by Olivia Gates
It had been bittersweet watching Mohab dote on her sisters-in-law and nephews and nieces and bond with her brothers. They had all taken to him—especially Kamal—which caused her extra delight...and dejection, when she knew that this would all end on a prearranged date.
As it had to.
But through it all, she’d done everything she could not to dwell on that inevitable end before they even began. And in those moments that she managed to forget, she’d reveled in his spoiling. For how he’d spoiled her.
Though nothing he did could make up for being unable to have him again. Since they’d come here, he hadn’t even had a chance to kiss her. Well, he did, constantly, but only her hands, shoulders and cheeks. And then there were the scorching caresses, the devouring, brooding glances, the laden-with-promise smiles and the lavish words of praise. Everything had kept her on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
Sighing, she focused on the scene in the distance, with Zahara’s houses arranged in graduated compositions of whitewashed adobe and red and yellow-ocher stone. At night, before the full moon rose, they were only shades of gray, but in the daylight they looked like an explosion of flowers atop the sandstone hills.
Mohab had insisted on coming here by land, saying the scenery on the way was worth the six-hour drive from Durgham. And it had been. She’d never seen such variations to the desert, the terrain flowing from undulating dunes to hilly pastures to mountainous heights to combinations of everything.
Then this castle had materialized in the horizon, reigning over Zahara, and it had taken her breath away.
Nestled in the containment of the craggy mountain that overlooked the vista of Zahara, against an ocean of dunes, it crouched behind soaring ancient walls shielded by battlements that summoned to mind Saladin and the Crusades. That night it had loomed against an impossibly starry night, with torchlight fluctuating from the inside and the guard posts shedding their firelight on the outside, drenching it in a deeper, supernatural tinge.
It had been the Aal Kussaimis’ stronghold until the time of Sheikh Numair, Mohab’s maternal great-grandfather. But after Jareer had signed the treaty with Saraya, and no one inhabited it anymore, this place had fallen into decay.
But Mohab had had it restored in order to boost Jareer’s tourist business. He’d succeeded, since the citadel had become one of the region’s most frequented historical sites. Like her, tourists found it a once-in-a-lifetime experience, as they wandered through its maze of passages, extensive grounds and interconnected structures, feeling as if they were taking a stroll in the past. Tonight the place would rise against a full moon, and be bathed in the lights of the extensive tent set just outside its walls for the wedding celebration.
She’d expected the guests to include world movers and shakers, but to hear that two presidents and one king from the Western world were attending had made her feel the gravity of the whole situation. This wasn’t just a royal wedding, but a major political event. Mohab was claiming more than a bride tonight—he was claiming the throne of a land that would feature heavily in global power from now on.
Standing up, she looked around the chamber Mohab had assigned her till their wedding. He’d restored every inch to its original condition with painstaking authenticity, but had outfitted it with every modern luxury and amenity. She could see herself living here, going away only for work, but always coming back home here.
Home. She’d never felt she had a home. But this majestic place—which was permeated with Mohab’s unique, indomitable essence—felt like home.
Not that it mattered how it felt. Her stay here was only a transient one. Now, even the hour she’d managed to negotiate alone before everyone swarmed around her to prepare her for the most momentous night of her life was almost up.
“You hour is up, sweetie.”
Groaning, she turned to her sisters-in-law, who were striding through the chamber’s ancient oak door. “You must have a stopwatch in your lineage, Aliyah.”
The ladies laughed at her lament as Aliyah ushered in her ladies-in-waiting with everything Jala would be wearing. Jala’s only input had been picking a color scheme. Living in jeans or utilitarian dresses, she hadn’t been about to trust herself with an opinion beyond that. Needing to look the part of Mohab’s bride and queen, she’d left it all to Aliyah’s artistry and experience as a queen, and to the other two ladies who were far better versed than she was in fulfilling the demands of their titles.
