Empty Gardens

Khaya tapped her quill on the blank page, blotting ink everywhere. Only a week was left for Ibn Fakrid's deadline, and she was no closer to finding the flowers than when she returned from his den. Parviz knew nothing of the palace gardens, and Meia could not tell her anything even if she knew.

The ink was beginning to bleed. She capped the quill and ripped the ruined sheet out of her book.

It was time for a trip to the library.

By now the doormen had learned her face, and did not bat an eyelid when she greeted them. The clerk on duty was a youngster, hardly fifteen years old, but he was alert despite the slowness of the afternoon.

"Welcome, sahiba," he said softly but audibly, "how can I assist you?"

"I need to see a map of the palace."

The clerk nodded and hurried into the maze of shelves. Within five minutes he returned with an armful of rolled sheets. Khaya took them carefully and thanked the boy before heading off to a quiet alcove to peruse them.

When she opened the first one she was met with disappointment. It was a rendition of the palace from a bird's eye view, but offered no insight into the intricacies of the wings, halls, or more importantly, the gardens. Khaya went to the next one and was dismayed once again. This one had a floor plan but it was very rudimentary, only annotating the main wings, halls and entrances. Khaya gave the others a cursory glance before rolling them up again and returning them to the clerk. None of them were fit for her purpose.

"I need a bigger map, one which shows the palace gardens."

The boy pressed his lips together. "Hm, I think you should speak to the cartographers, we don't have many specialized maps here."

He directed her to a narrow hallway which led to a smaller, darker wing of the library. Dry, cracked parchment was stacked high on every shelf, soaking up moisture like the desert drinking rain. A few old men were stooped over their desks in deep concentration, holding strange pieces of glass which magnified the words on the sheet.

Khaya sucked in breath of dry air. These were the men who travelled far and wide to make sense of and document the world. The deserts, the cities, the nameless villages like her own. They would have seen more in five years than Khaya would in her whole lifetime.

"Sahib," she said, and tapped one of the men on the shoulder.

He looked up at her with listless eyes, and she saw that he was younger than she thought, merely tanned and weathered and tired.

"Yes, what do you want?" He spared no time for formalities, which was refreshing.

"I require a detailed map of the palace."

He grumbled and stood up, shuffling some papers on his desk before leading her into the shelves.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

She trailed behind him. "I just want to see where the gardens are, sahib."

He stopped in his tracks and looked down his nose at her. After a while he shook his head. "Nobles," he muttered.

They stopped at a shelf that was no different to the rest, where the cartographer carefully scanned the labels before opening one of the narrow drawers near the bottom. He pulled out a tightly rolled sheet which was almost as long as Khaya was tall, and led her back to the desks.

He unrolled the sheet with precise movements and care. It was clearly a trained art, handling such delicately preserved items.

Khaya couldn't stop her eyes from widening. If she had thought the other maps beautiful, then this was exquisite. It was incredibly detailed and yet neat, with ample space for labels and drawings to sit side by side in harmony. Parts of it were coloured, including red labels for the royal family's wing, orange squares by the stables, and green patches for the gardens.

"You cannot take this map outside, sahiba," the cartographer warned.

She nodded. "I will stay right where you can see me, sahib."

He helped her move the map to a clear desk where she sat and pulled out her notebook. After an hour of careful note-taking and annotation, she returned the map for it to be re-rolled and put away.

Finally, she was getting somewhere.

X

Khaya summoned Zayan and Meia not longer after returning to her chambers. They had a lot of ground to cover, but Khaya couldn't risk telling them what she was after.

"I want to see the gardens, all of them."

Zayan didn't seem suspicious. "Of course, Khayzuran sahiba. There are over thirty major gardens so it will take–"

Khaya shook her head. "I need to see them all within seven days. It's important."

"Seven days?! I guess that is possible, but it might get exhausting quite quickly. The palace is very big..."

Khaya smirked. "You forget I was a desert girl. I walked miles for a jug of water every day. I can handle this much."

Zayan quickly lowered his gaze. "Of course, sahiba. We can leave as soon as you are ready."

They departed almost at once.

Khaya snapped open her notebook, where she had drawn a rough rendition of the detailed map, with notes on how to quickly access each garden. Zayan and Meia were there as props, and in case she got lost.

