Sultana's Legacy (21 page)

“No, no! You don’t understand. Where is our brother, Nasr, where is Shams ed-Duna’s son?”

 “He is dead.”

She collapsed with a cry. Tears blurred her vision again. “What? How…I….”

Nasr crouched before her. His jaw tightened and his gaze narrowed. “You seem shocked.”

“Well, of course I am! How can it be that our father and his son are both dead?”

“Our brother killed himself on the day after Father’s death. He poisoned his household, too. Even the little girls. I thought you knew.”

“Why would I know about that?”

He stared at her in silence before he rose to his full height, turned on his heels and left them without another word.

Ismail gripped her arm, none too gently, as he hauled her to her feet.

“Why did you think anyone other than my uncle Muhammad would have been Grandfather’s heir? Grandfather warned you of his intent to name another, didn’t he, when he was last at Malaka? Is that the secret you’ve been hiding?”

She shook him off. “I have to see Shams ed-Duna. She can explain everything.”

She skirted around him and fled for her father’s palace. Ismail’s urgent cries chased her through the pavilions and myrtle trees.

Atop the apartments where her father had resided, his sodden flag drooped in the unforgiving rain. For thirty-one years, the banner, which featured a red lion with one claw upraised on a white background, a black border and thirteen white dots had been the symbol of his reign. Now the sigil of another Sultan of Gharnatah would replace it. That Sultan should have been the only son of Shams ed-Duna.

Fatima stood outside the heavy oak doors of her father’s chamber. The guardsmen averted their eyes. She dared not ask them to permit her entry. She could not go into the place where he had lived the greater part of his life. Not yet. It would be empty, alien without his majestic presence.

Instead, she dashed across the harem and scrambled up the stairs. “Shams? Where are you?”

Nur al-Sabah’s body slave, Sabela, appeared in the hall. “My Sultana, you have come so soon! How is it possible?”

Fatima gripped her arms. “Where is the Sultana?”

“Here, in the apartments of my lady the
kadin
. Come, they shall be glad you are here.”

Sabela ushered her inside Nur al-Sabah’s chambers. Fatima pushed the damask green curtains aside. The scent of ambergris and musk wafted up from a brazier in the corner.

Nur and Shams sat at a low table. Both wore the blue-black colors of mourning. Fatima hesitated at the edge of the carpet. Nur’s face, so stark and pale, startled Fatima. Shams sat with her eyes rimmed red.

Sabela urged Fatima forward. She entered the room and sat with her father’s women. Nur’s hand covered Shams ed-Duna’s own. Now, she reached for Fatima’s fingers, as did the
kadin
. The trio sat in a circle of silence and grief.

Then Shams swallowed loudly. “You must have dreamt of your father.”

Fatima had told her years ago about her strange ability to know of things happening far away. Fatima’s maternal grandmother once possessed the same gift. Now, she viewed it as a curse. Her unnatural knowledge always portended pain for those whom she loved.

“But I did not dream of your son, Shams. I am so sorry. How could this have happened?”

She bit back a sob. Nur squeezed her hand. Gray streaks lined the
kadin
’s pale yellow hair. Fatima had never noticed them before, not even at Leila’s recent marital ceremony.

Nur said, “Shams suffers cruelly. They say her son was a traitor.”

A heavy weight settled in Fatima’s stomach. Dread crept up her spine. “Who says that? He loved our father and the Sultanate. He would never have betrayed Gharnatah or our family.”

Shams sniffled. “The
Diwan al-Insha
proclaimed his guilt. The new Sultan has a letter, written and signed in my son’s own hand. Before he took his life and the lives of my granddaughters, he confessed to his treason.”

“To what?”

“He had written to the Marinids, while my husband was at the court of the Castillans in the spring. He promised the Marinids a new alliance with Gharnatah. Your brother, Sultan Muhammad, discovered this and confronted him. My son admitted his guilt. Before the guards took him to
al-Quasaba
, he forced my granddaughters and their mothers to drink poison. Then he killed himself, too. The new Sultan has ordered my exile from court. He won’t allow the mother of a traitor to remain in Gharnatah. He has banished me back to al-Maghrib el-Aska. I must leave at the end of the month.”

