by Diana Green
His companion chuckled. “From what I hear, she’s still fresh and sweet as a peach. Asab probably held off this long to build expectations and give time for her reputation to spread. That way he ensured the greatest possible response when offering her.”
“But why today?”
“Asab is an ambitious fellow. It must suit his purpose to call us all together now, and presenting his daughter provides a perfect excuse.” The shorter man dropped his voice low, so Jehan barely made out his words. “Rumor has it Asab’s got his eye on the Padishah’s crown…though you didn’t hear it from me.”
“But that would be high treason.” The tall nobleman looked shocked.
“He’d hardly be the first pasha to try, and I’m sure he won’t be the last. Having power gives one an appetite for more…or so I’m told.” He shrugged. “Things being how they are, Asab may have his chance. People feel uneasy with the Padishah’s only heir taking a Nissian princess as wife. And don’t forget, we’ve got the Garai Empire breathing down our necks from the north, while Batuhan savages overrun our eastern neighbors.” A quick grimace revealed how little he liked that latter fact. “Mark my words, friend. These are perilous times. The political tides are turning, and you can either swim with them or risk being drowned.”
Jehan considered his words. Apparently Amira Saba held a key position in her father’s plans—whatever those might be. Perhaps she would make an effective hostage, as Mari suggested.
Granted, the old woman had spoken mostly from sentimental attachment, wishing to reunite with the princess she’d served before being banished from the palace. Nevertheless, the idea had merit. With his daughter as a hostage, surely the pasha wouldn’t hesitate in releasing Basim.
“All hail His Excellency, Pasha Asab Kah Akbah, Protector of the Virtuous, Commander of the Righteous, and Sword of the True Gods.”
The hall fell silent at the royal crier’s words. Through a grand arch in the far wall, Asab swept in, leading Amira Saba by the hand. Though the pasha cut a fine figure, impeccably dressed, tall and broad shouldered, with only a few streaks of gray in his black hair, Jehan hardly noticed him. Her attention remained riveted on the young woman.
She was a rare vision, clothed in flame-colored silks, expertly styled to flatter her feminine form. Her skin shone like satin, while a cascade of lustrous dark hair spilled down her back, unrestrained by net or pins. Arm rings and anklets ornamented her slender limbs, a glittering necklace resting enticingly above the swell of her breasts.
In truth, she needed no such embellishments. With a fine oval face, exquisite long-lashed eyes, and full lips, she looked a true daughter of Hasnah—the goddess of beauty. The competition for her hand was bound to be fierce.
“Welcome, honored guests.” The pasha’s voice carried easily through the waiting stillness. “I am pleased to see so many of you here. Some have traveled far indeed, from the length and breadth of Altera.” He gave the crowd a smile that failed to reach his hard predatory eyes. “Today, I present a jewel beyond price…my daughter, Amira Saba Nah Asab. Over the coming days, you will each have an opportunity to convince me of your worthiness. But only one shall win her hand. May the best man prevail!”
A cheer went up from the gathered suitors, echoing through the lofty hall. The pasha’s smile widened as he paraded his daughter once around the oval floor, ensuring every suitor had a chance to view her assets. Though the princess held herself with regal composure, back straight and head high, her eyes betrayed deep uneasiness.
Jehan perceived an edge of desperation, barely visible beneath the young woman’s well-trained poise. Amira Saba’s gaze flicked nervously over the guests, as if she was a wild bird, newly caged and placed on display. She clearly did not revel in this attention.
Though normally Jehan felt nothing but contempt for royalty, she could not help but pity the princess. A husband would be chosen, based on whichever man offered her father the most advantageous contract. Little regard would be spared for the young woman’s happiness. And meanwhile, she must endure this exhibition—being shown like a slab of meat to a pack of hunting hounds.
“Now, my daughter will dance the Song of Fire for you,” the pasha announced. He left her side and climbed to his extravagant throne, where he lounged like a god overlooking his worshippers. With a sharp clap, he summoned musicians who filed in and took their places around the base of the dais.
