Dreams of Colour

________

In the bright firelight the Prince looked fearsome, his black and red kaftan billowing around him like a suit of armour, chest bare and broad, sword brandished, poised as if to strike Khaya down. She did it for him, knees buckling as she fell to the ground, fatigue suddenly twisting around her limbs.

"Prince Rehan!" someone called out.

Khaya looked up and made to stand, but a hand closed on the back of her neck and held her down. A pair of arms seized each of her wrists, pulling them back with such force she let out a shrill cry. Panic rose in her like a desert wind picking up speed, and she shot the Prince a wide-eyed, pleading look. She was certain their eyes met for an instant, but he pretended not to look, instead turning to where the dead snake lay in the sand. The jewelled hilt of his dagger glittered even in the dim light. He bent down and pulled it out, inspected it closely, and wiped away the blood with his kaftan. He looked at Khaya again, and sauntered towards her. A group of observers was slowly forming around the clearing, and whispers filled Khaya's ears, softer than before, but ever present.

The Prince waved a hand at the guards restraining Khaya, beckoning them to follow him into a small red tent. They yanked her up by the scruff of her collar, catching her hair painfully in their grip, and dragged her across the sand. At first she struggled, but they only tightened their fingers around her, stopping the blood in her veins completely. As soon as the tent flaps closed around them they threw her to the ground, her body thudding against the thin carpet. Other than a few chairs and a table with some papers splayed on it the tent was bare. The Prince was sitting on a high backed chair, legs splayed out, elbows resting on the armrests. His kaftan framed his body beautifully, as if draped on an elegant statue. In candlelight his features were drawn too severely – cheeks too hollow, eyes too stern. The muscles of his torso were taut, even as he sucked in a deep breath.

"Bring the Vizier," he said, voice low and heavy with fatigue. Or was it disinterest? Khaya could not tell.

All three of the guards left, leaving Khaya alone with the Prince of Arabia in a tent no bigger than her bedroom back in Jorash.

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

"Now," he leaned forward, "what have we here?"

Khaya wanted to pull a veil over her face, hide the fear painted on it so clearly. The Prince's mouth pulled into a smile, softening his features. He was looking right at her, right into her. She lowered her eyes, focussing on his left collar bone.

"Stop your cowering and tell me your name." He barely raised his voice, but it was enough to send shivers down Khaya's spine.

She swallowed before answering, "Al-Khayzuran." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Al-Khayzuran?" The Prince opened his mouth wide as he said it, feeling each letter on his tongue. "I am Rehan al-Mahdi."

Prince of Arabia, he forgot to add.

"Al-Khayzuran, You have done me a great service by saving my life," he said, leaning back into his chair. "However..."

He brandished a knife from nowhere Khaya could see, its blade glinting with malice.

"If you do not tell me what demonic power you used to kill those snakes, I'm afraid you will not be leaving this tent."

She couldn't move, couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Demonic power?

"I... I didn't... I wasn't thinking, I just–"

He let out a breathy laugh. "You expect me to believe it was instinct? Even a fool could see you knew where each of those filthy black things were hiding."

He tapped his finger on the hilt of the dagger, eyes patient, never leaving hers.

Khaya tried to think.

She hadn't been trying, there was no effort in her movement. It had been as natural as prayer. But she hadn't known where they were... No...

Her mouth fell open.

I heard them. The hissing, the slithering... I heard it–

Out of nowhere the Prince stood up, waving the blade carelessly, and Khaya jerked back. He took a threatening step towards her, and she sunk further into the carpet, curling around herself.

"Tell me how you killed them, girl," he growled and twirled the blade his hand, restless, curving his body over hers.

"Rehan, she's mine." a voice carried through the tent flaps, and Khaya's shoulders sagged in relief.

It was Yahya al-Barmaki.

Ж

"You've put me in the most humiliating position imaginable, Yahya."

Yahya rolled his eyes and gave Khaya a hand. She stood and dusted off her qamis.

"I'm sorry," Rehan said.

Khaya blinked, not sure if he was speaking to her or Yahya.

"She accepts your apology," Yahya said, not waiting for her to speak for herself. She shot a look at the back of his head, jaw clenching. "More importantly, the soldiers are saying it's the Nizaris."

"Those infidels," Rehan spat, "How dare they come near the pilgrimage route."

Nizari? Khaya didn't recognise the word, so she put it away in the back of her mind as something to ask about later.

"Several people have died, including three children..." Yahya said, avoiding Rehan's eye, as if it was somehow his fault they had been attacked. For all Khaya knew maybe it had been.

"Where is my father?"

