Prayer

One hundred and eighty leagues away, a caravan prepared to stop in the shade of a looming cliff. A contingent of soldiers led the pack, dressed in light weight armour that blended with the landscape well. Their horses were the biggest and the most resilient of the bunch – towering Akhal-Tekes with shiny, glistening coats of chestnut and bay. Far behind them were the supply carts carrying food, water, clothes, tents, and weapons. Then came the dignitaries and nobles – either officers of the court, or wealthy merchants and businessmen sitting in palanquins carried by massive barrel-chested men, forming a wall which separated the nobles from the common pilgrims.

Hidden among horses and carts and a swarm of people an unadorned palanquin was set on the ground. The first man who emerged from it was broad shouldered and of a towering stature. It was a miracle he could fit in the little palanquin at all. He wore a faded orange turban, his favourite, and had his mouth turned down at the corners. His skin was patchy and stained by the sun's unrelenting rays, making him look all the more menacing. His robes were a dull brown; economical, unadorned.

The second man was smaller, but much more imposing. He had an immaculately groomed moustache which curled slightly at the ends, and a warm smile on his face. His attire was dyed jet black.

"Don't look so grim, Khalid. More than half the toil is done." The shorter man's smile widened as he patted his friend's back. The servants who had been holding the palanquin were now assembled shoulder to shoulder in front of the two men, their heads bowed in respect.

"Rise. Go replenish yourselves."

The men rose and dispersed as if they had practised it a hundred times. When the two men turned to walk, a woman appeared out of thin air with two goblets of cool water and dried fruits on a silver tray. The men took the refreshments without so much as a glance to the girl, and continued on their way. All around them men dismounted their horses and began pulling out supplies from the saddles – fruits and bread, flasks with water and juice, fresh clothes and veils for the women, sweets for the children. It was time to rest. Soon enough the tents would be set up for the night.

"The men are too lax. Just because last year's Hajj was blessed with safe passage does not mean this one will be the same," Khalid said, his eye keenly seeking out someone in the crowd as he spoke.

"The men have more faith than you, Khalid," his companion said jokingly. Khalid raised his eyebrows, shocked to have his faith questioned, but the man simply chuckled. "Relax, my friend. For now, at least, when we are not on the move."

Khalid sighed, but the grim lines of his face remained unchanged. "I hope our sons are not frolicking. Yahya is beginning to pick up the Prince's bad habits." Khalid quickly caught himself. "Meaning no offence to you, Sayyidi al-Mansur." He bowed his head in reverence.

The Caliph of Arabia simply grinned. "Mecca will tame him, I'm sure."

Ж

The sun beat down on Khaya's back with all the ferocity of an open flame. Her sweat-soaked qamis clung to her skin, and her face blazed beneath the hood covering her head. Her arms were bound with a thin, coarse rope that bit into her wrists. With a little effort she probably could have snapped it, but seeing as she had no plan for what to do after her hands were free and her hood was removed, she didn't bother.

The Bedouin had thrown her on the back of his best horse like a sack of grain, and tied her to it, along with his own luggage. At first she had struggled against him, but it didn't take long for her to realise it was a fight she could never hope to win. And so she let him drag her through the sand, his deed shadowed by the safe cover of the night. The cool night air had been pleasant, and the ride had been more or less smooth, but now, as the sun reached its peak in the sky, Khaya felt like she was melting in an inferno. She hadn't eaten since the previous evening.

The Bedouin had stopped the horses at dawn, and laid out his mat on the sand to pray. Khaya could hear him muttering and mumbling lines from the Quran under his breath, while she remained on the horse, helpless.

Silently, Khaya cursed her mother for letting the nomad into their home. Into her room.

The horse jerked to a stop, and Khaya slid, pulling against the ropes that bound her to the horse. Her stomach ached – both from hunger and from being pressed into the horse's back for hours. She heard the Bedouin dismount from his horse, then a scratching noise of rope against rope, and suddenly she was free to move. Immediately she felt the Bedouin's hands around her hips, lifting her off the horse. Her feet touched the ground, and as soon as the Bedouin's hands let her go, she fell to her knees. The hood lifted to reveal a clear blue sky, and an endless expanse of dunes.