A slow drumbeat started, accompanied by flutes that rose and coiled together in serpentine harmonies. Amira Saba closed her eyes, swaying in time with the rhythm, head tilting back, arms lifting and curving with sinuous grace. The music appeared to gradually possess her, banishing all stiffness and anxiety.
Like a dream, she arched and extended, spiraling her hands upwards. Her hips circled, their rotation mesmerizing, matching the sweep of her head and the flick of her delicate wrists. Each movement flowed into the next, precise yet hypnotically smooth, a perfect sensual articulation of drumbeat and lilting flute.
As the rhythm grew faster, her energy built. She twisted and whirled, the diaphanous skirt swirling about her slim legs. In those moments, she became more than just a beautiful woman. The dance transformed her into something breathtaking—a jinni from ancient legend, a creature born of smokeless flame, elemental and immortal. Passion and power radiated from her every motion. She seemed lit from within, glowing like the fire she embodied.
Jehan forgot to breathe. Heat coursed through her body, answering the blazing glory that was Amira Saba. The pull felt so strong, she had to lock her limbs in place, using force of will to keep from moving forward to join the dance.
Then, with a final pounding of drums, the music ended. Amira Saba also stopped, her eyes widening, as if she was surprised to find herself in this crowded hall, with men shouting their approval all around. She dipped her head in quick acknowledgment of the applause then hurried from the chamber.
At her departure, a light seemed to snuff out, leaving the gathered suitors in shadow. Jehan drew a deep breath, both shaken and exhilarated by her response to the young woman. Who could have guessed she’d be so taken with a princess? The idea might have seemed laughable, if she didn’t feel the embers of desire still warming her.
Chapter Two
Saba hastened down the corridor, barely holding back from running. Thank goodness the initial presentation was over! So many strangers focused on her, their greedy gazes burning across her skin. It had been all she could do not to panic and flee. Even now, the residue of their attention clung to her like a sticky web.
Over the years, Saba had learned to suppress her empathic tendencies. Such control was necessary living in the emotionally tangled confines of the seraglio. She kept to herself, raising a mental wall to protect against unwanted intrusions.
Yet nothing could block the impact of a whole crowd, all concentrating their thoughts and feelings upon her. The suitors’ lust and ambition had mingled powerfully, filling the entire hall with acquisitive intent. Only the music had saved her from drowning in it.
For those brief minutes of dancing, she forgot where she was and even who she was. Nothing existed but the drums and flutes, leading her to a timeless place, free and joyful. If only she could stay there, buffered from the frightening reality of her situation.
All too soon her father would select the man she must marry. Her new husband might be caring and generous, or he might be cruel and violent. Either way she’d have no input in the decision making and no way out of the marriage, should it prove miserable. Such was the lot of a pasha’s daughter.
Sadly, the odds seemed stacked against a kind husband. In her experience, such men were not the type her father respected. He’d be looking for a ruthless and influential ally, someone to help him consolidate power.
Saba slowed her pace as she came to the first courtyard of the women’s quarters. Jasmine and hibiscus scented the air, as tiny bells tinkled in a light breeze. She paused by a tile-edged pool, gazing at the rainbow of fish, darting through the shallow wat
er. Their scales flashed in the sunlight, dazzling her eyes.
Though she had often wished to leave her father’s palace and see more of the world, marriage merely meant moving to another seraglio—another gilded cage. There was no way to know how it would be, better or worse than this. At least here, Saba was mostly left alone, avoiding the worst rivalries and intrigues of the harem. In her future home, she’d be the new wife, object of curiosity and jealousy. Such a position could be dangerous.
She bent down, slipping her hand through the cool water, sending a silent call to the fish. They responded, clustering around her fingers, letting her tickle their smooth sides. A soft echo of their watery serenity rippled into her awareness, soothing her troubled mind.
Such simple games were all that remained of Mari’s magical teachings. Saba had forgotten everything else, putting those memories aside with her childhood toys and dreams of happiness. But this connection, this instinctive calling to the spirit of others, she could not entirely repress. As long as she kept her communion to fish, birds, and other quiet creatures, there seemed little harm in it. They could not tell the priests of her transgression.
