Sultana's Legacy (11 page)

“Remember, Father has sons other than you. You might die before you can take the throne. Since you still have no children of your own, you cannot rely upon a legacy and heirs to follow our father.”

When his face contorted in a fiery mask of fury at the reminder of his failure, she sneered and turned away from Muhammad and returned to the palace. She went to the harem, intent on Nur al-Sabah’s private bedchamber.

Niranjan awaited her at the doorway to the
kadin
’s rooms, his hand on the concealed weapon at his waist. His lips had thinned in a grimace. He bowed low with his eyes averted.

She paused and clasped his shoulder. “Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, shall determine an appropriate fate for my brother.”

He ground his teeth together and straightened. He still avoided her gaze. “If you prefer to wait on God, then so be it. Only remember that there are other moments when we must seek our own justice. It is not always the Will of God that decides men’s fates.”

“Muhammad is still my brother. He is no less deserving of compassion and just dealing than any other man.”

“You cannot hold fair expectations of him after all these years. By the Prophet’s beard, he tried to poison you! A secret you have long withheld from your husband and your father. How can you remain silent and keep Muhammad’s cruelties from your father? Your brother is a dangerous animal, one who could harm those whom you love. You know him as you know yourself. Yet foolish attachment and fears impede you.”

She gasped at his audacity, or perhaps, because she shared the same sentiment. To give it voice would mean she had accepted her brother Muhammad was beyond redemption. A small glimmer of hope flourished inside her that he could be the person she once knew. Even if it was a fool’s hope, she could not risk harm to him. His loss would kill their father before his due time.

“Niranjan, do not gainsay me in this! He is my father’s son. If I had told Father that Muhammad had tried to kill me all those years ago, Father would have condemned him. I hid the truth to spare my father such guilt. No matter what a child has done, no parent should kill his own child. How can I place such a burden upon my father? Whatever my brother’s faults, his crimes, I must consider the consequences for us all, especially the Sultan.”

Niranjan raised his gaze to hers. “You have always been too kind and mindful of the feelings of others. I pray you do not live to regret your generosity to Muhammad.”

She bypassed him and stumbled into the antechamber. She swiped quick tears from the corners of her eyes and hurried to Nur’s side. The
kadin
’s son nestled in her lap and she crooned softly to him. Shams sat beside the Sultan’s favorite.

Nur placed Nasr on his pallet. He closed his eyes, his meaty hands nestled in the folds of a blanket.

The
kadin
rose, crossed the room and embraced Fatima. “Your servant told me what happened. I can only thank God you were there.”

Fatima beckoned her and the queen into the antechamber, between the sleeping quarters and the receiving room.

She cautioned them, “You have to be careful with Nasr, Nur. Perhaps even you with your son, Shams ed-Duna. Muhammad is a foul, loathsome dog. He is not above hurting anyone.”

Shams cupped her hand over her mouth for a moment. “I have never heard you speak so vehemently of him. This sentiment, it cannot come solely from a desire to protect Nasr or my son. What has happened between you and Muhammad in the past?”

Fatima sighed and sagged against the wall behind her. “I know how dangerous my brother is because he once tried to kill me. Promise me that you shall never reveal what I would tell you now, even to the Sultan. The knowledge would destroy him and our family.”

She had not spoken of her secret in years. Yet, the words tumbled forth as though Muhammad’s treachery had happened yesterday instead of fifteen years before. In the weeks before Ismail’s birth, he had poisoned a slave with food that he had also offered Fatima.

Shams pecked at Fatima’s tunic sleeve. “If he would risk such a move against his own sister, he is dangerous.”

Fatima muttered. “I should have told Father.”

“Perhaps the Sultan might have believed you then, but there was always the possibility he would not have done so. You shielded him, as you have protected Nur’s son.”

Nur al-Sabah shook her head, pale golden locks in disarray, as she paced the floor.

“But my son is no threat to the Crown Prince. Nasr, all of my children are the offspring of a slave. The Crown Prince is the future master of Gharnatah. He could not have meant to hurt my son, not my Nasr. They are brothers.”

