Sultana (3 page)

Their blood coursed in his veins by virtue of his mother, an Ashqilula chieftain’s daughter, who had wed the Sultan’s brother and loved him until her death. Faraj shuddered at his last memory of her, bloodied and ruined, and drew a deep breath before continuing.

He forced the words from a dry throat. “I couldn't care less about my ties to them. The Ashqilula mean nothing to me.”

The lie hung heavy in the room. Faraj gritted his teeth as the weight of it bore down upon him. A burdensome encumbrance, but one he undertook for his own sake. The Sultan expected it. He would never accept anything but unwavering loyalty from his family.

“What are your thoughts on my granddaughter, then?”

Faraj swallowed at the sudden change of topic and pronounced a swift reply.

“I hardly know her. We had never met before I married her today.”

“That is common enough. Yet, surely, you must feel something about this union. You have barely spoken of it since the oaths made during the ceremony. When my heir congratulated you before all our guests, you did not acknowledge his acclaim beyond a mere polite nod.”

Faraj cursed the old man. Why did he keep pretending that this wedding was anything other than a declaration of war against his enemies? Why did he appear so unconcerned that those enemies would now retaliate against him and embroil Faraj in their feud?

Still, he steeled himself against showing any further weakness. He began, “My Sultan, I perceive the great honor you have bestowed upon me with this union betwixt myself and the daughter of the Crown Prince.”

“Bah! Do not dissemble. You do not have your father’s skill for it. Not yet. Tell me, truthfully, what did you think of my granddaughter as you beheld her for the first today?”

Through the haze of his bewilderment, Faraj recalled the image of the pale, stick-thin girl whom everyone expected he would acknowledge as his wife. She had worn gaudy jewelry, garish cosmetics and rich robes - extravagant wastes for such a scrawny, waif-like child, in his opinion. The weight of her finery overwhelmed her, as she had sat apart from everyone on a yellow, damask cushion trimmed with gold filigree. Her features were markedly angular and gaunt, similar to her father’s in appearance, though not as sallow. If the sight of her had not stirred his revulsion for the prospect of marrying a child, he might have pitied her. Except in one instance.

When the evening breeze had filtered in from the open-air courtyard, torchlight flared and cast its glow upon her dark hair in an eerie halo. At that moment, her sharp chin rose and her stark gaze met his, unflinching. Brilliant flecks like the embers of a fire glittered in her brown eyes. The sight took him aback for a moment. Then she looked away. Even now, his lips curled at the memory of how she had turned and ignored him, with the neglect reserved for menials.

He tamped down the abhorrence souring in his belly. “Forgive me, but she is merely a child of eight years. What can I, a man ten years her senior, be expected to feel regarding her?”

After a moment, the Sultan shrugged and nodded, as he had hoped. “I suppose you have years, Faraj, in which you may come to know my granddaughter better. For now, she shall remain in her father’s house until she can bear your children. I rely on her father to protect her.”

“Your plans shall tear the Sultanate apart.”

“Your union with Fatima shall heal the rift. Can I rely upon you?”

Though Faraj doubted how a union with a child might preserve the land, he kept those thoughts to himself.

“You may.” He held the Sultan’s gaze without wavering. Not for the first time, he thought the old man burdened him unduly with inopportune vows.

Raised voices echoed beyond the closed doors of the chamber. Both the Sultan and Faraj turned toward the sound. Two sentries stationed beside the door opened it at a curt nod from their master. Faraj stood as torchlight revealed the sallow face of Fatima’s father, the Crown Prince of Gharnatah, Abu Abdallah Muhammad.

The Crown Prince stood tall and sneered at the guardsmen outside the chamber before he approached. He sagged on one knee before the Sultan, his dark leonine head bowed. When his father touched his shoulder, he stood unsteadily. Faraj scratched his thin beard and eyed the men intently.