She could see nothing on the horizon.

The Bedouin busied himself with his luggage, pulling out a bag of dried fruit and a goatskin flask.

Khaya's stomach grumbled loudly.

"Thank you," she said, taking the nourishment from his hands like it was a gift from God. If the Bedouin was surprised by her gratitude, his expression remained hidden beneath the white cloth that veiled his face. The horses, Khaya's a sturdy black one, and the Bedouin's a brown, thinner one, shuffled about, their bodies glistening with sweat. The Bedouin fed them each a shiny red apple.

Khaya sat sprawled on the sand, stretching her legs as she chewed on the fruits with savage urgency. The water was cool against her lips, washing away the fatigue and pain. The Bedouin remained standing, watching her from a distance.

"Where are you taking me?" Khaya asked once she had finished eating. She was still famished, but her stomach ache had been somewhat soothed by the sweetness of the fruits.

The Bedouin's eyes narrowed, as if he couldn't understand her. Perhaps he couldn't – though their language was the same, he spoke in a different dialect. Khaya crossed her arms in consideration.

"Where are you taking me?" she said, careful with the pronunciation of each word, using the formal form throughout. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for some sign of comprehension on his face. Instead of replying, he sat down beside her. Khaya's hand moved to tuck away a wild strand of hair, and she realised she wasn't wearing her headscarf.

She spoke without thinking. "Can I please have my headscarf?"

This time the Bedouin looked at her with his eyebrows raised. After a heavy but short silence he said, "I don't see why not."

He stood up and rummaged in his luggage again, pulling out a long red linen cloth. Khaya tried not to reveal her distaste on her face. She always preferred black.

She took the scarf from him without a word and with quick, careful hands tied it, tucking the ends in to keep it in place. Now she felt a little more herself. With a new set of eyes, more alert and awake, she scanned the horizon. There was some sparse vegetation, and an obvious track in the dirt, carved by years of horses and men, but little else that could tell her where they were. Even if she had some sign, she had only ever seen a real map once in her life, when she was fourteen years old. She doubted she could recall even a single place on it now, four years later.

"Do not think of running. There is nothing for miles," the Bedouin suddenly said, catching Khaya by surprise.

She let out a short breath and hunched her shoulders. "I wasn't. I know I wouldn't survive even one night."

Khaya's hand went to her shoulder suddenly. She had felt no pain since the Bedouin had taken her. It was as if she had never been bitten.

The Bedouin tensed, watching her intently. How she had survived the snake's bite was still a mystery to him. "We are going to the Suq Almaki," he said, shaking Khaya from her pondering.

She frowned. "Suq Almaki?" A market? "When will we reach there?"

"Ten days. We will stop in a few towns for supplies."

A ray of hope lit up within Khaya. If she could somehow find a map, and someone to help her, she had a chance of getting home. "How far is the next town?" She kept her tone as neutral as possible, but her spirit clung to the hope.

"A day's journey north," the Bedouin said, impassive as ever. The headscarf masked Khaya well, so he couldn't make out her expression.

Khaya nodded absently. She just had to wait, and avoid getting on the Bedouin's bad side. It would not be too difficult. After a while it started becoming uncomfortably hot, so Khaya stood up and moved into the shadow of her horse. The Bedouin stood up immediately and grabbed her arm, thinking she was going to run. But she remained still.

"Can I ride behind you? I won't run," she said, voice soft and supplicating. The Bedouin eyes narrowed, looking for deceit in hers. His grip did not loosen around her wrist.

"I don't know how to control a horse," Khaya continued, "I'd just fall off if I tried to make it run. It's easier for both of us if I just sit upright."

The Bedouin's eyes softened, and Khaya's lips turned up at the corners beneath her veil. "Please?"

