2016
Bellamy Blake rolled over in his bed and began smashing buttons on his phone, as the alarm blared a poppy tune that no doubt Octavia had set. He tried closing his eyes again but the song grew louder. His hand came down hard and the song went silent this time. He sat up, engulfed in a small deluge of cool, Egyptian cotton. The cell phone was somewhere on the nightstand.
Two-thirty pm and six missed calls. Shit. His headache was worsening. He thought a quick nap would have helped but now he'd overslept and was about to miss the entire ceremony.
He reached over and grabbed his laptop from the bedside nightstand. His homepage was set to CNN. One of the headlines read, "Historic ceremony commences with an Ottoman heir nowhere in sight." A blinking red time bar indicated the computer was low on battery so he scanned the article quickly.
Last update: 2.00 pm. Istanbul. Representatives of the World Jewish Federation gather at the Nev Shalom Synagogue in downtown Istanbul for an historic ceremony to officially acknowledge the role that Ottoman emperors played in saving Jews during the Spanish Inquisition. Bellamy Blake, the only legitimate living descendant of the last Ottoman sultan, was scheduled to receive an official commemorative plaque on behalf of the country, but the 32-year-old real estate tycoon was nowhere to be seen. The ceremony has commenced without him with the plaque being symbolically handed over to…"
The screen faded. The battery went dead. Bellamy slammed the lid on his computer. He reached over and popped two ibuprofen tablets before collapsing back against his pillow. When the headaches started, they were tolerable, just a sporadic nuisance that came and went with the pop of a pill. He raised his fingers to his temples and pressed hard.
Five thousand miles away, Clarke Griffin painted a portrait of her father from her small studio in Englewood, New Jersey, the news blaring in the background on a beat up old radio Raven had found in a dumpster somewhere and 'fixed'. Something about the commemoration ceremony taking place in Istanbul, but there was static fading in and out and she could barely make out the report. She put her brush down and took a sip of espresso. She'd planned on being at the ceremony in Istanbul with her father, as he was president of the World Jewish Federation. That was before the last CT scan. They were all surprised by how ferociously his cancer had spread.
Jake Griffin canceled his trip, and Clarke went to work on his portrait.
Over five thousand miles of ocean separated the two strangers. They were worlds away from where they needed to be.
1563
Abra had never been invited into the royal harem of the Sultan before, but she was eager to meet and know the legendary women sequestered behind its guarded walls. Aside from being the Sultan's private family quarters, the harem also served as a kind of high-end girls' university. The most intelligent and beautiful women of the empire were brought there to receive the very best education available. Although technically slaves, they were rigorously trained in literature, music, poetry, and art. Their schooling was strict and took up much of the day. Those who were not chosen as the Sultan's concubines were treated very much like daughters of the imperial household. After nine years of service, they were granted the freedom to leave. Very few of them exercised this freedom.
These were the most refined, beautiful, and sought after women in all the empire. It was the Sultan himself who chose their husbands, married them off to high ranking officials and Ottoman princes, provided their trousseaux, and bestowed them stately villas in which to begin their new lives.
Among the concubines of the Sultan who remained in the harem, epic power struggles were known to ensue. It was not unheard of for one of these women to attack another, to mar the beauty of her rival and decrease one's competition with the Sultan.
They entered the harem as slaves, were educated alongside exalted princesses, and aspired to the rank of Valide Sultan, or Queen Mother. In this way, every sultan was the son of a former slave. It was the Valide Sultan who governed harem life and was oftentimes intricately involved in matters of state. It was she who dominated her son and advised him on how to govern his empire. Abra had heard it many times since her arrival in Istanbul.
The time was known as The Reign of Women.
Very few outsiders were granted access to this private world but when they were, they came back with tales of palace intrigue, vast riches, and exotic beauties from every conquered corner of the world.
Since having been re-settled on palace grounds, and with Josef away at the Imperial Council most of the time, Abra grew lonelier than she'd ever been. She had lost her mother, and now it seemed, she had lost her husband, too. With little adult companionship of her own, she grew bored and listless. Hers was a life cut off from the outside world, yet apart from the vibrant and bustling community within the Imperial gates. For Abra, the Sultana's invitation offered the promise of new friendships, perhaps even, a life of her own.