Fatima frowned. “I share Muhammad’s blood. His mother was mine. Yet, he did not hesitate to strike against me and the son I carried in my womb. I still don’t know why he did it, but I do not doubt he intended my death. I warn both of you, keep your sons away from him. I cannot hide my brother’s treachery from Father any longer. He must learn of it now, of this incident with Nasr and the harm Muhammad poses to the boy.”

A spasm crossed Nur al-Sabah’s face and she stopped pacing. Her hands trembled, as she clasped them together like a supplicant.

“Fatima, no! Please do not say anything to your father, I pray. You saved Nasr from any possible harm. I do not know what would have happened had you not been there. Yet, you were and I am grateful. Now, please, leave it be.”

Fatima gawked in disbelief. “What? You cannot mean that! If Muhammad had eased his grip upon Nasr, he would have died. Why would you hide such a thing from my father?”

The
kadin
’s eyes watered. “Fatima, it is over. We have been friends for some years now. I have never asked anything of you before, but I make this request now. Please, forget this day.”

She fled into her bedchamber. Muffled sobs drifted from the room.

Fatima stared in her wake, incredulous. Then she turned to Shams ed-Duna. “I cannot keep such secrets from my father. If I had told him of my suspicions before, perhaps he would have dealt with my brother long ago. When I tell Father about Nasr now, Nur shall have nothing to fear.”

Shams ed-Duna looked at her askance. “Why shouldn’t Nur be afraid of your revelation to the Sultan? Muhammad is the Crown Prince of Gharnatah. Nur al-Sabah is a slave. For now, she shares your father’s confidences and his bed. What shall befall her, when the Sultan breathes his last and your brother succeeds him? Forget Muhammad’s behavior and be grateful that Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, sent you to intervene before Nasr died.”

“Then, you believe Muhammad would have dropped Nasr into that cistern, as I do?”

Shams pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course, I do. In my time as your father’s wife, I have come to know his family, his children very well. I do not doubt Muhammad would have hurt Nasr if he believed he might escape justice for his crimes.”

“Then, why do you agree with Nur al-Sabah?”

“You invite more harm to your little brother and the
kadin
by speaking out. Muhammad witnessed Nasr’s return to the palace followed by your own. He knows you must have now warned Nur al-Sabah about him. Your brother is no fool. If you speak to the Sultan, he shall punish Muhammad. The Crown Prince may not rebel against his father, but he shall surely retaliate against Nasr and his mother. Do not endanger them both. The truth would only destroy your father now. Forget the past. Preserve the future.”

***

On the next morning, Fatima stood alone in the second floor apartments of her father, awaiting his arrival. In winter, everyone in Gharnatah retreated to apartments on the second floor. She gripped his bejeweled
khanjar
. Lapis lazuli and gold filigree covered the leather sheath in ornate, swirling designs.

She removed the weapon from its encasing. It had been her grandfather’s dagger. Her father kept it in his quarters, among the possessions he prized for display. The metal felt cold, but light against her palm. How many people had her grandfather killed with it?

“Are you contemplating murder, daughter?”

Her father’s sudden appearance startled her. Fatima’s fingers closed on the blade and it sliced into her palm. He rushed to her side. She opened her hand and revealed a long, bloody gash.

Her father took the dagger, while she dipped her hand in the ornate fountain at the corner of the room. Afterward, she accepted a clean cloth from him and bound the wound.

“No more playing with weapons for you,” he said. “At least, not until I’m around to save you.”

She mimicked his animated smile, but her mood did not allow for levity. His expression smoothed. He must have sensed the tension roiling inside her.

“Your note was delivered to me just after the council meeting. What could be so urgent, Fatima? Has something happened to one of my grandchildren?”

“No, I have had no news from Malaka since my arrival. Amoda knows well enough to write if something is wrong with the children. They miss you and long to see you again.”

He turned toward the fountain. “Fatima, you know my grandchildren are welcome at any time in Gharnatah.”

“Even after your executioner has murdered their father?”

Her shaking hand, wrapped in linen, closed on his shoulder. He stiffened at her touch. Despite it, she willed courage into her voice.

“Father, this cannot continue. How long shall you imprison my husband?”

He scowled into the depths of the fountain. The ripples of water made the reflection of his face appear blurred and older than his fifty-eight years.