Carmen clapped impatiently. “Hop to it! Your hour of meditation crunched the time to get you ready to a measly thirty minutes!”
Jala bowed. “Yes, O Mistress of Magnificent Events.”
Farah chuckled as she fanned her hands in excitement. “You don’t know the half of it. Everything you think you saw, or thought the preparations would amount to, is nothing to the end result. And I thought Carmen made my wedding rival a fable from One Thousand and One Nights!”
Carmen chuckled. “I actually didn’t do much this time. Your Mohab is so ultraefficient, not to mention head over heels in love with you, he’s the one who’s done most of the work to give you the best wedding in modern times.”
Jala was an old hand by now in maintaining a bright smile when everyone kept stating how much Mohab was in love with her. They had no idea how it actually was between them. But how could they? To them, it must seem like a fairy tale, and they must believe that everything Mohab lavished on her was based on what they all defined as love. None of them could imagine that her relationship was nothing like theirs, that his involvement was fueled by pure passion and garnished by convenience, and that the whole thing had an expiration date.
Putting down a jewelry box with Saraya’s royal insignia that contained the heirloom pieces King Hassan had bestowed on Jala, insisting she wear them for her wedding, Carmen grinned. “And this magnificent place worked on its own. Any touch I put was multiplied tenfold by its magic.”
Jala could well believe it. Not that this diminished Carmen’s and Mohab’s efforts in any way.
Farah nodded. “And the people of Jareer themselves. I’ve never seen a collective so ready for entertainment and versed in preparing celebrations.”
“Yeah, and I thought the people in Judar were like that in comparison to the States,” Carmen said. “But being here showed me how modern life had taken root in Judar, too, preoccupying everyone. Here every birth and wedding, cultural or religious occasion is a feast everyone attends and takes part in.”
Farah grinned her pleasure. “And we’ve been the lucky recipients of their enthusiasm and expertise through our stay. It’s going to be such a downer going back to indoor court life and our relatively isolated family lives now.” She winked. “Good thing we have our men to keep us...intensely entertained.”
Chuckling in corroboration, Aliyah appeared from behind the screen that doubled as the dressing room. “We’re ready for you, Jala. As Carmen said, hop to it.”
Jala did hop to it. She wanted this over with.
In under ten minutes, she was looking at herself in amazement in the full-length gilded mirror. It was a good thing she’d left herself in Aliyah’s hands. That image reflected at her was a princess. And a future queen.
Still not believing how the parts she’d had fitted on her had come together, she ran her hands down the incredible deep gold Persian/Indian creation that accentuated her curves and offset her coloring. It had a deep off-shoulder décolletage, a nipped waistline and a layered skirt with a tapering trail. It was heavily embellished in breathtakingly intricate floral designs of silver and bronze thread and was worked with sequins, beads, pearls, crystals and appliqué in every shade of burnt orange, crimson and garnet. The lehenga-like skirt was organza over silk taffeta, embroidery sweeping down its lines in arcs. Everything was topped off by a lace and chiffon dupatta veil, perched on her swept-up hair, in gradations of gold and crimson with scallo
ped, heavily embellished edges.
She stood gazing at herself as the ladies adorned her in the priceless pieces of Sarayan treasure, which they thought were part of her shabkah, but in reality would only be on loan. The centerpiece of the collection was a twenty-four-karat gold necklace that spread over her collarbones and cascaded to fill most of the generous décolletage tapering just above her barely visible cleavage. It was the most amazing and delicate lacy pattern she’d ever seen in a piece of jewelry, inlaid with diamonds and citrines, with a gigantic bloodred ruby in the center of the design.
The other pieces matched the necklace’s delicacy and intricacy, from the shoulder-length earrings to the tikka headpiece, to the armband, web ring and anklet. By the time she was adorned in everything, she looked like a walking exhibition, but had to admit—she looked fantastic. If no one noticed the shadows in her eyes, that was.