Behind Saba, Kedar cleared his throat and spoke politely. “Amira, we cannot tarry too long. The pasha wishes you prepared for this evening’s festivities.”
She flinched, having forgotten the eunuch stood nearby. Only recently had Saba been assigned a personal guard, and she was not used to his constant presence. The lack of solitude felt oppressive, like a noose tightening around her neck.
“I’m sorry to have startled you.” Kedar’s broad face remained carefully neutral. “But your father’s instructions were clear. You are to go immediately to the baths and meet your dressers there.”
“I know.” She sighed, wishing the eunuch could be her ally, rather than her keeper. But Kedar answered to the pasha, not Saba. His primary duty was to ensure she stayed chaste until the wedding, which didn’t provide much basis for friendship.
Reluctantly she drew her hand from the shimmering pool and continued through the seraglio. Not many women were about this time of day, as most enjoyed a leisurely afternoon nap. How Saba would have loved a few hours of peace and quiet before facing the evening’s banquet, but it was not to be. The pasha wanted her looking immaculate, with no attention to detail spared.
As she neared the baths, Saba found her maid, Batul, waiting. Together they entered the steamy chamber, while Kedar remained outside.
“Let me take your things, Amira.” Batul helped her undress then fastened her hair up where it would not get wet. The long locks took hours to dry properly, and there was insufficient time before the feast.
Saba sank gratefully into the scented water. A relaxing bath was just what she needed. Hopefully the dressers wouldn’t arrive too soon.
As her muscles loosened so too did her thoughts. Her mind wandered to various wistful fantasies, imagining she was not the pasha’s daughter at all, but a woman in charge of her own destiny.
While such women might be rare, they did exist. The poetess, Zuleika Nah Yufah, was a prime example, as was the brilliant rug weaver who came to fill special orders at the palace. Tarjene could boast of a renowned female camel trainer, and the region’s most infamous outlaw—the Falcon—was rumored to be a woman.
She was said to swoop down on her wealthy victims, like a bird of prey, taking what she pleased and then disappearing back into the desert. Saba couldn’t think of an existence more different from her own.
All too soon, the preparation team arrived, including dressers for both clothing and hair. They bustled her out of the bath and into an adjacent chamber, where a large mirror allowed Saba to view her transformation.
Whereas for the dancing she’d been dressed in flowing silk—allowing her to move easily—now she wore a fitted sheath of gold satin. The garment clung so tightly she could barely breathe, let alone walk or sit comfortably. Tiny gold flakes were brushed onto her skin and over the elaborate braids and curls of her hair, while strings of amber beads decorated her throat and wrists.
She looked less like a living woman and more like a work of art—a statue to adorn the pasha’s dining hall. Saba supposed the comparison was accurate on more than a superficial level. She must hold herself like a statue, calm and still, free of resentment or fear in the face of her many suitors. Such a feat seemed next to impossible.
“You look radiant, Amira,” the chief dresser gushed. “You’ll capture everyone’s attention and keep them spellbound.”
“I’m sure my father will be pleased.” Saba barely disguised the unhappiness in her voice. Pushing her feelings down deeper, where they couldn’t be seen, she left the dressing room and made her way toward the banqueting hall. Kedar followed, his footfalls regular as clockwork behind her.
Crossing the final courtyard before the feasting chamber, Saba recognized her mother’s brother, Lord Hassan, approaching. For a blessed moment the weight lifted from her chest, and she smiled, waving a greeting. His lean face split into a grin, dark eyes lit with warmth.
“Uncle! I didn’t know you’d be here.” She hurried to meet her favorite relative, opening her arms to embrace him before remembering the gold flakes dusting her skin.
“Ah. You look rather untouchable,” he observed, clasping her hand instead of hugging her. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the dressers’ efforts.”
“Yes. They’ve outdone themselves. I look a perfect trinket for some nobleman’s collection.”
His face grew serious. “Please don’t think of yourself like that, Saba. You’re much more than a pretty bauble for some rich man’s arm.”
