The archway was decorated with dazzling cerulean and turquoise mosaic tiles, with lines of scripture intricately hidden within the patterns. Two guards watched Khaya with curious eyes, as if they had never seen a woman walking alone in these halls.
"What is your business here?" One of them asked reluctantly.
Khaya kept her eyes down. "Afsa sent for me."
They looked at each other for a moment, then shrugged. "The servants' quarters are straight down the hall."
She bowed, and strode into the Barmaki compound, smiling beneath her veil. There were more colours on the walls here than any part of the palace Khaya had seen thus far. Yellows, pinks and greens swirling into each other on every wall, pillar, and alcove.
Khaya moved behind a pillar and closed her eyes. Far away, she heard chattering voices, the scrape of a finger on a page, and rushed footsteps. Her breathing slowed, and softer sounds came â the rustling of leaves, twittering birds, the beat of a butterfly's wing. Finally, she heard the bees.
She opened her eyes.
Focusing on the sounds of the garden, she made her way through the arcades and courtyards as if she had been born and bred within the palace walls. Finally she saw the narrow, scalloped arch which led to her prize. There were voices coming from the garden â two women, one of which was probably Atishi. Khaya sidled up to the edge of the opening and waited for a breath before entering. The air was balmy and filled with the thick smell of flowers. Khaya walked sideways with her back against a row of tall hedges, and scanned the bushels. Fruit trees and giant cacti stood side by side as if nature had intended it to be thus; black flowers bloomed from green stems and purple-streaked ferns grew as high as Khaya's shoulder. It was like entering a new world entirely.
"Yasmin, you should have told me you were coming."
Yahya's voice cut through the trees, and Khaya stopped in her tracks.
Why is he always following me...
"I didn't come here to see you," said Yasmin, voice sweet and lilting. "Besides, shouldn't you be with your other wife?"
"What?"
"She is talking about Prince Rehan," said Atishi.
Khaya clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh. Clearly she wasn't the only one who thought those two were attached at the hip.
Yahya clicked his tongue in annoyance. "He is negotiating with the Byzantines."
"Without you?" Atishi asked coldly.
Yasmin let out a deep sigh. "Such a waste of time. You could've just shaken the emissary's hand and we would have got everything we want. Why bother with the show?"
Do they think he is that incapable? Khaya thought.
She was nearing the end of the hedge cover, and still no sign of the flowers. A muttered curse left her lips as she crouched and craned her neck forward to surveil the flowerbeds.
"I suspect he wants to prove he doesn't need me."
There, in the far corner of the quilt of flowers â a small patch of purple blooms. Their petals danced in the breeze, carrying the sweet scent to Khaya's nose. Out of the corner of her eye she could make out the shape of the three Barmakis sitting on the other side of a wide pool covered in bright lotuses. With no more hedge cover she had no place to hide; if any of them glanced her way, it was over. Even her gift was useless. At lease if she had had Ayaan's hold of the wind she could create a distraction.
Khaya let the conversation drain into the background, keeping her eyes trained on her prize. She lowered herself onto her stomach and began crawling with painstaking slowness, praying with every bone in her body that they would not turn their heads. The scraping of her qamis on the cold stone was deafening to her ears, but finally she was close enough to reach out and grab the flowers. She ripped out a handful and stuffed it into the band of her breast wrap, and then another for good measure. The Barmakis were still deep in conversation as she slid back behind the hedge and breathed a sigh.
"I don't understand why you both have so little faith in him." said Yahya.
Yasmin clicked her tongue. "I'm not denying his capability, but you know how he gets when he's in a bad mood."
Khaya made her way back along the path and paused at the arch to make sure no one was watching, then slipped through. She did not care to overhear the rest of their conversation, and instead focused on getting out of the Barmaki compound. She followed the route back to where the guards were by listening for the clink of armour and the sighs of boredom, and soon enough she was out, crossing her arms over her chest and pressing the flowers into her skin. The last thing she wanted to do was leave a trail.