It took a moment longer than expected, but the Bedouin released her and stepped back. He cupped his hands together, and Khaya lifted herself onto the horse with his help. Once mounted, Khaya shifted in the saddle and turned to look behind her. There was nothing but the sparse greenery and the blindingly bright sky.

They resumed their journey.

Ж

As the hours passed Khaya got used to her horse. The Bedouin showed her how to hold the reins so she could control it, and every once in a while he would throw her an apple to replenish herself. It was not as bad as being tied up, at least.

When dusk fell over the sky Khaya could see the edge of a town in the distance. They had made good time. In a rush of excitement Khaya kicked her horse's flanks, and it burst forward. The Bedouin let out a cry of alarm as the reins slipped out of Khaya's hands, and the force of the horse's stride threw her off its back. She landed in the sand with a thump. Ignoring her, the Bedouin dismounted and ran after his stray horse, which had stopped a short distance away.

Khaya looked up, and her eyes widened. His own horse had been left unattended for a short moment. She could escape. Her chest tightened as she stood, the force of the fall only hitting her now, and her heartbeat quickened. The Bedouin had caught her horse and was guiding it back now. She had less than ten seconds.

Khaya reached her arm out to grab the reins, but the Bedouin's horse snapped its head up and let out a snort, stepping away from her. Its ears were pulled back sharply.

"What are you doing, girl?" the Bedouin yelled, running the rest of the way back, her horse trotting to keep up.

She had lost her chance. She quickly stepped away from the Bedouin's angry horse and brought her hands to her sides. "I thought he would run away too."

The Bedouin patted his horses neck to calm him down, then handed Khaya's horse back to her. "Beasts can sense intent, girl. Do not try anything." The Bedouin glared at her, but she ignored him, focusing on mounting her horse.

As they rode into the town the sky grew dark and the streets lit up. They stopped at an inn, where Khaya could finally wash herself and change her clothes. Only when she was sitting in her room, wrapping her headscarf around her, did she realise she had forgotten to perform the dusk prayer. She swallowed, feeling a sudden sense of dread. It disappeared as soon as she heard voices outside her door. The door opened, and a woman carrying a plate of food stepped inside. She placed the plate on the floor in front of Khaya, then turned to leave. Khaya's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. The woman nearly jumped at the contact.

"Where is the Be–" Khaya stopped herself. "My father? Where is my father?" Tonight she had a role to play.

The woman relaxed and turned around. "His room is just next to yours. He is probably there."

Khaya nodded and the woman left. Khaya sighed. The only thing she could do now was eat, then perform Maghrib with sincerity and hope that God could forgive her.

Her plate had two pieces of lavash and a bowl of curry. The faint scent of lime and advieh drifted up, but it did little to pull Khaya from her moroseness. There were some dates wrapped in a thin cloth, and a bit of salt at the edge of the plate. It was more than enough for her. The room itself was also somewhat of a luxury, with a comfortable mattress, an oil lamp, and a thin carpet. She also had a wash basin and a mirror. Her reflection looked ghoulish in the dim light of the oil lamp, with harsh cutting angles and deep hollows. She was frightened by it.

After finishing her food and putting the plate aside Khaya prayed. When she finished she blew out the oil lamp and climbed into bed. She let her eyes flutter closed. The grief was beginning to bubble behind her eyes like oil in a boiling cauldron, threatening to sputter and burst. Pinprick tears gathered around the corner of her eyelids, and a weight compressed her chest to the point of gasping.

"Oh, God, please save me," she sputtered through suppressed sobs. "Please."

That was enough to fell the dam, and the tears began flowing down her face like a river. She pressed the thin sheet against her mouth to dampen the sound of her cries as her energy drained with each subsequent breath.

After a time, having wiped her face on the sheet and slowed her breathing, staring up at the wooden ceiling it came to her.

"God does not burden a soul beyond than it can bear," she murmured.

Khayzuran got out of bed.

She focused on the sounds outside her door – footfalls, the thud of luggage, chattering voices, swishing robes. After her assessment she pulled on her sandals. She pressed her ear against the door, waiting for a sound. None came. With a gentle hand she lifted the latch and pulled the door open slowly. The hallway was empty, dark, and deathly silent.