She settled on a blue tunic beaded with pearls and a muslin veil she secured on her head with a gilded, feather headdress. Then, she dressed Klark. Her blue eyes shone bright against the glittering gold fabric chosen for her; igniting her golden hair like a veil.
The party itself was much grander than Abra had ever seen before. Fireworks filled the sky and reflected above the sea while steaming trays of veal, duck, and mutton were ferried out from the royal kitchens. An orchestra sat atop the pavilion, entertaining the women with flutes and harps. While dancers undulated to the music with brass bells swinging from their hips and ankles.
As Abra shuffled along, she realized there must be several hundred women living there, along with their small children, as well as servants and maids. The ladies of the harem included Persian beauties, Christians, Jews, and foreigners from the farthest reaches of the empire.
A woman stopped in front of her, her dress and beauty outshining every other lady in the harem, signifying her rank as the Sultan's beloved. On her head gleamed a feathered headdress dressed in rubies, and a sheer veil that did nothing to hide her loveliness.
"You must be Abra," the Sultana said frostily.
Abra bowed low at the waist, her hair brushing the ground below.
"I take it this is your daughter," the woman grasped Klark's chin between her fingers and tilted her head side to side as she studied her. "Very pretty, isn't she?"
Abra winced.
The Sultana summoned a young servant with the flick of her wrist. "Take this girl to the garden to play with the other children," she said without bothering to look at the servant as she spoke. "I have a message for you." She turned her attentions back to Abra. "I think you'll be pleased."
"A message?"
"From the Sultan," she continued casually. "It concerns your daughter."
"Klark? What about her?"
"It's been decided that she'll be educated inside the harem alongside other royal children." Sultana paused for a long moment. "She'll be schooled in music and poetry, language and literature."
Abra blinked incredulously.
"She will be in safe hands, rest assured," the Sultana tried to sound reassuring, "and receive the very best education the empire has to offer a young lady."
"I don't quite understand."
The Sultana sighed wearily, then tilted her long neck back, her dark curls cascading down her shoulders and back like a waterfall. "Your husband has been loyal to the Sultan," she explained unenthusiastically. "Loyalty has its rewards."
Abra lowered her gaze.
"Come." She smiled casually.
"In the morning, my man will arrive at your villa to collect your daughter."
"And my husband?"
"Your husband will be pleased," Sultana continued matter-of-factly.
"But Sultana," She dropped her voice to a whisper. "What if he refuses?"
The Sultana tilted her head and furrowed her brow before letting out a long, hard cackle. "Why on earth would he do that?" She seemed genuinely confused.
"He has already secured a place for her in the school this coming quarter."
"The decision has been made, Abra," the Sultana explained. "I thought you'd be pleased," she continued, saccharine. A blast echoed in the sky and the two women looked up instinctively. Flurries of fire dissipated over the sea like gold dust sprinkled from the clouds.
"Spectacular, isn't it?" The Sultana marveled at the fireworks display overhead.
"Yes, Sultana." Abra's voice was barely a whisper.
"Most things at Topkapi are." She eyed Abra suspiciously. "Tomorrow, Klark will stay in the harem, and you will request visits with her whenever you like."
And with that, Sultana turned and walked off in a flourish, her colorful skirts sashaying behind her as she rejoined her party.
Several weeks had passed before Abra was invited back into the harem. She joined Sultana in her private garden where she drank tea and waited for news of her daughter. Through the bamboo lattices, Klark and Belomi could be seen sitting atop the jewel-studded saddle of a miniature pony.
"Let me go to her." Abra stood from her place.
"What's the rush?" Sultana seized her by the wrist. "Relax with me and watch them play a little longer." With her long torso and fair legs sprawled out across the silk divan, the Sultana looked the part. She was the Sultan's favorite, beautiful and lively.
"Is it safe? Klark's never ridden before," said Abra.
"Perfectly safe, and she's rides often." Twisting her body low into the seat of the cushion, Abra tried to appear comfortable. Sultana's brown eyes bore through her with relentless precision. "You haven't yet mastered the art of small talk, have you?" Her slipper slapped lazily against the sole of her foot as she spoke. Abra looked away, biting her bottom lip.
The high-pitched squeal of children's voices sounded from beyond the garden. Abra raked through the lattices and saw that Klark was being lowered from the saddle by one of the servants.
