Princess of Dhagabad, The (36 page)

“Prince Said Abdulla Ahmed of Halaby,” the
master of ceremonies whispers from behind.

Here in the hall Prince Said looks even
bigger and taller than he did on the palace plaza, and the princess
regards him with interest.

“Greetings, Prince Said,” she says. “It is a
great honor.”

“The honor is mine, princess.” His rich, low
voice is trembling slightly as the princess gives him an
encouraging smile. For the mighty warrior that he looks, he seems
to be very shy with women.

“I dare to ask your permission,” Prince Said
says suddenly, “to give you, in honor of your coming-of-age and
your engagement, one of the two sapphires that you have rejected
today. The other sapphire I would treasure forever as a poor
reminder of your beauty.”

Prince Said opens his huge hand, revealing a
tiny ebony box of the finest carving. Taken by surprise, the
princess seeks out her mother, standing, alas, too far away to
solve such an unexpected problem. She was never taught how to
behave in a situation like this. Can she accept the gift, being a
promised bride? Can she reject it without offending the noble
prince? Fortunately, the sultaness, who is carefully watching her
daughter from across the hall, nods her head; and the princess,
smiling, holds out her hand to receive the box.

“Thank you, Prince Said,” she says. “This is
indeed a kingly gift and the most beautiful gem I have ever seen. I
will cherish it as a memory of our meeting.”

“You are beautiful, princess,” Prince Said
says. But her suite is already leading her away to the next group
and she has time only to smile charmingly to the sad giant.

“Caliph Abu Alim Agabei of Megina,” the
master of ceremony whispers.

“I am happy to see you, caliph,” the princess
says. “It is a great pleasure to have this opportunity to thank you
for the dance of your beautiful slave.”

The caliph, a short man with an enormous
moustache, elaborately bows to the princess.

“I can confess to such a one as you,
princess,” he says, “I sometimes feel that this dancing girl,
Shogat, is not an ordinary slave but a goddess that chose to serve
me for reasons unknown. To honor you today, O matchless one, Shogat
will dance again.”

“This is a divine pleasure, caliph,” the
princess says automatically. The caliph’s small eyes hypnotize her;
she doesn’t understand how she could have rejected such a charming,
sweet, kind man, whatever her parents ordered her to do. Nice
caliph, he would be a perfect husband for her…

“Allow me to kiss you hand, princess.”

She hears his words as if from afar. She
holds out her hand—she couldn’t possibly refuse anything such a
wonderful, beautiful man asks…

Someone pushes her aside, and a body appears
between them, breaking the enchantment. She wants to look at the
caliph, but someone is looming before her eyes, and gradually she
starts hearing sounds again. She hears Hasan’s voice in front of
her:

“You dropped your bracelet, princess.”

“What bracelet?” The princess suddenly
realizes that she is standing in the great hall, there are lots of
people everywhere, she is surrounded by her suite, the Megina
delegation is grouped in front of her, and Hasan is kneeling before
her, holding out a bracelet she does not remember wearing. Behind
Hasan she can now see the fat and cheery caliph of Megina trying
with some irritation to get to her past Hasan. But Hasan, awkwardly
swaying at her feet—how is it possible…he is always so quick and
efficient?—is not letting the caliph reach her.

Her suite is already leading her on to the
next group, and giving the caliph a farewell smile, she sees such
cold malice in his eyes that her heart nearly stops.

“Prince Musa Jafar Avallahaim,” the master of
ceremonies whispers. The princess absently fastens the bracelet
Hasan has given her, as she meets the dark, impenetrable eyes of
the prince.

“Greetings, Prince Musa Jafar,” the master of
ceremonies whispers.

“Greetings—” the princess stops for a second
and pulls herself together.

“Greetings, Prince Musa Jafar,” she says,
smiling. “It is a great honor to see you in Dhagabad. Your way here
was long indeed.”

“All the hardships of our journey are nothing
compared to the pleasure of seeing you, princess.” The prince is
haltingly speaking these polite phrases, as the princess realizes
that he is truly offended by her rejection and that nothing she
could say could possibly make him smile.

Exchanging a few meaningless words with the
prince, she moves on.

Princes and caliphs are sweeping before her.
Even the old sultan of Baskary has honored her with his visit. The
princess talks to everyone, smiles at everyone, but something
inside her is broken. Feeling as if the marble floor under her feet
is as unsteady as quicksand, she finally approaches Prince Amir of
Veridue.

The prince smiles at her with his usual
winning look, and she suddenly feels as if a burden has been taken
off her shoulders and placed on more appropriate ones, those of her
future husband. She feels as she has never felt before—being
brought up like a boy. She feels like a
wife
, an inferior
being that belongs to someone more glamorous to and revered by the
outside world than she will ever be. She feels a strange relief at
this new feeling, and something else deep inside—something
disturbing that she doesn’t want to listen to.

Forcing away all other feelings except
relief, she takes her place beside her groom.

The master of ceremonies signals the
beginning of the dinner, as the princess automatically takes the
hand offered by prince Amir and follows her parents to the royal
canopy at the head of the feast. She has time to glance back and
make sure that Hasan is still following her, and that he is taking
his seat, as intended, at the second-row table directly behind
her.

“Have you met Hasan, prince?” she asks,
settling down and feeling secure enough to rebound from her strange
fears.

She sees a frown of displeasure on the
prince’s handsome face, and the disturbing feeling she felt inside
her just moments before helps her to hold his gaze firmly. She
wants to convince herself that this disturbing feeling is not a
protest against her new, secondary role. She tries to maintain that
her outwardly innocent question, directed to her magnificent groom
whose whole nation hates djinns, is not an attempt to show him his
place. His place is and always will be ahead of her, proper and
right for any woman, princess or not.

