The word “bride” makes the sultaness feel an
unpleasant sting. Unwittingly she glances at the white harem
building, whose stones shine in the sun like pearls. For a whole
month now the sultan has spent almost all his time in there,
enjoying the company of the new Baskarian concubine, to whom the
court flatterers refer in no other words than “the beautiful
Albiorita”. Faithful Nimeth managed to find out that the new star
of the harem has very unusual looks. Her skin is whiter than chalk
and her hair is like a cascade of pale gold, as yellow as the
endless sands of the Dimeshquian desert; her eyes shine blue-green
like turquoise ocean water. The sultan has completely lost his mind
over her and keeps calling her “my bride”.
The sultaness has long forsaken all jealousy
of her husband’s numerous concubines, though she sometimes feels
the painful sting of memory—how he used to look at her during the
first months following their wedding, when she was still a
beautiful young girl, before her slender figure was forever lost to
childbearing. But the nights and days her husband spends in the
harem do not really bother her. She was never in love with him, so,
if anything, she perhaps feels relief at this transfer of his
attention. But something about his special devotion to the
pale-skinned, golden-haired Baskarian girl hurts her pride.
Where did he find such a wonder of nature?
she thinks
bitterly. The Baskarian women, like the women of all other
neighboring lands, are usually dark-skinned and black-haired. But
somewhere in the northeastern end of Baskary, in the villages close
to the mountains of the Halabean Range, one can sometimes find
those fair-haired women who are praised so highly among
connoisseurs. Undoubtedly, the “beautiful Albiorita” must be one of
them. Is she different enough from the sultan’s other women to
awaken his hidden manly powers and break the curse of their
dynasty? Will she be the one to bear him a healthy son?
She sighs, forcing her eyes away from the
elegant white building. After all, she is perfectly happy and
content with what she has. She is the sultaness, the wife of the
mighty ruler; and her daughter is, at least for the time being, the
heiress to the throne. She may not approve of her daughter being
treated more like a boy than seems proper, but that is a minor
thing compared to everything else. Truly, what more could she wish
for? The princess’s husband, chosen from among the princes of the
neighboring lands, will be the future sultan of Dhagabad, and thus
the fate of the throne rests in the princess’s fragile hand. As for
the fact that her father prefers young concubines to his
middle-aged wife, that can be seen only as the natural proclivity
of a man in his declining years. The sultaness knows her role very
well: she must focus on bringing up the princess to be fully
prepared for her future role, dwelling as little as possible on her
husband’s side interests.
And the rest of it is up to the gods who rule
their destiny. If it is the will of the gods for the sultan to
beget a son and heir with his fair mistress, then the sultaness
will step down without much regret. She doesn’t care about anything
as much as the well-being of her daughter.
“The princess enjoys her riding lessons,”
Nanny Fatima says. The sultaness realizes that while she was lost
in her thoughts the same conversation had been going on around her.
She feels a new wave of anxiety pour over her.
“I hope Hasan is present at all her lessons?”
she asks.
“Certainly, your majesty,” Fatima
answers.
The sultaness sees a smile slide over
Nimeth’s lips and she inwardly smiles back. It is hard to believe
that not that long ago they didn’t even allow the princess to be
alone with Hasan. Now the djinn is considered to be the best
guarantee of her safety, and the sultaness feels so happy for the
princess and her friendship with her slave. Gone is the fear of his
mysterious powers and the helpless feeling that unknown forces will
tear the princess away from her surroundings. Gone, or almost gone,
is even the concern over the djinn’s attractiveness and manly
appearance. The princess is much more levelheaded than most girls
her age, and she would never find herself in the situation that
occurred when her friend Alamid lost all control of her feelings in
his presence a couple of years ago. No, the sultaness has great
faith in Hasan’s wisdom and common sense, which seem to be the best
protection for the princess. With Alamid, Hasan never lost control,
resolving it in the best possible way. He is so wise that even the
sultan, as she has heard, sometimes asks his advice in affairs of
state.