The first garden was within the harem itself. It was meticulously maintained, but Khaya knew at once that she would not find what she wanted here – the flora was mostly large leafy ferns and white jasmines. There was nothing remotely resembling the flowers enclosed in the envelope. If it was any other day Khaya would have stopped to smell the jasmines and run her fingers along the drooping branches, but time was of the essence and so they quickly departed.

They sun fell by the hour as they jumped from garden to garden with no luck. Khaya was constantly entranced by the variety of shapes and colours, and the sheer creativity of the gardeners. Hedges carved to look like horses and lions, whole trees trained to bend into the vague shape of a chair, small flowers tied and arranged to look like giant ones, carved fountains where birds flocked in hoards. It was truly marvelous.

But with each garden came another stroke of bad luck. The flowers were eluding her like the blue moon, and so they moved on to the next, and the next.

"Khayzuran sahiba, may we ask what you are looking for?" Zayan had asked more than once.

"Let me worry about that, Zayan," she replied.

By dusk they had returned to her chambers to prepare for dinner. Many girls flocked to the great hall to eat together and gossip, but tonight Khaya ate alone. She needed rest and concentration for the days ahead.

Sitting in bed now, Khaya thought of the Prince for the first time since visiting the glass garden. He had escorted her back to her chambers, cracking jokes and passing witty comments all the while. It was so easy to speak to him, to breathe beside him without the fear of being judged. She touched the back of her left hand, where he had planted a kiss to wish her goodnight, and her cheeks warmed.

In her dream, she fell into a maze of flowing silks. Between the gaps she glimpsed two figures, a boy and a girl holding hands.

They were looking for her.

X

Three days later, and still no luck.

Khaya cursed as they returned to her chambers empty handed once again. Zayan and Meia were still clueless as to what she was after, and made no attempt to ask. Khaya threw her notebook on the bed and yanked off her veil as Meia hurriedly left to bring her food. Zayan lingered by the doorway.

"Leave me," she said, waving him off.

She paced the room for a while, sat down, stood again.

After a short while Meia returned with a heavy platter of spiced lamb, roasted sweet potato, and an ample serving of baklava. She set the food down on the table and left Khaya alone to eat. The meal was a delight, and pulled Khaya away from her worries for a few long moments. The baklava was a treat she had not tried before; sweet and sticky and crunchy and full of warmth.

She leaned back in her chair, sated, and the worry began to creep up again. There were still fifteen gardens left. It would be manageable in the three days remaining, but if the flowers were still not found by then...

Khaya let out a deep sigh and moved to the cupboards to change for bed, though she didn't think sleep would come to her tonight.

A sharp knocking at the door startled her just as she pulled on her chemise. She crossed her arms over her chest and dashed across the room to the safety of the bed sheets.

"Yes?" she called once she was buried in the silks.

"Khazyuran sahiba," Zayan's high voice rang through the door, "forgive me for the disturbance, but the Prince has called for you."

Khaya's heartbeat rang in her ears.

At this hour?!

"Okay, come in and help me get dressed."

She clutched the sheets against her chest and watched Zayan glide into the room. "I'm afraid we must hurry, sahiba, he insisted it is urgent."

Khaya nodded and reluctantly peeled the sheets off her body while Zayan went straight to the cupboards. He pulled out a qamis set with a matching veil and draped them over the screen across the room.

Thoughts whirred through Khaya's head as she dressed herself in the deep blue garments. The qamis had balloon sleeves made of a delicate translucent silk, all but exposing her arms. The veil was of the same fabric, dotted with a shimmering silver motif. It made her hair look like the night sky covered in twinkling stars.

Within moments of pinning her veil in place Zayan ushered her out the door where another attendant was waiting – presumably the messenger who had delivered the summons.

As the men led Khaya through the halls to where the Prince beckoned, a silent pair of pale eyes watched from afar, then disappeared into white smoke.

X

An attendant refilled the Prince's goblet for the fourth time.

"Their names are so difficult to pronounce," he said to Yahya, who had just come away from a group of courtiers.

"On that we can agree."

The Byzantine emissary and his retinue stood opposite the pair, deep in discussion with the Caliph via a translator. The reception hall that greeted them was filled to the brim with Emirs and lesser lords aiming to bag favour with the foreign dignitaries and of course, the Caliph himself. Their wives and daughters were in attendance as well, their kohl-lined eyes darting from one eligible bachelor to the next.

There was treasure here for everyone looking for it...

Except for Rehan al-Mahdi, it seemed.

