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Authors: Lisa J. Yarde
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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Niranjan entry at al-Quasaba .
As they moved beyond the citadel’s double walls, where her father’s soldiers patrolled the stone parapet walkways, she whispered, “Please, dear God, don’t let it be too late.”
Prince Faraj
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
Faraj lingered in the shadowy recesses of the council chamber, pacing the stonework floor. The call to prayer reverberated through the thick masonry of the walls. It was the second time he had heard it since his arrival in Gharnatah during the early morning. He had observed his ablutions and the rituals of Salat al-Fajr with a reverence and calmness he had never felt before. Was this how it felt for all who faced their ending? Did the same peace wash over them? He pondered this and his parting with Fatima.
He had forced himself from her side at Malaka, when his mind screamed a warning that he should listen to her pleas. She had never led him astray before, his most dutiful and loyal companion. Yet, he knew he could not forsake his convictions, even if it meant losing her forever. His sole regret was the bitter accusation simmering in her expression. She had fought for him before, accepted his lies. No one had ever recognized his frailties and loved him despite them.
Jumbled thoughts vied with each other. She was right. There was still time. He could return to her and their children, even if only for a brief moment. They might even escape together.
Still, he clenched his fists at his side, his feet rooted to the floor. Where could they go that the Sultan would not find them? How could he condemn his beloved and their children to a life of exile?
His determination wavered as time wore on. How long would the Sultan keep him waiting?
Only Khalid stayed at his side, leaning against one of four slender columns in the room. The faint golden glow of a central lantern at the apex of the columns provided the barest light, enough to illuminate Khalid’s ever-present scowl. The rest of Faraj’s men waited at al-Quasaba . He had dismissed them at Malaka, determined that they would not share in his folly. For the first time, they had disobeyed his orders.
A door at the northern end of the mashwar creaked. Khalid stood at attention and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. Faraj shook his head and the captain’s fingers relaxed.
Muhammad II, Sultan of Gharnatah strode into the room, a row of his personal bodyguards on either side of him. Musk and ambergris wafted through the air with each footfall. Reverent admiration filled Faraj, coupled with the sensation of dread prickling along his spine. His resolve crumbled before the majesty of his father in-law.
The Sultan neared his fifty-ninth birthday, but he moved with a confident and purposeful stride that belied alterations brought on by age. Gray streaks lined the length of the Sultan’s once dark hair, now curling at the nape. Small, dark blotches marked his sallow skin. Like Faraj, he also dyed his full beard with henna. Richly embroidered tiraz bands decorated the billowing sleeves of his green jubba . The sleeves nearly hid hands glittering with several gold rings. A silken cord trimmed at the ends with gold braid belted the jubba neatly at his trim waist.
Faraj fell on both knees, as did his captain. Both bent double until their heads touched the floor.
An interminable time passed while Faraj waited, in which the Sultan’s raspy breathing filled the room. Faraj did not dare look up until his master acknowledged him. Then silken robes shuffled across the stonework before a shadow fell over him.
“You dare….” A hoarse wheeze escaped the Sultan. “You dare come before me, traitor. Did you forsake the campaign at Tarif? Has your treachery cost me that city? Look me full in the face and tell me you have not betrayed me. Stand up and answer, man!”
Faraj’s heart pitched inside his chest, but he stood and met the Sultan’s hawk-eyed
As they moved beyond the citadel’s double walls, where her father’s soldiers patrolled the stone parapet walkways, she whispered, “Please, dear God, don’t let it be too late.”
Prince Faraj
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
Faraj lingered in the shadowy recesses of the council chamber, pacing the stonework floor. The call to prayer reverberated through the thick masonry of the walls. It was the second time he had heard it since his arrival in Gharnatah during the early morning. He had observed his ablutions and the rituals of Salat al-Fajr with a reverence and calmness he had never felt before. Was this how it felt for all who faced their ending? Did the same peace wash over them? He pondered this and his parting with Fatima.
He had forced himself from her side at Malaka, when his mind screamed a warning that he should listen to her pleas. She had never led him astray before, his most dutiful and loyal companion. Yet, he knew he could not forsake his convictions, even if it meant losing her forever. His sole regret was the bitter accusation simmering in her expression. She had fought for him before, accepted his lies. No one had ever recognized his frailties and loved him despite them.
Jumbled thoughts vied with each other. She was right. There was still time. He could return to her and their children, even if only for a brief moment. They might even escape together.
Still, he clenched his fists at his side, his feet rooted to the floor. Where could they go that the Sultan would not find them? How could he condemn his beloved and their children to a life of exile?
His determination wavered as time wore on. How long would the Sultan keep him waiting?
Only Khalid stayed at his side, leaning against one of four slender columns in the room. The faint golden glow of a central lantern at the apex of the columns provided the barest light, enough to illuminate Khalid’s ever-present scowl. The rest of Faraj’s men waited at al-Quasaba . He had dismissed them at Malaka, determined that they would not share in his folly. For the first time, they had disobeyed his orders.
A door at the northern end of the mashwar creaked. Khalid stood at attention and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. Faraj shook his head and the captain’s fingers relaxed.
Muhammad II, Sultan of Gharnatah strode into the room, a row of his personal bodyguards on either side of him. Musk and ambergris wafted through the air with each footfall. Reverent admiration filled Faraj, coupled with the sensation of dread prickling along his spine. His resolve crumbled before the majesty of his father in-law.
The Sultan neared his fifty-ninth birthday, but he moved with a confident and purposeful stride that belied alterations brought on by age. Gray streaks lined the length of the Sultan’s once dark hair, now curling at the nape. Small, dark blotches marked his sallow skin. Like Faraj, he also dyed his full beard with henna. Richly embroidered tiraz bands decorated the billowing sleeves of his green jubba . The sleeves nearly hid hands glittering with several gold rings. A silken cord trimmed at the ends with gold braid belted the jubba neatly at his trim waist.
Faraj fell on both knees, as did his captain. Both bent double until their heads touched the floor.
An interminable time passed while Faraj waited, in which the Sultan’s raspy breathing filled the room. Faraj did not dare look up until his master acknowledged him. Then silken robes shuffled across the stonework before a shadow fell over him.
“You dare….” A hoarse wheeze escaped the Sultan. “You dare come before me, traitor. Did you forsake the campaign at Tarif? Has your treachery cost me that city? Look me full in the face and tell me you have not betrayed me. Stand up and answer, man!”
Faraj’s heart pitched inside his chest, but he stood and met the Sultan’s hawk-eyed
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