"She looks happy," Abra remarked quietly.
"Of course. It is only natural that a young girl would want to be with other children her age."
"Does she ask for me?" Abra did her best to sound pitiful, a change in tactic that she hoped might stir up a bit of compassion in the Sultana.
"When she arrived, but she's stopped that now."
"Do you find it as odd as I do?" Abra feigned nonchalance.
"What's that?" Sultana held out her hand as a servant girl went to work filing her nails.
"The two of them spending so much time together."
"They enjoy each other's company," the Sultana said. "Belomi will be gone before he's old enough for anything serious."
"Gone?"
"Sent away. You don't see any grown men around here." The frenzied shuffle of little feet in motion sounded from the corridor. "Here they come," said Sultana as the children stumbled in with grass in their hair and mud splotched along their hems.
"Mama?" Klark questioned when she noticed Abra's presence. Her eyes smiled as she climbed atop the divan and nestled herself in her mother's lap. "My darling." Abra drew a ring with her finger across the girl's cheek and nose. "Your smile is as bright as a gold ducat." Wide-eyed, Klark studied her mother's face. After a moment, she lowered her chin, slipped off from Abra's lap and headed away with Belomi the way they had come.
"May I visit again?" Abra asked the Sultana once Klark had run off.
"As often as you'd like." She looked away and waved in Abra's direction. "I think I've had enough for one day. You may go now."
For the next several years, Klark was raised in the harem, alongside the Sultan's many children, nieces, and cousins. She was reared by an army of harem women that included the Sultan's favorite concubines and relatives. It was known all throughout, Klark was the child of the Sultan's most trusted confidante, adviser and friend. She received a royal education, becoming well-versed in poetry, dance, embroidery, and art. Only, she was not schooled in Koranic studies. The Empire's policy of religious tolerance extended throughout the land and was accordingly upheld even in the dank corridors of the Imperial harem.
1573
Belomi rested the oars in their holsters and let their canoe drift aimlessly. The shore was just a faraway cluster of miniatures now. He hung his arm over the side of the boat and slapped the water playfully.
"I don't see you often enough," Klark said matter-of-factly.
"And I cannot see you at all." He nodded towards her veil, where he could barely make out the shape of her face, her eyes. He wiped his wet hand on his silk caftan. "I'll never get used to it."
"What does it even matter? You already know what I look like."
"It's not the same."
"Belomi, it's not proper."
"We used to swim naked in the fountain together. Don't talk to me about proper," he quipped.
"We were children," she shot back.
He leaned in close. "You've never been in trouble a day in your life, Klark."
She snorted. "I don't have the same proclivity for trouble as you do, Bel."
"Maybe not." He leaned back against his elbows and grinned at her. "I like you just the way you are."
She smiled awkwardly. "I don't like this, either," she gestured at the veil covering her face. "At least have this time together." She smiled a smile he could not see. Then, she pulled a few pins from her veil and let the fabric fall away exposing blond hair that fell loose in long, loose curls.
He grasped a strand, twisting it around his finger and tugging lightly, playfully, as he did when they were children. He loved Klark's hair; no one quite had the same shade as hers, mixed with sunlight and moonglow.
Yellow specks of sun glinted off the water's surface dotting her pale complexion with a smattering of white light, as if she were ethereal that could not be contained, the light like a halo atop her head. He just looked at her for a time, as if this were a gift he could not quite believe he had received, knowing that the sun would eventually pinken her cheeks to display a splatter of freckles akin to his own. Suddenly, the buzzing of a wasp came between them. Belomi instinctively reached for the veil (now set off to the side) and swatted the insect away, and as he did, accidently flung the muslin fabric overboard.
"Belomi!" Klark stood in her place. He shrugged apologetically. "How am I ever going to explain this!" Her eyes narrowed to slivers as her veil sank away beneath the water's surface.
She shoved him hard.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry! Let me get it," he offered sheepishly, then stood up and removed his shoes.
"Do you see it anywhere?" She stepped forward and the boat careened dangerously. Belomi grabbed hold of her outstretched arms, falling forward as he did.
The fall seemed to happen very slowly.