He took a sip of wine, letting it swish around his mouth to savour the sharp, bitter taste, as he eyed the Byzantines. Their faces were pasty, cheeks smeared scarlet from the wine, and they held themselves tall. Their swords were long and straight and polished to perfection, but there was little creativity in the design.

The emissary himself was a plump man with a snub nose and big grey eyes. Rehan had exchanged a few words with him earlier in the evening before quickly excusing himself from the dullness of the interaction. The man was probably interesting, but through the translator and the added vagueness of courtly speech, it was a pointless exercise.

Besides, he knew that at some point the Byzantines would be sent to bed with a few scantily clad girls, and their minds would be supple and soft to mould to the Caliph's will in the morning.

Now his goblet was almost empty again. Rehan sighed and looked at Yahya, who was stoic as ever.

He glanced at the Prince without turning his head. "You are drinking more than usual."

Rehan rolled his eyes. "There is nothing better to do." After a pause he added, "At least until Khayzuran gets here."

This time Yahya turned, brows knitting in confusion. "Khayzuran? Why is she coming here?"

The Prince cocked his head. "I told you I was bored the moment I got here."

"So what is she going to do? Entertain you?"

"Yes."

Yahya wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You cannot flaunt your concubine in front of dignitaries, Sayyidi."

"Oh?" a smile played across Rehan's lips, "Are you presuming to tell a Prince what he can't do, Emir Yahya?"

Yahya glared but did not answer. Rehan merely laughed, breath laced with wine and humour. "Don't be so tense, hardly anyone knows she exists."

"The whole harem knows, your family knows, my family knows. That's a third of everyone in this room."

Another eye-roll. "Stop being so pedantic. Besides, I haven't even bedded her, so she is more like a friend than a concubine."

Yahya's eyes narrowed. "Why not? Was something wrong with her?"

"Of course not, she is a jewel."

"Then what?"

Rehan chuckled. "I don't remember you being so interested in this when I married Rayta."

Yahya cleared his throat. "I didn't mean–"

"She simply wasn't inclined to it that night." He drained the last remnants of wine from his goblet and murmured, "Besides, she is worth more than that."

As if fate had overheard their conversation, an attendant scurried to them and whispered in the Prince's ear. His mistress had arrived.

A grin pulled at Rehan's lips. "Forgive me, Yahya. I wish you luck with the mongrels."

The Prince disappeared into the crowd in search of his lover.

No, his friend.

X

Khaya was shocked when she entered the grand hall. Almost a hundred people's breaths filled the air with warmth and merriment. Men dressed in fine robes and embroidered tunics debated animatedly, throwing their arms up and splashing their drinks. Women walked among them, sometimes engaging them in discussion. Some even wore their hair open in flowing locks for all to see.

Zayan jumped when he saw the Prince all but pushing through the crowd and whispered the fact to Khaya before melting into the shadows.

The Prince sauntered towards her. He wore a delicately patterned crimson qamis beneath his ebony kaftan, which flowed behind him like a river. A dagger in a jeweled sheath hung at his hip, the same dagger Khaya had used to save him from the desert serpents.

"I am pleased you decided to come."

He said it as if it was a request she could have denied, but she played along.

"Of course, Sayyidi." She bowed her head. "Where else would I be?"

Rehan's lips pursed. "Probably in bed, asleep? Or reading one of those books you are so fond of."

Khaya smiled beneath her veil, glad that he chose to be himself despite all the people around them. "I'd much rather be in your company."

He grinned. "And I in yours. You have no idea how bored I have been for the past two hours."

"What is all this for? I was surprised to be brought here instead of your chambers."

Rehan's lips pursed. "We are welcoming the Byzantine ambassador and his lackeys," he motioned towards them, "It is all just a big show to impress them."

Khaya watched the group of foreigners, fascinated by their clothes and faces and stiffness. She had almost forgotten how big the world was.

"Come, Khayzuran," the Prince said, holding out an arm.

She took it, mindful of the eyes that turned towards them. They walked around the room leisurely, Rehan stopped to greet people at times – ministers and priests and qadis and soldiers. No one so much as looked at Khaya, which she was glad for. The Prince entertained her with stories and anecdotes of each man after they were out of earshot, eliciting a laugh or a smile from Khaya every time.

A servant passed them carrying a tray of goblets filled to the brim, and Rehan plucked one without so much as breaking step.

"Would you like some?" His eyes were bright and his smile broad when he offered her the glass.