Yahya seemed completely unfazed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure. I was going to find him after making sure you were unharmed."

Rehan forced a laugh. "Ever the concerned servant, Yahya al-Barmaki. You work too hard and trust me too little."

"If I had trusted you tonight you would have killed Khaya," he replied, cocking an eyebrow.

"Khaya?" Rehan's gaze moved from Yahya to her, but he said nothing further. "Let's go," he said, but it was Yahya that led them out of the tent and across the clearing.

The Caliph stood there in his jet black robes, a tall and menacing man standing beside him – the Vizier. He casted a long brooding look over the wreckage from the attack: several tents had collapsed, horses lay moaning and whinnying on the ground, several wounded men trudged along to receive treatment – it was as brutal as any war camp Khaya could have conjured in her mind's eye, perhaps worse from the presence of women and children.

Khaya turned to see Princess Rayta sauntering towards them. Her saffron qamis was stained with blood splatters, but she seemed unconcerned. Khaya quickly bowed, but Rayta walked past her as if she hadn't existed at all.

"Princess," Yahya said, tilting his chin in greeting.

"What happened?" Rehan asked, not looking at her.

"They had sent a couple of assassins. One of the squires was hit, but I took care of it before they could deliver the killing blow," Rayta said, hand fiddling with the hilt of her sword.

"And the rest of them?" Yahya asked.

"All taken care of by my men."

He nodded, eyes unfocussed and distracted. "Let's get back inside somewhere and speak to the Caliph," he said. Rehan and Rayta nodded, making their way to where the Caliph and the Vizier stood discussing something in hushed tones.

A hand fell on Khaya's shoulder, keeping her in place. Yahya bent down so his mouth hovered by her ear.

"If you go anywhere near him before we reach Baghdad, your will be gagged and thrown into the fruit cart, understood?"

His voice was so low and menacing, Khaya's blood froze in her hands. She barely managed to nod.

As they made their way back to her tent, his hand still firmly gripping her shoulder, they passed the hovering figure of the Vizier, still surveying the clearing. His gaze fell on them, and he raised a brow in curiosity.

Over the dunes, a cold wind caressed the sands like a mother's kiss. A hooded figure sitting atop an ivory horse watched the fires being put out in the camp with a glassy white eye.

Until next time, little serpent.

Ж

They had picked up the pace.

Khaya had been confined to a less ostentatious tan palanquin, her every move closely watched by members of the Barmaki Guard. The days passed in a monotonous daze, the blazing yellow sun sapping everyone's strength by day, and the cold white moon replenishing it by night. The only person Khaya was allowed to really meet was Afsa. Even Meia had been whisked away to other duties. Afsa was pleasant enough company, but she did little to satisfy all of Khaya's burning curiosities.

"The Nizari are non-believers," she said. They were sitting in the shade of a towering boulder while the horses stopped for a drink. She was pitting dates and putting them into little sacks to be distributed amongst the noble escorts later on. Khaya did her best to help, but was only half as fast.

"Surely there is something more to them than that?"

Afsa cocked her head to the side, but her hands never stopped moving. "All I know is that they were banished to the desert after some long forgotten war."

They surely haven't forgotten, Khaya wanted to say, but held her tongue when she saw the swishing white tail of Yahya al-Barmaki's mare. He held the reins in his hand and led her towards the two girls, expression unreadable behind his grey veil. Afsa stood and made to bow, but jumped in surprise when he handed her the reins.

"Give her something sweet," he said by way of dismissal. Afsa nodded and picked up a handful of raw dates, pulling the massive animal away from them. Yahya pulled his veil down and pointed at one of the bags in front of Khaya. She quickly handed it to him and made to stand.

"Don't. It will only make you stand out."

He popped a sweet grape into his mouth, the satisfying crunch filled Khaya's ears. This was the first time they had been alone since that night with the snakes and Rehan almost stabbing her in the eye. She didn't know what to say, or how to say it.

After swallowing the fruit he asked, "So, are you going to tell me how you killed those snakes?"

Khaya's throat tightened. Yahya was not in the position to behead her at the moment, so it would be safe to tell the truth. But she wanted something in return...

"Not unless you tell me what exactly they were, Emir Yahya. Those were no ordinary desert creatures." She willed her face into steel as she spoke, presenting the illusion of confidence.

Yahya's face was a mask of calm, yet he was inwardly taken aback by her audacity. He decided to humour her. "They were charmed. Bred by Nizaris of the Alqatala sect for targeted assassination, as you so intimately witnessed."

Another unfamiliar word: Alqatala.