A frown marred the Crown Prince’s brow, aging him beyond his thirty-one years. His deep-set eyes, another family trait, were red-rimmed and his mouth, bounded by a dark beard and moustache, was a grim, fixed line. He spoke in low tones with his father. When he finished, the Sultan grasped his arms, as though propping his son up.

“Are you truly surprised by this betrayal? It is only your wounded pride that cannot accept it.”

“She belongs to me! I shall never give her up.”

The Sultan sighed. “You insist upon this obsession.”

“I love her!”

“Yes, despite her feelings. If you must have her back, we shall find her. There are few places within
al-Qal’at Al-Hamra
where she can hide.”

“She has escaped the palace!”

The Sultan cocked his head and chuckled. “She possesses a quick wit, far greater than you anticipated. Of greater concern to me is that she also has allies to aid her cause. We must eliminate all those who remain loyal to the Ashqilula.”

“They have too many spies here!”

“It is a concern that we shall deal with in time. We have our own spies within their walls, too.”

“My chief eunuch is questioning Aisha’s servants now, in the presence of the executioner. How could she do this to me? I have given her my heart.”

“Women weaken the heart. Do not trouble yourself, my son, we shall find her before she leaves Gharnatah.”

“When I have her in my arms again, she shall regret this night.” Thinly veiled rage seethed from the Crown Prince’s embittered lips.

Faraj wondered who could have made him so angry. From the import of their conversation, it was likely some favorite. He sneered and shook his head. The Sultan was right. Women weakened the heart and any man who allowed a woman such power over his emotions was a fool. How disappointing that the Crown Prince possessed poor control of his passions and his household. 

The Sultan strolled toward Faraj. Looking down at him, he gestured at the chessboard. “The pieces are set. The game can begin.”

The last embers within the brass lanterns crackled and died, as Faraj pondered the meaning behind that enigmatic statement. His mind swirled with myriad thoughts. Foremost, he must ensure his uncle’s plans would not threaten his own survival or interests. He was not about to become anyone’s pawn again, not even that of the Sultan.

Chapter 2

The Ways of Men

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram 664 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1265)

Fatima trembled, a sharp breath paining her side. Princess Aisha’s lips were pressed tightly together, nearly bloodless. Something in her eyes seemed sad, before she waved away the man at her arm.

He touched her shoulder, his hand almost like a caress, leaving Fatima uneasy and repulsed. She shuddered at the sight of the deep scars from the pox that marred his otherwise handsome features. His hair was darker than Aisha’s locks but otherwise he possessed the same olive skin she did, with her dark brows and lashes, aquiline nose and small mouth. Although Aisha had called him her brother, his boldness was unexpected, especially when Fatima had never heard of or seen him before.

He said, “Do not be too harsh with her, sister. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”

Aisha shook her head. “My daughter is the image of her father in many things. Like him, she has learned how to wound with words.”

Fatima swallowed loudly and looked away, the nervousness bubbling inside her stomach. When the man glanced at her and shook his head, her chin jutted forward.

“I shall go to her now, Aisha. Summon me if you need me.”

She waved him away. Fatima’s stare followed him from the room.

Aisha smoothed her thin hands across the skirt of the silken robe. She gestured toward the wooden stool at the window. “Please sit.”

Fatima shuffled on the tiles, the white marble like a gleaming sheen of ice beneath her feet. Still, she stuck out her chin further and remained rooted to the spot. “I want my father.”

Aisha turned to the sole window. “I am unused to your disobedience, but stand if you prefer.”

Fatima glanced at the stool before she noticed Aisha eyeing her over her shoulder.

“Where is my father?” 

A strong gust of wind whipped through the lattice, carrying away Aisha’s sigh. She pushed aside the damask curtain. Her fingers traced circles on the plasterwork wall, her eyes fixed on some point in the darkness. When a dog howled, she trembled and rubbed her arms.

“Do you know why your grandfather married you off to your cousin, Prince Faraj?”

“Father told me to marry him.”