The sultaness hears the clattering of hooves
and the neighing of a horse, and is once again pulled back from her
thoughts. Looking over the low banister of the gallery, she sees
the princess emerge from the side arch riding a black horse. The
riding teacher, a short bowlegged man from Halaby, is walking
behind, along with Hasan, carefully watching his pupil.
The sultaness looks at her daughter with
secret pleasure. During the past year the princess has grown much
prettier than before. She is still almost transparently fragile,
and still reminds the sultaness of a little peri. But at fifteen,
her features have lost some of their soft childish clumsiness, as
if an unknown artist, looking over his almost-finished creation,
had smoothed some lines in a few sure strokes to turn his creation
into a masterpiece. Or, perhaps, it is not the princess’s features
that have changed, but the look of her eyes. It feels as if, over
the past three years, her dark-blue eyes have acquired even more
depth, coming alive with new life and intelligence, so that they
can now look straight into the face of the world and the people who
inhabit it.
On her fifteenth birthday, celebrated just
last month, the princess reached marriageable age, when many noble
families hurry to marry off their daughters. But the princess is
heiress to the throne, and her marriage arrangements require much
more care than those of any ordinary girl. Her future husband is
destined one day to rule Dhagabad in her father’s place. Besides,
whatever small part the princess must play in all that, she has to
be much more educated than other women. For these reasons it was
decided by the sultan that the princess’s marriage had to be
delayed until her seventeenth year, allowing him, the State
Council, and her teachers more time for preparation. The sultaness
feels that the firmness of the sultan’s decision may have been
enforced by his hidden hope that two more years might allow him to
beget a son from his new concubine. But in spite of these
suspicions, she is happy to have this extra time with her only
daughter, the focus of her life, whom she will undoubtedly lose
forever to a brilliant suitor.
Now the sultaness praises the princess’s
grandmother with all her heart for sending such a wise teacher to
her only daughter. The presence of an all-powerful djinn gives the
princess a chance to learn things inaccessible to other children,
and the princess seems to be using this chance to the fullest.
“Mother!” the princess shouts from the arena.
“Look what I can do!”
She sends her horse galloping around the
yard, her white shawl flying behind her. Her face is flushed, and
strands of hair scatter over her face. Even when riding she doesn’t
change from her white outfit to a more practical one, and the
sultaness’s heart melts at the thought of how the princess must
have been longing to wear white when she was still too young, and
how she must love this particular privilege of growing up.
At the tug of the reins the horse turns
toward the sultaness, and she notices a white mark on his
forehead.
“Which horse is this, princess?” the
sultaness shouts, suddenly alarmed.
A proud smile lights up the princess’s face.
“Father let me take his Veriduan stallion today!” She pulls the
horse to a sharp stop right before the sultaness.
The sultaness’s knees go weak. “He must be
mad,” she mumbles to herself, as she smiles and waves to her
daughter.
“Careful, princess!” Nimeth exclaims.
“Father told me he might come to watch me,
too!” the princess says, not listening to her. “Look!” She resumes
her galloping around the arena and the sultaness watches her with
terror. She remembers very well how this same horse nearly killed
her daughter three years ago, when only Hasan’s intervention saved
her from the deadly hooves. She heard that since then the best
court riders have tamed the stallion, and that the sultan himself
rode him several times. But how could he even think to allow this
wild beast near his fragile daughter? Is he out of his mind? Is he
so obsessed with his desire to have a son that he is willing to
treat the princess like a boy and a future warrior in every
possible way? Or, the sultaness thinks in terror, maybe he is so
overwhelmed by his passion for the new concubine that he forgets
even his duty to care for the well-being of his family?
The hollow sound of steps in the gallery
brings her back to her senses. Out of the corner of her eye she
sees the women around her bow, and she automatically bends her head
even before she has time to see the group of people walking toward
them. The sultan Chamar Ali walks is in front, with his usual firm
stride. His black beard is sticking straight out, his long cloak
waves behind him in rhythm with his steps, and his dark eyes are
shining with the same fire that has made her shiver with reverence
ever since they first met. In his suite the sultaness notices the
master of ceremonies, the grand vizier, four bodyguards, and
someone else…
A woman wrapped in a shawl from head to toes.