But she had already learned many things: The Nizaris specialised in assassination, they could somehow charm snakes to do their bidding, and they were powerful enough to infiltrate a heavily guarded, densely populated camp without raising suspicion – until it was too late.

"What do they want?"

Yahya crossed his arms, the punnet of grapes dangling from his loose grip. "That isn't fair. I answered your question, now you must answer mine."

"With all due respect, Emir, that was the first question I asked since this conversation began."

Yahya's lips parted in disbelief, but he realised she was right. A smile slowly spread across his face. "Be careful, Khayzuran. Not many people will be as forgiving as I if you don't keep that tongue in check."

Khaya's gaze didn't waver. Now he was more than taken aback, he was impressed. She did a remarkable job of hiding her shaking fear.

"Their motives are shrouded in mystery. All I know is that they do not work for coin," he said, and offered her a grape. "Will you be gracious enough to answer my question now?"

Khaya nodded and took the grape. It was cool and smooth and sweet in her mouth. She wanted more, but didn't dare ask. "I heard them. I know it sounds impossible, but I heard them moving in the sand... and my body just... just knew what to do."

It sounded ridiculous in her ears, but Yahya merely nodded as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He wordlessly offered her the entire punnet of grapes and lifted his veil over his nose. He turned to leave, but glanced at her over his shoulder for a moment.

"You are lucky that you are to become the Prince's concubine, else my father would have had your hand cut off – whether or not you saved Rehan from certain death."

His words left Khaya reeling. Her hands squeezed the punnet so hard several twigs snapped off and scattered all over her harem pants.

Concubine.

She had heard him, clear as day, yet her mind refused to acknowledge the word echoing in her head.

Rehan's concubine.

The Prince's mistress.

A whore.

Ж

Khaya stirred in her palanquin when the light hit the slats, illuminating strips of her qamis. A palpable energy seemed to press against the outside of the palanquin, filling her with renewed spirit. Something was amiss. She slid the panel to the side and peered out to see the caravan alive with animation. The horses and men walked with a spring in their step, the women were singing, the children pointing at something far ahead. Khaya angled her head to follow their gazes, but even open the panel was too restricting. Gradually the palanquin shifted its angle, and the horizon came into view.

They had reached the outer city.

Guard posts rose from the ground at regular intervals, manned by archers who cast their watchful gazes down at the caravan and pressed their hands against their chests in respect. The sound of rushing water filled Khaya's ears as they approached one of the many canals cutting through the outer districts of the city.

"Stop!" a high voice called from somewhere behind.

With a jerk the palanquin stopped where it was. The servants carrying it glanced over their shoulders, waiting for the one who had issued the order. Without warning they set the palanquin down and slid open the door, and light flooded Khaya's senses. She put a hand over her eyes, somewhat dazed.

"What–"

"Are you Khayzuran?"

She put her hand down and stared up into the eyes of a young boy. He looked about Salsal's age, with smooth tanned skin and large almond shaped eyes. There was a sly angle to his mouth, and a strange lightness in his aura that Khaya couldn't explain.

"Who is asking?" She helped herself off the ground when he didn't offer her a hand and dusted off her qamis.

"Ayaan, that's who," he said it smugly, as if it should mean something to her. "Uncle Yahya says you're to ride with me into the city."

Uncle Yahya?

Khaya's eyes narrowed, but she didn't comment. Ayaan grabbed her wrist and waved the servants away with the palanquin. Khaya frowned. His grip had been forceful, but as soon as his fingers touched her skin they felt light as air. She shook her head slightly. The desert was finally getting to her.

They mounted his horse, a fearsome jet black gelding that flared his nostrils constantly. Ayaan was about as short as Khaya, yet he held himself like an adult, chin up and shoulders back, staring down his nose at the people around them. As they rode further into the city Khaya's fascination and awe appeared on her face. Her head turned left and right, scanning everything as far as her eye could see, drinking it all in like it was the last thing she would ever see.

Ayaan let out a soft laugh. "Why do you look so excited? The Baduraya District is nothing special. Wait till we reach the Inner City, then you will have reason to gape."

He was right.

After another hour on horseback the buildings finally spread apart to reveal the towering walls that enclosed the Inner City. Soldiers stared down between the merlons, gesticulating to each other when the royal palanquin came into view. The Kufa Gate itself was a gargantuan structure, blocking out the sun completely as they approached. The black iron doors heaved open with a sigh, and when Ayaan's horse rode through to the other side, Khaya's breath stopped in her throat.

This...

This was Baghdad.

Tears welled in Khaya's eyes.

Oh, what my sister and brother would have thought of this...