She sees her harmless question merely as a
test of how Hasan would fit into her new life. Everyone seems to
think now that she is getting married she will forget all about
Hasan. But she is not going to give him up so easily!

“I saw him beside you on the balcony.” The
prince throws a mildly disgusted glance at Hasan and smiles to the
princess. “I heard this slave is dear to you, princess. But in
Veridue you will have as many slaves as you wish.”

“Hasan is not just a slave,” the princess
points out. “He is my friend.”

“For the lack of a better one,” the prince
says with polite firmness. “I dare to point out that you are
talking to the happiest of all men who humbly hopes to be your
faithful servant and an even more faithful friend.”

The princess smiles, feeling cornered. Here,
for the first time in her life, she is forced to be something she
has never been before—merely a
woman
. She feels like a toy
in the hands of merciless etiquette, forced to keep up the
appearance of splendid calmness.

She absently picks up a piece of warm
rosemary bread and dips it into the sesame oil. The table is
covered with delicious foods, but somehow she doesn’t quite feel
like eating. A servant offers her a dish of quail, but she waves it
away before she has time to question her decision. She puts the
crumbly, aromatic bread in her mouth as she watches prince Amir
attack a bowl of thick lamb soup fragrant with a mixture of spices.
To keep up the appearance of eating she picks up a handful of dark,
glistening olives from the dish in front of her and smiles at her
mother, who from two seats away looks at her with concern.

Her conflicting thoughts are interrupted by
the unfaltering voice of the master of ceremonies:

“The caliph of Megina, Abu Alim Agabei,
wishes to please the noble guests with the dance of his skillful
slave girl, the matchless Shogat!”

The princess feels a strange wave of anxiety
as she watches the center of the hall being cleared of lamps and
decorations.

The hall quickly sinks into a hushed silence.
The sharp sound of a zither startles everyone, as Shogat appear as
if from nowhere before their astonished eyes. She is dressed only
in leather sandals and silver snakelike bracelets around her arms
and wrists. Her nakedness is pure and perfect as if she were a
goddess bringing to mortals the gift of a divine dance. A crimson
rose is shining in Shogat’s hair, which is pulled back into a
smooth knot. The princess is somehow observing the dance through
the crimson glow of the flower.

All sounds gradually leave the great hall.
Shogat’s slim body is moving smoothly within the crimson beam,
crimson light cuts through the darkness, as the perfect movements
of her body are bordered by a crimson glow.

And then silhouettes of the waves start
pulsing through the darkness, rolling over each other in perfect
symmetry. Waves—not of water—but of sand. A secret garden spreads
over the sands, as the domes of a temple rise through
it—domes—steps—columns…

Shogat thrusts her palm upward with the
crimson flower already in her hand. This sharp change shifts a
balance and the columns start slowly collapsing like a house of
cards, raising noiseless clouds of sand. The giant dome turns over
and folds inward, sinking into the crimson haze.

With a long swing, Shogat throws the crimson
flower toward the princess. The flower flies, turning over and over
in the air, as the temple silently collapses around them. The
princess holds out her hand to the crimson flash, knowing that
touching it will mean escape from suffering, release from a
terrible sight of destruction and then—afterward—peace…

A strong hand pushes her aside, as its
fingers close around the flower and sounds suddenly return to the
hall. Caliph Agabei is now standing in the center of the hall
beside Shogat. Both are speaking to the princess, but she cannot
hear them because everyone is cheering and applauding and loudly
praising Shogat’s divine art. Hasan is in front of the princess,
shielding her with his body; prince Amir is looking angrily at him.
And the sultaness, the only one who feels something has gone wrong,
looks from Hasan and the princess to the caliph and Shogat with
visible alarm.

“Princess!” Hasan swiftly turns to her as she
looks up, slowly coming to her senses. “At any excuse leave this
hall now! I’ll go with you.”

“You are forgetting yourself, slave!” prince
Amir exclaims, but the princess is already rising and holding her
hand out to Hasan.

“Excuse me, prince, I am not feeling well.
Mother—”

“Go, princess. What is the matter,
Hasan?”

“I’ll tell you later, your majesty. Don’t let
the caliph or his slave girl leave the hall.”

The princess senses something near her foot
and, lowering her eyes, she sees on the floor beside her seat the
crumpled and broken crimson flower. In a sudden flash of crimson
light she sees again the masses of sand running in endless waves,
and the collapsing dome in a billowing crimson cloud.

The princess releases her grasp on Hasan’s
arm and, sinking into a noisy, whispering darkness, collapses on
the floor.

Chapter 22. Glass Dunes

Dark, broken clouds fly low through the sky.
A wild wind is tearing off her shawl and ripping his shirt. They
are together in the desert, but this time there is no sand. The
dunes that run in smooth waves seem to be made of dark glass, and
the moonlight through the breaks in the clouds shimmers on the wavy
surface.

Someone is waiting for them straight
ahead—Caliph Agabei—only here he is not a caliph. The tips of his
black cloak are flying in the wind like giant wings. And Shogat,
the goddess of dance—only here she is not a goddess, although still
a great dancer—a black cloth clings closely to her, imparting
frightful grace to her slim body.

Two black and two white figures meet on a
smooth shiny crest.

“Why don’t you want to give me the girl,
all-powerful slave?” Agabei’s voice is rolling like thunder above
the desert.

“Her destiny lies elsewhere,” Hasan says.
“She is not for you.”

“She is hungry for knowledge,” Shogat says
softly. “We shall help her gain absolute knowledge.”

“She would make a good slave,” Agabei says.
“I have never seen the stars point so definitely to one person. She
has a part to play in absolute power and djinn making.”