By the time she was back in her chambers, Khaya's chest had begun to sweat. She quickly unwound her wrap and stuffed the flowers into an empty incense pouch before allowing Zayan to enter. He came with a message from Ayaan, reminding her to be ready after the morning prayers.
Finally, she was going to have answers.
XX
Ibn Fakrid greeted Khaya with a smile when she entered his study.
"Welcome, al-Khayzuran bint Atta."
He stood from his desk and motioned for her to sit. The tea was already poured, steaming and fragrant in pure silver cups.
"I have what you asked for," said Khaya after taking her seat. She procured the incense pouch from the folds of her veil and opened it, revealing the flowers within. Ibn Fakrid reached his hand out to take it, but Khaya pulled back.
"The information first."
His gaze glittered with amusement. "Very well." He flourished his hand, and a young boy emerged from the shadows with a dusty scroll. Khaya wondered if he made them rehearse their entries and exits as the boy proffered the scroll to her.
Khaya unrolled it, and instantly her lips curved down in dismay. The words were written in the common script, yet they were incomprehensible. "What in the world is this?"
Ibn Fakrid chuckled. "It is Old Persian. The Barmakis are, after all, Persians by blood," he paused to take a sip of tea, and Khaya did the same. "The document is a mere formality. I have the translation right here." He tapped his temple and smiled.
Khaya folded the scroll and put it on the table. Her stare was hard, unrelenting.
"The first Barmakis were foreigners from the east. They had strange beliefs, but were vehement supporters of al-Saffah."
Khaya raised an eyebrow. "Al-Saffah?"
"Caliph al-Mansur's predecessor. The Barmakis helped him destroy a group of priests who worked for the Umayyads, called the Nizaris."
"Yes, I've heard of them. They have desert magic as well, don't they?"
He nodded. "The Barmakis took prisoners of war, and the children from those unions became the first to show signs of having special abilities. They were quickly adopted into the lines of succession and later used their powers to solidify their positions at court and expand their influence."
Khaya was beyond intrigued, yet none of this explained how she had developed her gifts. She sighed, and placed the pouch on the table. Ibn Fakrid took it and brought it up to his nose.
"I must admit, I did not expect you to succeed."
"I was lucky," she said. If it wasn't for the Prince's summons that night, she would have scoured every garden in the palace and returned empty handed.
Ibn Fakrid laughed. "Or perhaps what you call luck is not luck, but destiny."
A knock at the door pulled their attention. Ibn Fakrid stood and put the pouch of flowers in a drawer, which he then locked with the key around his neck. "That will be my next appointment," he said. "I look forward to doing business with you again."
Khaya rose without prompting and smoothed her abaya. Her muted beige garments made her look like just another merchant's daughter. She turned to the door, leaving the unreadable scroll on the table. It was no use to her now that Ibn Fakrid had revealed its contents.
"One more thing, al-Khayzuran sahiba."
Khaya looked over her shoulder as the doors swung open.
"Be wary of that family. They care for no one but their own."
XX
Ayaan did not play any tricks on the townspeople on their way back to the palace. Instead he tossed alms from the sacks on his horse's saddle: gold pieces, tarnished silver rings, pearl strings, and other shiny trinkets.
"My mother didn't want them anymore," he explained, "Usually she tells the maids to keep them or deposit them at the treasury, but sometimes I take a handful and do this." His cheeks were tinged red, but Khaya was beaming.
She would have expected one of his station to look at the commoners with scorn, but Ayaan smiled and waved and even bowed his head to the elders and women that they passed. Khaya saw the glint of gold as he pulled out a necklace from the satchel and passed it to a gangly girl, knowing well that such a gift could change her life. As they crossed into the inner city, murmurs rose behind them like a sandstorm on the horizon.
"Long live al-Barmaki."
She let the sound fade away and kicked her horse into a trot to catch up with Ayaan. They ambled on, and soon heard the drone of prayer from the royal mosque as they entered the palace gate. After a few moments Khaya squinted and surveyed the white marble walls, then turned her head. The line of trees on their left was unfamiliar, and there was no sign of any eunuchs.