But even those were obscured by the makeup Aliyah applied. When Aliyah stood back and said, “Voila!” Jala could barely recognize herself.
“Ya Ullah, Aliyah,” she groaned as she stood up. “Mohab will probably ask you what happened to his intended bride!”
Laughter rang around the chamber as Aliyah revolved around her one last time to ensure everything was in order. “You’re just not used to putting any makeup on. You look exactly as you always do, but with a little emphasis.”
“A little? I look like a makeup ad!”
“We women need something extra to face cameras, not like those men of ours who look fantastic in any conditions. But since you’re the most beautiful woman ever, all you needed was a brush of mascara, a line of kohl and a smear of lipstick.”
“The most beautiful woman ever, my foot!” Jala snorted.
Aliyah chuckled. “Being Kamal’s female edition makes you incontestably that to me. But then Mohab thinks so, too, and certainly not because you look like Kamal.”
“Are you ladies done making me and Mohab choke?”
Kamal. He was here to take her to her groom. And he was teasing them with the common belief that people choked when others talked about them.
He approached her, his eyes so loving, so proud, she was the one who choked and threw herself into his arms.
He hugged her off the ground, kissing her forehead. “My little, beloved sister—I am so happy you finally have someone to love you as you should be loved.”
There was no stopping the tears from gushing this time. All she wanted to do was burrow into his powerful, protective arms and sob her heartache to him. If only...
Aliyah pounced to separate them before Jala smothered her face in Kamal’s chest and spoiled all her efforts. “Postpone tear-inducing declarations to el sabaheyah, will you?”
Stepping away from Kamal, she feigned a smile. “If you think you’ll ambush me and Mohab tomorrow morning, pretending to congratulate us but really checking on the satisfactoriness of the consummation, you have another think coming.”
“I don’t care how old you are,” Kamal growled. “Or that you’re getting married. You’re my baby sister and I’d rather not hear about you and consummation in the same sentence.”
She poked him teasingly. “So you’re okay with knowing it’s happening, just don’t want to hear about it?”
Kamal shuddered. “One more word and I take you back to Judar and put you where no man can get his paws on you.”
Aliyah hooted. “My husband, the hopelessly overprotective brother.”
Jala smirked. “Hope he’s not as hopelessly old-fashioned a lover.”
Kamal mock growled and lunged at her.
Everyone continued to laugh as they left her chambers and proceeded to where both the wedding and joloos rituals were taking place, picking up her bridal procession on the way. Jala was relieved no one had thought her overwrought moments had been anything more than the prewedding jitters of a woman about to enter into a union that would change her life forever.
As it would. Just not the way everyone thought it would.
Then everything stalled in her mind as she entered the massive hall in the heart of the citadel. Farah had been right. She’d seen the preparations, but couldn’t have imagined how it would all come together.
Wrapped in the mist of musky incense, under the firelight of a thousand torches perched high on the stone walls in polished brass holders, the whole scene was a plunge into the most lavish eras of bygone empires, or even One Thousand and One Nights.
As her dazed glance swept the space, the details were almost too much to take in. Cascading satin banners with Jareer’s tribal insignias. Acres of tulle and voile wrapping around columns, raining from the hundred-foot-high ceiling and spanning the elaborate Arabesque framework. And the hall that Mohab had installed exploding with flower arrangements. The hundreds of people present looked like sparkling gems themselves in all kinds of finery, from lavish modern evening gowns and tuxedos, to costumes that belonged in a masquerade.
Then everything ceased to exist. In the depths of the hall, on top of a maroon-satin covered platform, with two elaborately carved and gilded ceremonial chairs at his back, there he stood. Mohab.
His hair is loose. It was the first thing that burst into her mind. He’d never worn it down in public before. But now it brushed the top of his massive shoulders, its thick luxury and vitality gleaming with sun strands in the firelight.