Fatima pulled away from them. Her throat tightened, so that she could hardly breathe or utter a sound.

Nur screamed. “Sabela! Water, quickly.”

Nur and Shams rushed to Fatima’s side. Sabela hurried with the goblet. Shams massaged Fatima’s throat, while Nur urged her to drink.

Afterward, Nur said, “It is a great shock to us all, but he confessed.”

Fatima shook her head. Great rivulets poured down her cheeks. She clutched at Shams’ fingers with trembling hands. She forced the words from her aching throat. “No, no! It’s a lie. It’s all a horrible lie. Your son was no traitor. Muhammad is! He killed your son, just as surely as he killed my father.”

“Fatima, what are you talking about? My son confessed.”

“No! Muhammad forced him to sign something that was a falsehood, I know it.”

“You were not here. How can you make such a claim?”

Fatima shared everything with them, her talk with her father during the
walima
. The forgery he had discovered, how he identified his heir as the culprit and confronted him.

Shams stared at her with a gaping mouth, but Fatima implored her to listen. “Father knew, you see, he knew the truth. He wasn’t going to let Muhammad get away with it. He was going to name your son as his heir in Muhammad’s place.”

“The Sultan never told me,” Shams whispered.

“He could not bring himself to speak of it to anyone except me. He trusted me and I believed in him. I knew the monster Muhammad was and I had experienced his cruelty firsthand. I did not doubt Father’s resolve. He intended your son to rule in his stead.”

“And what would he have done to Muhammad?”

“The penalty for treason is death, Shams.”

Nur shook her head. “I cannot believe my Sultan would have murdered his own son. Nor do I believe Muhammad killed him. Your brother is many things, but to murder his own father….”

“He tried to poison me, Nur! A beloved sister. Don’t you remember what I told you, when Nasr was a child?”

“How can you know what your father intended with such certainty, when he never confided in me, or his Sultana?”

“Shams ed-Duna’s son was next in line to the throne! Oh Nur, can you not see? Father confronted Muhammad about his treason. My brother knew when Father returned from Malaka that his life would be in jeopardy. He had to act. He murdered my father and accused Shams ed-Duna’s son of doing exactly what he had done. Somehow, he forced him to bear the burden! He knew everyone on the council would believe it. The
Diwan
would look at Shams’ son and they would not see a child of the Nasrids. They would see the grandson of Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub al-Marini. Of course, they would reason Shams’ son had motive to betray Gharnatah. He is a descendant of the Marinids through his mother. He is nephew to the current ruler of al-Maghrib el-Aska. Muhammad has deceived everyone about him.”

Shams slumped against the green silk cushion behind her, with her head bowed. “And my son suffered the consequences of that lie. Now he is dead. Oh, he is dead! My sweet boy, my Faraj!”

Nur comforted Shams, holding her while she wailed and repeated her son’s name.

Fatima sank back on her heels. Her throat ached with each haggard breath. “Tell me what happened. How did my father die?”

Nur responded, “Only Nasr knows the full details. He has not spoken of it. Not even to me. He was there that evening with his father. He dined with him, along with Shams’ son and your husband.”

“I must go to Father’s burial site. Does he rest beside Grandfather in the
rawda
on the
Sabika
?”

“No,” Nur replied, as she rocked Shams. “The new Sultan buried your father in the gardens of his palace.”

“What? Why? He should have rested with his own father, with his family.”

Fatima stood and left them. She crossed the harem to her father’s residence. The rain had stopped. An evening breeze carried aloft the vapor that had descended on Gharnatah.

She grasped one of the torches from its brackets along the wall and ordered the guardsmen to open the door.

Darkness covered the room. The lattice shutters kept out the moonlight. Her gaze did not linger for long on her father’s worldly possessions. She moved to a table, where a leather sheath rested on brackets, covered with lapis lazuli and gold filigree in ornate, swirling designs. She gripped her grandfather’s bejeweled
khanjar
in her hand, before she turned and closed the cedar door behind her forever.