“Try telling my father. He sees no other value in me.”
Hassan didn’t argue the point, as they both knew it was true. “I put in a good word for Pasha Latif Kah Luftahn to be your husband. He’s a thoughtful man and treats his wives well. I’m sure you could be happy in his palace.”
Saba felt a rush of gratitude. How like her uncle, to try and win her a decent match. Unfortunately Pasha Latif Kah Luftahn ruled one of the poorer regions of Altera. Her father would see little profit in such a marriage.
Hassan’s recommendation seemed unlikely to sway his decision, as he’d never shown her uncle much respect—despite the fact Hassan worked as a trusted official for the Padishah. Perhaps the fact her uncle preferred scholarship and diplomacy over the arts of battle diminished him in her father’s eyes.
To Saba this made him all the more admirable. Hassan had always been kind to her—the only relative to take a genuine interest. She asked him once, why he treated her so well. He’d explained that she reminded him of his mother, a kind intelligent woman who he missed greatly. It brought him joy to see her qualities live on in Saba.
“I am so glad you’re here, Uncle. The banquet will be much more pleasant with your company.”
“I wish I could stay longer, but tomorrow I must continue to Arahjhan. I carry important news for the Padishah.”
She swallowed her disappointment, not wishing to mar their time together. “Well, I thank you for visiting, even if it is brief.”
He grinned. “I couldn’t very well pass through Tarjene without coming to see my favorite niece.”
Saba smiled at their old joke, for she was Hassan’s only niece—Alika Inisari having given birth to a single daughter. Of course Saba had many half-sisters, born of the pasha’s lesser wives and concubines. But they were no relation to Hassan.
“I’ve brought a new book of poetry,” he said, taking her arm and escorting her toward the banqueting hall. “It’s one of Zuleika Nah Yufah’s earliest volumes and quite hard to find.”
“Thank you!” Delightful anticipation lifted her spirits further. How she loved receiving books from her uncle. Over the years she’d collected an entire shelf full, a greater treasure than any string of jewels.
If only Father would match her with someone like Hassan, both open hearted and open minded. Surely there must be more men like him—possibly even in the mass o
f gathered suitors.
~*~
Pasha Asab Kah Akbah relaxed in his lavish private chambers, while a hairdresser worked faceted emerald beads into the braids of his beard. They looked grand, flashing in the light, contrasting the black of his facial hair and matching the green velvet of his robe. He made a splendid sight, a regal figure worthy of the Padishah’s crown. The guests at this evening’s banquet were sure to be impressed, not least of all by the sumptuous feast he’d ordered for them.
This was Asab’s time to rise like the sun, to fulfill his destiny. He could wait no longer to set his plans in motion. Patience spoke of weakness and uncertainty—a man incapable of seizing fate by the balls and forcing compliance. Such timidity would never be a fault of Asab Kah Akbah. The blood of warriors flowed through his veins, and his mind burned with ambition.
In contrast, Padishah Muktar Kah Muhehnad was a spineless ruler. He chose men of words for his officials, rather than men of action—a trait epitomized by his selection of Lord Hassan for a position of influence. Asab’s effete brother in law should never have been given such honor and responsibility. That milksop was good for nothing better than record keeping, and when Asab became Padishah he’d promptly set things straight.
“Your beard is finished, Sire.” The dresser’s words interrupted his thoughts. “Shall I braid emeralds into your hair as well?”
“Why not,” Asab responded, smiling. It never hurt to flaunt his wealth, especially before a gathering of Altera’s elite. Saba’s suitors would scramble over each other to please him—a perfect time to sound them out and see if their loyalty to the current Padishah was malleable.
The hairdresser opened another pouch of beads, but before he had a chance to begin, a knock came at the door.
“What is it?” Asab called.
A guard stepped through the arched doorway and bowed. “Sire, a man named Sahsur is here, wishing to see you. He bears your seal and says the matter is urgent.”
“Show him in.” Sahsur was Asab’s best agent, assigned to the capital city of Arahjhan. He would not have come to Tarjene in person unless carrying important news.