She waited for five seconds, then stepped out of the room. With quick and careful steps she made her way down the stairs and towards the back entrance which led to the stables. Even before opening the door she could hear the swish of the horses' tails and their snorting breaths. She opened the door and was greeted with a cool breeze from the outside. It was a pleasant night.

There were a few lamps hanging from the posts, illuminating the horses' pens with a soft glow. At the far end was a little outpost for the stable boys. Doubtlessly there would be one there now. Khaya was counting on it. He would have the map she needed.

This is too easy, she thought.

She walked close to the posts, eyes on the lookout for her horse. It was a bigger than all the other ones at the stable, and had a characteristic white splotch on its muzzle. Even in the dark she would be able to spot it.

Upon reaching the end of the row she finally found her horse, asleep in the corner of its pen. With a sigh of relief she made her way to the outpost. A light shone through the cracks in the wooden doorway, and Khaya could hear voices. She just needed a map, and help with the saddle and bridle, then she could go home.

She opened the door to the surprised faces of two men.

"What are you doing here?" one of them asked. He was young and narrow framed, with light skin and big eyes. The other was big and broad shouldered and had thick eyebrows.

"I need a map," Khaya said, keeping her eyes on the younger man. He was probably only a few years older than her. Ghatrif's age.

"At this hour?" the bigger man chuckled and crossed his arms.

"Yes."

The men waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing. The bigger man shrugged and moved to the other end of the room.

"Anything else you need, girl?" he said, pulling out a rolled sheet of parchment from a drawer.

Khaya nodded. "Please help me saddle my horse."

The young man raised an eyebrow. "Why at such an hour, miss?"

Khaya ignored the question, taking the map from the other man's hand. "I'll pay you," she lied. "Please just go saddle my horse. The big one with the white mark on its face."

Both men blinked in surprise, then the young man left, presumably to do as she had ordered. Khaya looked up at the broad shouldered man and narrowed her eyes.

This is far too easy...

"Where are you going, little girl?" the man asked, peering down at the unrolled map in Khaya's hands. She could read the names of places, scratched onto the sheet using a reed pen that had obviously been far too sharp.

"Jorash," she said, following his gaze on the paper. Jorash was not written anywhere. "What is the fastest route?"

"Never heard of Jorash."

That hit Khaya harder than she thought it would.

"Okay. Where are we now?"

"Baysha. Right here." The man pointed at a small unnamed dot on the map. Khaya tapped her fingers against her thigh, deep in thought.

"Okay. How far could one travel on a horse at walking pace?"

The man took a moment. "About seven leagues if you only travel during daylight hours. At night its cooler so the horses have more energy. Probably ten leagues."

Seventeen leagues. Khaya frowned, trying to recall what the Bedouin had said to her the day before. A day's journey north? She was going backwards.

She looked back at the map. "Where would seventeen leagues south from Baysha be?"

The man put his finger on the scale at the bottom corner of the map and mumbled to himself. "It would be right about–"

His reply was cut off by the door opening. Khaya turned her head slightly, unfazed. "Are you done saddling the horse?"

There was no reply. Khaya waited for another second, then turned her head to see what the problem was. As the door came into her field of vision, she felt a sharp blow behind her neck. Black spots filled the room, and she lost her balance, falling off the chair.

"Tie her," someone said.

Khaya's eyes fluttered closed.

All for nothing.

Ж

She dreamt of the snake's eyes and the desert in the moonlight. When she finally awoke, it was on the back of her horse, upright, in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere she recognized, at least. Her hands were tied securely to the reins. The Bedouin was riding behind her, and straightened when he saw that she was stirring.

"Don't try anything stupid, girl."

Khaya cracked her neck and adjusted her grip on the reins so she was in control of the horse. She turned to look back at the Bedouin, whose face was covered with a white linen cloth. She was somewhat glad he had not pulled off her headscarf while manhandling her back into the inn at Baysha.

