have my father’s skill. How was it that he was able to best you every time?”

The Sultan exposed a gap-toothed smile. “Is that what he told you? Your father’s talent for exaggeration was always incomparable, but perhaps in this, he did not lie. You may not have his talent, but each day you grow more in his image. If he had lived, my brother would be very proud of you. My only regret is that he was unable to witness your union with my granddaughter today.”

Faraj kept his stare fixed on the board. He dared not raise his gaze for his uncle’s eager scrutiny. Otherwise, the hawk-eyed glint in his expression would pierce the heart of him and reveal the turmoil brewing inside.

Throughout the day, unrelenting fear had roiled in his guts, warning him against the path he now trod. As before, the same concerns that had plagued him earlier returned now. He pushed them aside, but swallowed audibly before daring an answer. He prayed his voice would not betray him.

Jaw clenched tightly, he muttered, “I share the same regret, my Sultan.”

His uncle leaned forward in his cedar chair, as though he had not clearly heard Faraj. “Your father would say to both of us that regrets are best left in the past. In that, as in other things, he would be right. Still, I believe he would have been proud that you have attained your manhood and taken a royal bride.”

Faraj nodded, though he believed his father would have viewed the marriage with the same circumspect opinion he once held of his own wedding: a means to an end. As with his father, Faraj had not chosen his own wife. At least his father had made a better bargain, with an alliance that benefitted their family. Faraj was not certain how his own marriage gave him any advantage. Likely, it would result in his quick death.

The Sultan showed no awareness of his companion’s discomfort. “Your union with Fatima surely surprised many people. I suspect it has angered others, particularly the Ashqilula family, but they shall accept it.”

“And if the Ashqilula do not accept this marriage?” Faraj gasped at his own carelessness and gripped the edge of the chessboard until the nail bed of his thumb whitened. He chided himself. Only a fool revealed his fears so easily, especially before another who would play upon them.

As he anticipated, the Sultan paused and cocked his head. Faraj perceived the change in him instantly, like a hawk sighting prey. He knew their game of chess was at an end. He released the side of the gaming board and steeled himself, feigning courage he did not feel.

“Do your ties to the Ashqilula family still burden you, nephew?”

The attack came sharp and swift, tearing to the core of him. The roughened nails of his hands cut into the palms, unseen by the Sultan’s persistent gaze. How dare the old man even ask about burdens? Faraj cursed him inwardly, for having burdened his family generation after generation. Likely, the Sultan’s machinations had brought them to the brink of ruin.

Still, Faraj waved a trembling hand over his chest, as though flicking away dinner crumbs from his black tunic. He controlled the fluttering at his breast with even breaths, before he glanced at the Sultan. He hated and loved this old man, who always pierced to the heart of a matter. Faraj could almost admire the skill, if the Sultan had not turned it against him.

“Why should old ties impede me?” He despised the unsteady warbling in his voice, but the unbreakable cord still encumbered him – blood ties to the Ashqilula family.