“Fatima, do not speak of matters that do not concern you. When I am ready, I shall decide Faraj’s fate. You cannot sway my decision. It’s useless to try.”

She shook her head. “Would you have me forsake him? You are my father and Faraj is my husband. Both of you are the two men I love most in this world.”

“His actions have shamed me before the Marinids. I cannot ask you to choose between your father and your husband. You must decide.”

He shuffled toward his writing desk and sank down on the cushioned stool with a grunt. She eyed him through vision blurred by unshed tears.

His anger rose swiftly these days. The years had changed him. The incident with Shams ed-Duna nearly two weeks before proved it. Although he apologized later to his queen with a gift of a turquoise and gold filigree necklace, Fatima had never seen her stepmother so withdrawn and submissive in her father’s presence. Perhaps, Shams feared he had become a tyrant, like her former second husband.

Over his shoulder, the Sultan asked, “Did you come only to plead for forgiveness for your husband?”

She stared at his rigid back. “No. There is something else. Father, I have always trusted your judgment….”

He turned to her and raised a dismissive hand. “Then, trust me in matters concerning your husband. Consider him lucky that he lives in the security of my jail for now. If he were any other man, I would have executed him upon his arrival. It is my right.”

Fatima nodded and bowed before him, though her heart pounded a tattoo behind her chest.

He gestured toward a carved cedar stool beside his seat. She settled next to him, gathering the silken folds of her
jubba
around her. Her stomach knotted and she drew a deep breath before speaking.

“Father, I must talk with you about the Crown Prince.”

He raised one dark, russet-colored eyebrow in a questioning slant. “Your brother? What mischief has Muhammad done now?”

“He has not done anything wrong.”

She had kept her word with Nur and Shams ed-Duna. She would not reveal the incident between Muhammad and Nasr. How her heart lurched and tore at the lie, but Muhammad’s petty actions the day before paled in enormity to the risk he posed to the Sultanate.

She nibbled at her lower lip and glanced at her father, who waited in silence. Did she dare reveal secrets of the past?

What would he say if she told him how Muhammad had tried to kill her years ago? Would he believe her? The enormity of her quandary threatened to tear her heart in two. He could dismiss her words as fanciful or cruel imaginings, without any evidence. She could not bear his mistrust any more than she might have withstood his furious anger if he believed her. Muhammad’s treachery would be a bitter blow for her father. If he condemned her brother, she would be responsible for her father’s guilt over Muhammad.

The truth damned her as did further secrecy. Muhammad’s impulsive and cruel nature signaled a dire future for more than just her family. A man like him, who could consider the murder of a once beloved sister, was capable of anything. If he ascended the throne, he would become a tyrant.

There had to be some other way to warn her father about his heir, something that would not result in the Sultan ordering his own son’s execution. She would spare her father that burden at any cost, even if it meant she must conceal painful truths from him forever.

“Father, you know I would not speak ill against my own brother without just cause. I am concerned for Muhammad and the throne he shall inherit.”

She stood and paced for a time. Her father’s watchful gaze followed her. “Fatima, speak plainly.”

She gathered strength from his plain interest. If he did not care about her opinions, he would have dismissed her without entertaining further discussion.

“Muhammad should be dearer to me than the sons of Shams ed-Duna and Nur al-Sabah, because he is the only son of my mother.” She paused and gauged his reaction.

When he gave her a look of uneasy puzzlement, she rushed on. “Still, I have long suspected that his reckless nature as a child would make him a dangerous man. He cannot follow you on the throne of Gharnatah.”

Her father stood. “You want me to deny my eldest son the succession? Do you forget the traditions my late father established, that it is the eldest son who should rule?”

Although his tone was even, the words belied his expression. His brow knitted, the veins in his neck stood out in livid ridges, while his gaze raked over her face.

She said, “My grandfather chose you as his heir because you are a wise and good man. He could have chosen from among my uncles or his own brothers. Grandfather saw the strength in you. He did not act simply because you were his eldest son. You have always held the conviction to do what is right. The humility to admit when you are wrong. My brother does not have these qualities. He is not fit to rule.”