“You are so obedient that you do anything your father tells you?”

“Father says children must listen to their parents.”

Aisha turned to her. “Would you do so now? I shall tell you the truth your grandfather and father have concealed, about why they made you marry Prince Faraj.”

Fatima looked away, avoiding the plea shining in Aisha’s dark eyes. She wanted something from her, though Fatima did not know what it could be. Whatever it was, she swore she would not submit easily.

“Father says you are a great liar. He said I must never believe anything you say.”

A soft gasp escaped Aisha, who suddenly faced the window again, with her head bowed. Her shoulders shook and she did not speak.

Fatima swallowed past the heavy lump wedged in her throat. Something about what she had said had disturbed her mother…no, she must not think of her in that way.

From her earliest memories, the palace servants had told her never to call Aisha ‘
Ummi
’ or speak with her unless the princess spoke first. She had never forgotten the warning. Still, her words had clearly upset Aisha and that bothered her. Was Aisha right? Had she told the truth because she knew it would hurt? Was it possible to hurt a woman who never showed her feelings? Did she even have any feelings?

Fatima hugged her arms as a sudden breeze tore through the folds of her silk tunic. Despite the brazier and Aisha’s presence at the window, she felt cold and alone. Were other women as unkind and uncaring to the children they bore? Did they ever hug their daughters or wish them sweet dreams at night? Did they love their children? Did those children know it?

“By tradition, your grandfather has always sealed the alliance with the Ashqilula through marriage.”

Aisha’s low, bitter tone broke the silence. Fatima jerked back to awareness.

“It has been so, child, since my aunts Leila and Fatima married the Sultan’s brothers. Even the Sultan took an Ashqilula wife, your grandmother the Sultana Muna. He gave his sister Faridah in marriage to my uncle. The Sultan’s daughter Mu’mina wed my cousin, the chieftain Ibrahim. Then your father demanded me for a bride. Now, everything is different, but the blood ties remain.”

She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Do you understand the significance of the blood, Fatima? It has bound the Nasrids and the Ashqilula for two generations.”

Fatima crossed her arms over her chest. “I know our family’s history.”

Aisha faced her, lips thinned, shoulders back. She showed no hint of her earlier unease.

“Yet, your young mind cannot fathom the damage that has been done, now that you have married at the whim of your grandfather. He has placed you in grave danger.”

“My father can protect me.”

Aisha shook her head. “You’re so young, too young to understand how much your future has changed because of this marriage. Your father cannot protect you forever, Fatima.”

“Because you took me away from him! Why have you stolen me away?”

“You may not believe me, but I did it for your protection, to keep you safe. I won’t let your father and grandfather use you to start a war with my clan.”

“Father and Grandfather would never do anything to hurt me. They love me!”

“Fatima….”

“No! What do you know of love? You don’t even look at us, your own children. When Muna has bad dreams and cries at night, you’re never there to hold her and rock her to sleep again. Only our governess is. You don’t know how to show love.”

Aisha drew back and pressed against the wall. Her eyes glittered for a moment, before she looked away.

“Your father must have told you that. How strange it is to hear his words from another. If my words cannot convince you otherwise, then my actions must. I know all too well the dangers you face. I want you to know that I…sympathize with you. I know what it is to be subject to the will of a powerful man. Such is the fate of those who suffer under the dominion of your grandfather and father.”

Fatima’s eyes watered, even though she willed the tears away. Any show of weakness before this woman would not help her get home. “Why do you hate Father so much?”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “He gave you a home and children. Don’t you care about any of it?”

“It is because I care for you that we must leave this place.” Aisha’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “You cannot stay here. The danger is too great. If I must take you away from everyone and everything you have ever known for your own safety, then so be it.”

She edged closer and Fatima pressed against the wall behind her, burying her face in her hands. Bitter cold pierced her back, but the pain tearing her heart felt worse. “I want my sisters and Muhammad! I don’t want to leave them.”