Sultana's Legacy (23 page)

The Sultan raised a dark eyebrow. “Not Prince Ismail?”

Faraj answered, “My eldest is here, with his mother.”

His master jerked upright from the chair. “Fatima? So soon? Yes, she would have come.”

Faraj did not ask how he had arrived at his conclusion. “Yes, she and our son came to Gharnatah today. He sent word of their arrival while I sat among your council.”

The Sultan took his seat again. He leaned forward and propped his bearded chin on one hand. His owlish eyes glittered in the torchlight from brackets set at each corner of the room.

“Malaka is a rich province. You perform a remarkable duty in keeping it profitable. I reviewed the reports of your administration, while I served as my father’s
wazir
. Do you enjoy the post as its governor?”

“It was my birthright.”

“But do you prefer Malaka? Wouldn’t duties here in Gharnatah, perhaps as a
wazir
, have suited you just as well?”

“It should have, but the past and my heart bind me to the city of my birth. By my choice, I would not leave it.”

The Sultan smiled at him. The gesture did not warm Faraj. He rushed on. “You must understand the sentiment, my Sultan. You were born here, but your father and grandfather were born in Aryuna. Does not your heart lie in Gharnatah? You do not consider Aryuna as your ancestral home. I hope you shall trust in me to continue my rule at Malaka in the same steadfast manner as I served your father. I remain loyal.”

“Be at ease, Faraj. I did not question your loyalty, nor do I ask you such things because I considered removing you. After all, you are my sister’s husband. You shall keep your governorship.”

Faraj gritted his jaw and prayed he kept his face impassive. The Sultan’s chuckle warned he did not.

“Other men would have pleaded with me or humbly accepted it were I to dismiss them from their posts. You have a stout heart.”

“My wife says the same of me.”

“My sister is an excellent judge of a person’s nature. I am sure she must have heard the news. It must be a terrible shock to her.”

Faraj averted his eyes in the space it took to draw breath, before he returned the Sultan’s assessing stare. “Her grief must be beyond bearing. In less than a few days, she has lost her father. A man whom she loved and worshipped all her life. I would not have you think she is weak. Her strength is remarkable. It is one of her constant traits and the best among her talents. I do not doubt she shall bear the pain.”

“Yes, I am well aware of her capabilities. Her strength is something she inherited from our forbearers. Luckily, the same blood runs in my veins.” The Sultan grinned, while Faraj wondered at his statement. “You have talents as well. You must have to maintain Fatima’s approval. I remember my father admired your talent for circumspection best of all. You seemed to have lost it in recent years. Instead, passion guided you at Tarif.”

“I was a fool. I risked more than the loss of my life. My actions could have jeopardized my heir’s inheritance. I shall never make that mistake again. Loyalty to the Sultanate rules my heart now.”

Faraj’s fists tightened at his side. He meant every word. He would never make such a foolhardy choice again, as at Tarif. His convictions be damned. He had to safeguard the future for himself and his family.

“Ah, there’s that mention of your loyalty again, Prince Faraj. Not too many in the Sultanate claim such devotion, or inspire my belief in the virtue of it, as you do.”

“All men can be judged loyal to one course or another at any time. I believe there are those who need an opportunity to prove their faithfulness and those who demonstrate it always without question.”

“Which kind would you deem yourself, Prince Faraj?”

“I thought I had made that plain, my Sultan.”

“We shall see. I need men of loyalty to administer my provinces and enforce my laws. May I rely upon you to support me?”

Faraj sensed that a moment’s hesitation would have gone against him and his entire family forever. He had sworn an oath of personal allegiance to the Sultan, no matter who that Sultan might be. He would never forsake his word now.

“You have my oath, freely given in your throne room.”

“Then if I order you to permit Ismail to remain here and serve as a
wazir
of my
Diwan
, you would not refuse the pledge?”

Faraj bit his lower lip. “You want Ismail to serve on your council? He has no experience of political matters.”

“He is your son, a prince of Gharnatah, destined to control Malaka. He must learn. I need your son here.”

“Fatima would want to have a say in this decision.”