"Ayaan, where are we?"
The boy didn't say anything. Perhaps he hadn't heard her.
"Ayaan?"
"Just follow me," he said as he dismounted. A stable boy had run up to help Khaya down and take their horses away. Ayaan led her up a staircase into a narrow arcade, and then turned into an airy hall with vaulted ceilings. The pillars were textured with intricate stucco designs and solemn hadiths. Khaya saw a group of women carrying baskets filled high with neatly folded linens emerge from the other end of the hall. They were dressed in blue-grey garments and had their hair tied in neat braids. When they saw Ayaan, they paused and stood off to the side, heads bowed in reverence.
Khaya's blood ran cold in her neck, but she did not stop walking. Soon they rounded a corner to reach a tall oak door, and Ayaan flicked a finger to raise the knocker. Khaya looked at his hands, twitching by his sides impatiently. She would not be able to outrun him, just as she would not be able to outrun the wind.
As the door opened, he looked up at her with mellow eyes. "I'm sorry, sahiba," he mouthed, then stepped aside to let her through.
She could hear a heartbeat inside the room, slow and steady.
"I'm going to kill you the next time I see you, Ayaan al-Barmaki," she said, and stepped into the darkness, praying that it wasn't to her death.
She was not surprised to see who was standing on the other side.
"Hello, Khayzuran," said Yahya.
They were in a cosy study, well lit by candles and richly decorated. The floor to ceiling shelves were packed with tomes of all sizes. There was a small writing desk off to the side, and a stained glass window behind Yahya. There was a low diwan in the centre of the room, which he motioned to.
"Shall we sit?"
Khaya's jaw hardened. "I'll stand."
Yahya shrugged and took a seat. There was little else to look at besides her eyes, cold and calculating as they were. "How was your trip to the outer city?"
"You knew from the beginning," she said through gritted teeth. Every sinew in her body was stiff with anger. All that effort... just to be caught.
All for nothing.
"Not from the beginning, but everything comes back to me eventually. Why did you seek out Ibn Fakrid?" He wasted no time in getting straight to business.
"What's it to you?" There was poison in her voice, and it amused him.
"You are poking your nose in my family's business," he said, then rose to close to short distance between them. He stared down at her, but her gaze was unrelenting.
She was no longer afraid of him.
"My only question is why."
She was silent for a long moment before answering. "The magic that runs in your family's blood has somehow made its way into mine. And I don't understand how, or why."
Yahya took half a step back. He had sensed no dishonesty in her voice. "That is impossible."
"How do you think I killed those serpents the night the Nizari's attacked us when I've never held a sword in my life?." Her voice was on the verge of pleading, and she hated it. She had nothing to prove to anyone.
Something jogged Yahya's memory. I heard them, she had said, but he hadn't believed her.
"Give me your hand."
No, she was going to say, yet her hand moved of its own accord. His fingers curled into her palm softly, and her heartbeat slowed.
What is he doing to me. She felt like something was tugging at her from within, itching to escape the confines of her skin.
"Do you possess desert magic?" he asked, but the words sounded far away.
"Yes," she replied, though it did not feel like she was the one saying it.
"How did you come to obtain it?"
"I don't know." Her voice was monotone.
He let go of her hand, expression inscrutable as ever.
"What did you do to me?" she snapped, taking a few steps away from him. He did not seem surprised by the reaction.
"I used my magic to see if you were telling the truth."
Khaya's insides twisted at the violation, her expression of distaste hidden behind her veil. Yet despite her unease, she was curious. "What is it? Your magic, I mean."
He shrugged. "Even after eighteen years I still don't quite understand it. My father thinks it's something like mind control, but that isn't how I feel when I use it." He drew his hand up and gazed at it. "I suppose it's like the moon, pushing and pulling against the tide of human will to move it in my favour."
His courtly parlance made Khaya groan inwardly. He let out a long breath then stepped around her and headed to the door.
"Wait..." she called reluctantly. "Will you help me?"
He turned his chin, and his profile cut against the doorframe like a painting. "I can try."
X
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