The woman’s face is completely covered, but the sultaness seems to
see a lock of golden hair glowing from within the folds of her
garments.
Does it mean that Albiorita, unlike other
concubines, is allowed into the inner galleries of the palace, to
the arena where the princess of Dhagabad herself is undertaking her
riding lessons?
“Your majesty,” the sultaness says
softly.
“How do you like the princess?” Chamar
exclaims proudly. “She’s her father’s true daughter! Not everyone
is able to control my Veriduan stallion!”
“I am worried about the princess, your
majesty,” the sultaness says with difficulty, trying very hard not
to look at the woman wrapped in shawl. “This horse—”
“Nonsense!” Chamar interrupts impatiently.
“The princess is very good at horseback riding, as you see. Don’t
forget, madam—she is old enough to be a bride!”
That word again—“bride”. The sultaness sighs,
raising her eyes to meet her husband’s gaze.
“Some time ago this horse almost killed the
princess,” she manages, gathering all her courage.
“The princess must learn to overcome her
childish fears,” Chamar says firmly and, turning away, he walks up
to the banister.
“Father!” the princess shouts, trying to turn
her galloping horse and pull him to a stop. The horse, nervous and
sensitive like all thoroughbreds, obeys the reins too quickly,
rearing amid a cloud of dust. As if in a dream the sultaness
watches the hooves flailing in the air, the black mane flying in
the wind, and a tiny white figure sliding off the horse’s back onto
the sand.
“Princess!” the sultaness screams, forgetting
all fear of her husband, forgetting everything at the sight of her
daughter helplessly lying on the ground. Frozen in terror, she
watches the bowlegged Halabean teacher run across the yard toward
the princess, and Hasan catch the horse by the reins with a firm
hand.
But the princess jumps up to her feet,
laughing and brushing the dust off her clothes with only slight
embarrassment.
“Well done, princess!” Chamar exclaims and,
turning, whispers something to his suite, out of which the
sultaness can only make out some words about women’s hysteria.
“I was doing all right, wasn’t I, mother?”
the princess asks, her eyes shining. “It’s only that your horse,
father, is much faster than mine.” She runs up the stairs to join
them in the gallery and stops, catching her breath and carefully
studying shawl-wrapped Albiorita.
“I myself used to fall off the horses when I
was learning to ride,” Chamar says, patting the princess on the
cheek. “I think you exaggerate the dangers of riding, madam,” he
continues, turning to the sultaness.
“Yes, your majesty,” the sultaness replies,
bowing.
“Can I ride your horse again some time,
father?” the princess asks with the mixture of shyness and
confidence characteristic of polite but spoiled children.
“We’ll discuss it with your riding teacher,
princess,” Chamar says. Nodding to the bowing women, he turns and
walks away in long strides into the depths of the gallery, followed
by his suite.
“He is really not that scary, mother,” the
princess says. The sultaness finds herself confused for a moment
about whom she means—the horse or the sultan. “And I just love to
ride! Hasan taught me some of his tricks, and now I can control
almost any horse!”
The mention of Hasan calms the sultaness
somewhat. She looks at her daughter tenderly, smoothing her hair
and straightening her shawl, stained with dirt.
“Be careful, princess,” she says, sighing
with the memory of her fright.
“Is that his concubine, mother?” the princess
asks, looking in the direction where the sultan and his suite have
disappeared.
“One of his concubines, princess,” the
sultaness answers.
“I thought they never leave the harem.”
“Sometimes they do, princess,” the sultaness
says, hoping that the princess won’t hear her voice tremble, but
knowing that a thing like that is too hard to hide from her
sensitive daughter. After all, she is old enough to be a bride.
Chapter 11. The Cult of Release