“You are the young man’s father. My sister shall accept your decision. She is a woman, after all. Do you refuse my request because of her?”

Faraj dipped his gaze to the floor, but he could not put off the Sultan. He sensed grave danger in thwarting the man.

“What is your answer?” The Sultan’s voice, tinged with impatience, rang through the hall to the rafters.

Faraj glanced at him. “Ismail shall be a
wazir
of council, for as long as you would wish.”

“Good. Send your son to me tonight. I shall speak with him about his duties while we dine together.”

“So soon? I would have liked to inform his mother of this favorable news. Fatima is very devoted to our son.”

“You may speak with her. Leave me.”

The Sultan waved a hand and signaled his permission for Faraj to go. When he stood, his gaze narrowed and focused on a spot at the back of the room. He settled against the throne and stroked the chair’s arms again.

“Fatima, my dear, you’re wet through. Have you been outdoors all this time?”

Faraj looked over his shoulder. His jaw dropped. Indeed, her garments clung to her, outlining the curves of her slender body. He growled low in his throat, as the guards posted at the door stared at her without naked lust. None of the old Sultan’s guards would have dared, but then, these were different men. What had happened to the bodyguards who once protected Fatima’s father?

She advanced. Water trailed in her wake. She stopped before the tile square, beside Faraj. He frowned at the reddened marks around her throat and the tiny pinpricks that dotted her eyes. Blood trickled beneath the edge of her sleeve. What had she been doing?

“I have been at the gravesite of my most beloved father, Muhammad.”

The Sultan gripped the throne until his knuckles whitened. The wood creaked beneath his hands.

“Then, sister, you know you must offer me homage. Indeed, it is disrespectful of you to stand while I sit. I know you have not been at court for many years, but surely, you have not forgotten your obeisance.”

He picked at the hem of his robe. “Come now. Kiss it.”

She did not move.

The Sultan chuckled. “By the Prophet’s beard, you still have the pride of that bitch of a woman who bore us.”

Faraj recoiled at the Sultan’s discourteous reference to his own mother, before he glanced at Fatima. Her lips trembled, pressed tightly together as though she repressed the depths of her feelings.

The Sultan’s smile faded. “I am waiting, sister.”

She hesitated still. He stood. “Now, you’re being insolent. Shall I order my guards to force you to kneel?”

Faraj reached for her. The Sultan’s baleful glare turned on him. His hand fell away. 

She walked around the tiles and sagged on her knees at her brother’s feet. She bent her head low to the ground, then the rest of her torso.

Faraj could have sworn a slight moan eased in the Sultan’s throat. He looked down at her from a sloe-eyed gaze. His lips slightly parted, a raspy breath escaped him. His cheeks flushed a deep pink of pleasure.

She reached for his
jubba
, but he snapped the silk away before the mud on her fingers soiled his robe.

He muttered, “You would only dirty it.”

“As you wish,” she whispered.

She rose and sat back on her heels. He sank down on the throne and sniffed.

“Why is your face so red, sister? What are those marks?” He asked the question that plagued Faraj.

“They are not cause for concern, Muhammad. Other matters distress me.”

“What do you want?”

“I have come to plead for the Sultana Shams ed-Duna. She was ever loyal to our father, a good wife to him. She does not deserve exile.”

“Her son was a traitor.”

“But she had no hand in what you have accused her son of doing. Is it not enough for you that he is dead?”

“By his own hand!”

“I never suggested otherwise.”

Yet, Faraj heard the insinuation in her tone. What game was his wife playing? How dare she jeopardize all of their futures with her reckless inquiries?

Her brother’s gaze narrowed on her again. “It is what you do not say, Fatima. Your tone implies that I took pleasure in his death.”

She remained silent for a time, before she responded, “When I last saw Father at Malaka, he did not have suspicions about my brother Faraj being a traitor. I was surprised when Shams ed-Duna told me you had found the letter implicating him.”

“Did our father say he suspected anyone of treachery?”

“Why would he have told me? What could I do about it?”

Faraj’s jaw tightened. Either his wife’s skills at deception were beyond compare, or she spoke the truth. With her back to him, he could not discern it. Her eyes would have revealed her innermost thoughts.