She walked westward under the cover an avenue of cypresses offered. The face of the full moon marked her progress. Sentries patrolled the grounds in silence. In a cleared patch of woodland in the midst of the gardens, a fresh mound rose. Someone had covered it with bell-shaped, honeysuckle flowers.  

She dropped the torch. It sputtered once before dying. She sank to the ground. Her shoulders shook. The tears fell without restraint and blinded her. She seized clumps of the earth in which her father’s body would rest for eternity.

“It is too late for your tears, sister.”

Nasr’s voice penetrated her sadness. When she looked up, he hovered beside her. His boot mashed the trailing end of her veil into the dirt. He crouched beside her.

“These false tears of yours do not fool me. I know why you have come.”

He lunged at her. His hands wrapped around her throat. He stifled the scream inside her.

“Yes, I knew you would come at the beckon of your murderous brother. I can’t do anything to him. His bodyguards protect him too well. Yet here you sit all alone. Now, I shall ensure some justice for my father. Before I kill you, let me hear the truth from your lips. Tell me how you and your deceitful brother conspired to murder our father.”

Chapter 13

Vows

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Sha’ban 701 AH (Granada, Andalusia: April AD 1302)

Nasr’s stone-carved face loomed above Fatima’s own. He tightened his hold on her neck. She gasped for air and clawed blindly at his hands and arms. Even at his youthful age, his strength overwhelmed her. With heavy eyelids, she drifted toward oblivion. She wheezed and air rattled in her lungs. She was about to die at the hands of her own brother, but not the one she had long suspected of being a murderer.

Then, she remembered her grandfather’s
khanjar
. A gleam of gold flashed beside Nasr’s foot. She raked her nails across his cheek. She gouged thin lines that drew blood. He cursed and his hold slackened. She reached for the dagger and slashed. The blade caught his forearm. Nasr yelped and clutched the billowing sleeve of his robe. Blood seeped from a thin wound.

She scuttled back on the wet ground and held the dagger in front of her. Nasr watched her. An impenetrable mask hid his intent.

She rubbed her throat with one hand. “Stop, please. Let me explain.”

Each breath or attempt to swallow squeezed her chest.

Nasr smiled lazily. “Do you think the blade can protect you?”

“Stay back!” A raspy throat pained her.

“You shall die here next to our father’s grave. Instead of Paradise, you shall find the gates of
Jahannam
open to you. The final judgment awaits your brother, too.”

“I did not help Muhammad! I loved our father….”

“So, you know that your brother killed Father? The truth emerges, even from your lies. Before you die tonight, I shall have the full story of your plot against Father.”

He lunged for her again. He knocked the
khanjar
aside with one hand. She scrambled away, crawling in the muck. When he grasped her veil, the pins in it scraped her scalp. His fingers tangled in her hair and pulled from the roots. His boot came down hard on her ankle. Whatever cry of pain she might have made died, as his free hand encircled her throat. He dragged her back against his body.

“Speak the truth before you die, Fatima. God may forgive you. I never shall. I swear it! You shall suffer as our father suffered in his death throes.”

“I didn’t murder him!”

She clawed at his wounded forearm and struggled against his solid grip, like a wall of rock that encased her. She gouged at the torn flesh and shredded the skin around it. His hold tightened. Panic wedged itself against her throat and chest. The awful blackness returned, to consume her.

“No! Nasr…the truth...I’ll tell it!”

“You are ready to confess?”

She nodded, instead of trying to speak again. When he released her, she collapsed on her hands and knees with a pained wheeze. He gripped their grandfather’s dagger in one hand and tapped it against his thigh. “Speak now.”

“A moment! Have mercy upon me!”

“Mercy? You dare ask for it. When you and your brother have shown our father none? I have no pity for you. Tell me how you planned my father’s murder. Then you shall die.”

“You have condemned….” She faltered and drew another ragged breath into her burning lungs. “You have condemned me without proof.”

“You are wasting my time. I shall kill you now and….”

“No! Hear me and judge whether what I say is true. I came to Gharnatah, knowing of our father’s death because I have the gift of foresight. It does not come to me always, this understanding of things beyond the comprehension of others, but my fears are never wrong.”

He pulled away from her. “You’re a witch? You practice the black arts. All the more reason to kill you.”