"When are we stopping next?"

The Bedouin trotted forward so they rode side by side. His face was uncovered. "Three days."

Khaya gave him another passive look, paying more attention to her grumbling stomach. She stretched her legs in the saddle. "Do you have food?"

The Bedouin's eyes narrowed visibly. "You'll starve till noon as punishment for trying to escape."

"Fine," Khaya said, feigning disinterest, "but if I die or fall ill, you'll arrive empty handed at the Suq."

The Bedouin's grip on the reins loosened slightly, and he regarded her with another sceptical look. "I think I will take my chances."

Khaya shrugged, still appearing not to care, but inside she felt annoyed. It seemed the Bedouin was smarter than she had first anticipated. Disheartened, Khaya leaned over so she was staring at her hands. If she violently flung herself off the horse, she could escape on foot... but she wouldn't get anywhere. She discarded the idea within moments of it forming.

What would her mother and siblings be doing at this moment? The thought came like a blow to the stomach, stealing her breath for a moment. Till now she had been thinking only about herself, about how to escape. She had paid no mind to her family, to what they were doing at this very moment. Were they looking for her? Had Ghatrif taken a horse and ridden out to find her? Did they think she was dead? Salsal was probably a mess. Khaya didn't know how her mother and brother would feel. Not knowing made her chest ache with a longing she never thought she would feel.

Khaya did not try anything, much to the Bedouin's relief, though not once did he let down his guard. Even when receiving food and water her hands were tied. The Bedouin was benevolent enough to untie her when she wanted to relieve herself. Even in that minute of freedom her mind was calculating a way to escape, but as the hours turned to days, her prospects began to dim.

At the second town, whose name Khaya failed to catch, they did not stop for the night. The Bedouin left Khaya tied to her horse at a stable where they didn't seem to find such an action odd, and went to get supplies for the rest of the journey. Here at least she didn't have the fear of the stable boys knocking her unconscious.

For now, it was enough.

Ж

Dusk came suddenly, plunging Khaya's room into darkness before she had the chance to finish her prayer. Today would be the seventh night after Khaya had been taken. They had taken shelter in the home of a benevolent smith for the night in the next village, comparatively smaller than the previous one, but far more lively and filled with activity.

"What is going on?" Khaya asked the Bedouin when they had finished praying. For the first time in a while she had left her face exposed, though her hair was still hidden away beneath her headscarf. "Why are there so many people here?"

"It's the first day of Hajj today, girl. Thousands upon thousands of pilgrims are travelling to the Holy City."

Khaya's eyes widened in equal parts of disbelief and wonder. The Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, was something she had only ever dreamed about in Jorash. Now she was here, so close to the Holy City that she could see the pilgrims heading out to fulfil their duty. Her heart felt heavy, and she suddenly wished she could join them on their journey.

After prayer she and the Bedouin sat outside the smith's house at a wooden table, each with a cup of fresh juice. They watched the passers-by in a silence which oddly enough, was not uncomfortable. Khaya was getting used to him, which was a sign that she was getting used to this.

Being away from home.

The prospect filled her with dread.

"Are we close to Mecca?" Khaya asked, trying to distract herself from her situation.

"Yes. Three more days."

Khaya's eyebrows knitted. "We are going there? I thought we were going to the Suq Almaki."

The Bedouin let out a laugh. "Girl, what do you think the Suq Almaki is?"

Khaya shifted on her stool, swishing the juice in her cup. "A market of some sort, obviously."

The Bedouin shook his head in what Khaya thought was amusement. His eyes lit up with a glint that made Khaya instantly suspicious.

Finally, he spoke. "The Suq Almaki is Mecca's slave market, girl."

Khaya felt her chest compress, as if her insides were slowly filling with sand. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe. The shock and disbelief was clearly registered on her face, unveiled and exposed for the world to see. She clenched her fingers into tight fists, hiding them in the fabric of her qamis so the Bedouin wouldn't see them. So she wouldn't see them. Now more than ever she wished her face was hidden behind a veil.

It was the only protection she had.