A heavy, pungent smell filled her nostrils, and her expression turned sour.

"Is this wine?"

"Yes," the Prince chuckled, "You don't have to have it if you don't want."

Khaya sniffed the drink again. She caught something sour, woody, and mellow within the complex layer of scents. She turned away from the Prince and pulled her veil to the side to take a sip.

The wine sprayed from her mouth and she bent over in a fit of coughs. Rehan's arm was around her in an instant, but he could not help but laugh.

"Are you alright, Khazyuran?" He touched her chin over her veil, now stained red with wine, eyebrows knitting in concern.

"That is disgusting." She coughed again and cleared her throat.

He stifled a laugh. "I'll get you some water, stay here."

Before she could protest he darted away. She pulled her veil down from her nose and readjusted her headscarf, then turned to watch the room. Her mind wandered, eyes losing focus as her thoughts returned to the gardens she had yet to search, but all at once she snapped to attention as a hand grazed her shoulder.

Her muscles unknotted when she looked up into Rehan's twinkling eyes.

The water was cool and soothing in her mouth, washing away the bitter aftertaste of the alcohol. As she tilted the glass up to drain it, her eyes caught a figure in the corner of her vision.

Yahya al-Barmaki stood across the room, dressed in rich indigo robes that matched her own. He almost looked soft in the glowing lamplight, deep in conversation with someone obscured by a pillar.

Khaya breathed a sigh and placed the empty glass on a high table, then took Rehan's arm again. As they walked, the figure behind the pillar came into view. She was short with dusky skin, and wore a pale grey kaftan over a cerulean underskirt. When she moved, the fabric rippled with sparkles, but what caught Khaya's eye was her hair, flowing in light waves down her back and framing her narrow face.

There were flowers pinned in her locks.

Small and fragile and purple.

Khaya stopped walking.

"Who is that?"

"Hm?" Rehan followed her gaze. "You mean Atishi?"

Khaya memorized the name. "Atishi..."

"She is Yahya's wife," Rehan clarified.

Khaya nearly gaped.

So, this is her... the one he picks flowers for.

"I couldn't believe it either," he said, seeing her expression of surprise. "Hard to imagine him in the throes of passion, isn't it?"

Khaya burst out laughing. "Yes, it is. I can't imagine him loving anyone."

Rehan's eyes softened. "He has a strange way of doing it, with his incessant nagging and unsolicited advice."

"He seems more like your wife than Princess Rayta at times," Khaya quipped.

The Prince burst out laughing, and moments later she joined in.

Just then Yahya's eyes flicked towards them, and they jumped, half surprised half amused. They quickly looked down to hide their grinning mouths as Yahya took his wife's hand and disappeared into the crowd.

Rehan and Khaya both breathed a sigh of relief. They continued their slow walk around the room, keeping to themselves this time.

The Prince blinked slowly. The wine in his blood was starting to lull him. He looked at Khaya's face, now free from the stained veil. Her eyes were bright and alert and unlined, lips tinged crimson from the wine. She tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, and they stood that way for a while, observing every line and curve and shadow of the other's face.

He turned away first, eyes searching for the Byzantines. Their numbers had dwindled, and the emissary was nowhere in sight.

"I am tiring of this place," he finally said, and took her hand. He led them through a side door the servants were using to slip in and out unseen. Some of them gasped upon seeing the Prince emerge unexpectedly and rush past them. Soon they were in a quiet hallway lined with arches, still hand in hand. A breeze tickled Khaya's arms through the thin fabric of her sleeves, and blew Rehan's kaftan out behind him in waves.

"Why were you so curious about her?" he asked.

"I was wondering why she doesn't wear a veil like the other girls."

Not a lie, but not the truth.

"Hm, I'm not sure," he scratched his cheek, "I guess she just doesn't want to. Yahya doesn't seem to care about those things anyway."

"And do you?" She slowed to a halt, waiting for his answer.

He bit his lip. "I don't care for veils." He let go of her hand and gently touched the edge of her headscarf. "Yet here you are, with your hair and face always hidden away."

His eyes were different now, longing, searching.

Hungry.

"You can command me to remove it," she breathed, painfully aware of his gaze.

He slipped his fingers beneath the edge of her headscarf, warming her cheek. She sucked in a breath when he ran his thumb over her lips, pulse thudding in her ears.

"Where's the fun in that, Khaya."

He tilted her chin up and kissed her.

X