Something had troubled her in the days after their first daughter married her beloved. Yet Fatima had never spoken of it until the morning she had begged Faraj to protect her father. He had failed her, but she kept secrets from him, too.

Fatima knew more about the traitor than Faraj did and the danger her father had faced because the Sultan confided in her at the wedding. Why would she have withheld the Sultan’s suspicions or her own from her husband? He bristled at the thought. Fatima’s secrets had placed her family in grave danger before. Had she done it again? He hated to lay blame for her father’s demise on her shoulders. Yet if she had spoken the truth beforehand, it might have saved her father.

Her brother interrupted Faraj’s musings. “Your answer surprises me, Fatima. Our father trusted you, more than he trusted most.” The Sultan stood and looked down at her. “Still, if you say he told you nothing, I must believe it. You would have no reason to deceive me, would you?”

“None. I was never close to Shams ed-Duna’s son.”

“I am pleased to hear it. Now, the hour grows late and I have much to do.”

“What of the Sultana Shams ed-Duna?”

“What of her, Fatima? I have made my decision. She shall leave Al-Andalus. She is a relic of the past. I am its future. I intend to occupy my palace soon and prepare for the arrival of the governors. Your husband has already submitted. I have shown great honor to him and his house that he shall not soon forget.”

“What do you mean?” Fatima looked up at him before she glanced over her shoulder. “Faraj?”

The Sultan chuckled. “Your husband shall tell you.”

He departed the throne room and his guards followed. Fatima stared in their direction long after he had left.

Faraj waited until they were alone, before he stood. He groaned and shuddered, as blood rushed to his legs.

Fatima whirled toward him, as if jerked from a trance. She met him halfway, her eyes wide and wild. Mud clung to almost every part of her clothing, even smears of it slashed across her cheeks. He barely recognized her.

“Husband, what have you done?” 

Chapter 14

The Wazir and the Kadin

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Sha’ban 701 AH (Granada, Andalusia: April AD 1302)

Fatima shuddered as Faraj wrapped his arms around her and encased her in his warmth. “By the Prophet’s beard, you’re soaked. We need to get you warm and out of these wet clothes.”

He removed his woolen mantle and coiled it at her shoulders, while she stood passive under his ministrations.

“What have you done to yourself? You’re so cold….”

“Never mind me.” Her voice rasped. “What promises have you made to this usurper?”

He drew back and stared at her. “Usurper? Fatima, Muhammad was your father’s heir. He has always been the successor. Your father proclaimed it so after he ascended the throne.”

“He did not intend it!”

Faraj clasped her hands in his. “You don’t know what you are saying. Grief has overcome you. My God, look at you! The marks around your throat. What were you doing beside your father’s grave? Were you there all this time? By the heavens, what have you done to your hand?”

His fingers caressed her open palm. An ugly red line gouged her flesh. Blood and smeared dirt congealed across the wound.

“We must clean it. Come to the fountain.”

She pulled her hand from his grasp. “Answer me! Have you betrayed my father, too? Have you pledged yourself to his murderer?”

“Fatima! Have you lost your senses? I was loyal to your father! No one murdered him, certainly not your brother. He wasn’t even there when your father died!”

He frowned, deep lines seared into his brow. “Your brother is Sultan. I am sorry your father died. It was a great shock. You must accept it. We must both accept.”

“Never! Muhammad is not the legitimate ruler of Gharnatah. He is a usurper and a murderer.”

Faraj looked around the empty throne room. “I beg you not to repeat such accusations within the hearing of others. You speak treason against your own brother.”

“He is not even that. He ceased to be my brother many years ago. Now, he is a monster.”

He turned from her, but she pursued him. “It is you who has sworn loyalty to him, not me. He does not deserve it. He murdered my father and brother. He schemed to bring about their deaths….”

“Fatima, be silent! Think of what you are doing! Your brother is my sovereign. I hold the governorship of one of his territories. Our son’s heritage. Would you jeopardize Ismail’s inheritance with such wild accusations? Would you see me stripped of power? I know you are grieving. You have endured great losses in so little time….”