The second thing that impinged on her hazy awareness was that he was dressed like he had stepped out of the Arabian Nights. Like everyone in her bridal procession, his clothes had the same color scheme, if in much darker tones. A burgundy abaya cascaded from his shoulders to his feet over a gold-beige top embroidered in his tribal motifs. Dark maroon pants clung to his muscled thighs before disappearing into darker leather boots.
He looked like the embodiment of the might of the desert, the implacability of the fates. And he glowed. She swore he did. From the inside. With power and distinction. And she loved him with everything in her. Despite the harsh lessons of the past and the permanent injuries lying in the future.
An eruption of thuds made her lurch, even though she’d known it was coming. The matrons of the tribe began her bridal procession with a boisterous percussive zaffah that was a variation of what she was used to in Judar.
She snatched a look behind her at the older women with their chins and temples tattooed. One of them was two feet to her side, whacking away at a mihbaj wooden grinder.
Then others joined on all the local percussive instruments—the tambourine-like reg, the bigger jangle-free duff and the vase-shaped hand drum called a darabukkah. After that rousing introduction, melody players joined in, an evocative droning emanating from the string rababah, and the squealing of reedlike mizmar. Then voices rose, from all around, singing congratulations to the bridegroom for his incomparable bride.
She found herself rushing beside Kamal, powered by Mohab’s hunger that demanded her at his side. Once they were on top of the platform, her eyes clung to her most beloved people, Kamal and Mohab, locked in a firm embrace that exchanged pledge and trust, before withdrawing to grip each other by one hand, while their other exchanged her from brother to husband.
Then she was clasped tight to Mohab’s side, drowning in him, in the hyperreality of it all.
Putting his lips to her ears as the song continued, he whispered, “Do you know I play the darabukkah?”
The totally unexpected comment had her gasping, “Can I have a demonstration later?”
“Only if you promise to dance for me.”
She lurched as if he’d scalded her. And he had. He’d injected a whole scene of abandoned sensuality into her imagination. Of her, in an explicitly revealing belly-dancing costume, undulating in a fever to the carnal rhythm, getting hotter with every move before he pulled her on top of him, thrust up into her and rode her into oblivion....
The musi
c stopped, bringing her runaway imaginings to a grinding halt. Then the ma’zoon came forward to begin the marriage ritual. It was really happening.
Mohab took her hand in his and the cleric covered their clasped fingers in a pristine white cloth, placing his palm atop them and intoning the marriage declarations. They repeated only the last parts after him, each accepting the other as a spouse. As the cleric stepped away, she thought that was it and she’d managed to survive the ritual without further upheavals. But before she could move, Mohab took her other hand in his.
Looking soulfully into her eyes, his voice rang out to fill the hall, deep and reverent. “That was what any man pledges to any woman he marries. But my pledge to you is that you have all of me, have always had all of me and will always have all of me. All that I own, all that I do and all that I am.”
She stared up at him, nothing in her bursting heart and chaotic mind translating into words, let alone anything as evocative as what he’d just said. It was all she could do to remain on her feet as the crowd roared with applause again.
In a tumult over what he’d just said, wondering if it had been for show or if it could possibly be true, she watched the Aal Kussaimi tribe elder climb up onto the platform.
He announced that by the unanimous vote of all tribes of Jareer, Mohab was appointed as king of their land, with his heirs after him inheriting the title.
After that, she could barely register anything as the cacophony rose to deafening levels while every tribe elder came up to kiss Mohab’s shoulder and offer him the symbol of their tribe, pledging their allegiance and obedience.
Then only she and Mohab remained, and he was talking.
“By the responsibility you granted me, and the privilege you bestowed on me, as your king, I pledge I will rule with justice and mercy, doing everything in my power to fulfill your aspirations and achieve your prosperity.” He led her to the edge of the platform. “As my first decree as king of Jareer, I give you my one treasure to rule beside me, in her wisdom and compassion, your queen...Jala Aal Masood.”