An invisible force exerted a downward pressure on them both, plunging them deep through the hard, sharp surface of the river and into the dark waters below. A kind of water-wind jettisoned them to some unknown depth, at which point, they spun around and examined one another through the watery lens that engulfed them both. Suspended in that place with their clothes and hair weightless, their eyes were wide and their lungs still. It was a quiet world, a world without veils or rules or rituals. A world without any noise except for the sound of one's heart thumping in one's chest and one's blood coursing through one's veins.
Klark looked upwards toward what could only be the sun, a runny, yellow mark on the far end of the water. When she kicked her feet Belomi followed suit, and the force of their kicks shot them skyward. In an instant, they had surfaced in a ring of ripples and gasps, both greedily pulling air into their lungs.
Belomi swam towards her.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She coughed up some water.
"Look what I found." He held out her soaking veil and flung it onto the canoe. When she didn't respond, he took a closer look at her. "You're shivering," he deadpanned, watching her teeth chatter and gooseflesh break out on her chilled arms. He pulled her towards the boat. "Come on, I've got you." He unhinged a small ladder on the side of the canoe and helped Klark up before boarding himself. "Take off your caftan before you freeze to death."
She obliged and slipped off her robe, twisting the fabric and wringing it out. She spread the fabric flat at the back of the boat, hoping that the sun would dry it before they got back to the palace. When she turned back, Belomi had already shed a few layers, exposing his thick, muscular arms, bare from shoulder to wrist. They sat there quietly baking dry under the warm sunshine as they tried to calm their breathing.
After a time, he spoke up. "I'm going to be sent away soon." The thought had weighed heavy on his mind for some time.
She glanced up.
"I'm too old to live in the harem now." He answered the question she hadn't asked. "Here. Feel." He took her hand and brought it to his face, pressing her palm against his cheek.
She caressed her fingers across the length of this jaw. "You have been shaving."
"A few months now." He pulled away.
"But how?"
"I hide the razor between my mattress and shave before everyone wakes. It's only a matter of time before they realize it. I know they have their suspicions already."
"Bel..." She moved a few inches closer to him.
"Most of us are sent away by now. My brother managed to stick around until he was fourteen, but I'm already fifteen. I have no idea how I lasted this long."
She suddenly shed her cool demeanor. "So, they're going to send you away?"
"You know they will."
"When will I see you again?"
Belomi lowered his chin and turned. She nodded, then reached for her sopping veil and flung it back into the sea. They watched it as it pulled beneath the water's surface, sinking into its depths.
"That's it? You're just going to leave because they tell you to?"
"What other choice do I have?"
"We can fight this."
"We can't fight it, Klark! It's how it is."
"There has to be a way."
"You know how this works. There are no men inside the harem."
"If you go," She lowered her voice, "I go with you."
He leaned back and scoffed at the suggestion. "What of your father?"
She rubbed her hands together and rocked in her place. "I think he would be fine with it."
"Are we talking about the same person? Your father, Josef? There is hardly a Hebrew more fervent in his faith."
"My father is an enlightened, educated man. He will see reason."
"You can add zealot to the list."
"He cares about freedom!"
"You have been gone so long that you no longer know him at all," he murmured quietly. It was his mother that had taken her from her family as a child, even in knowing that Abra could no longer have children after she nearly died giving birth to Klark.
"My father is a great man! He risked his life to practice a faith forbidden to him. No one knows the importance of freedom more than he does. He left everything behind to bring himself and my mother to a better life." She shook her head and reached for the oars. "Don't talk about my father. You don't know him at all." She fumbled with the oars, painstakingly rowing the boat – in the wrong direction. "I'm ready to go back now, Belomi." He winced at her usage of his full name. She bestowed him a withering glare that Medusa herself could only hope to conjure.
"Klark…"
"It's getting late."
"Just wait a minute-"
"I better get back," she snapped, abandoning the oars at her side, crossing her arms over her chest. "Either help me turn this boat around, or I'm going to swim."
He searched her eyes, leaning in close until he could feel her breath on his cheek. "Klark, I'm sorry," he murmured, "I want us to be together."
Reluctantly, she softened her stance and put her arms around his neck. "I'll go where you go."
"And your people?"
She looked up and turned her gaze toward the place where the sea met the sky. "You are my people," she said without glancing back. Belomi nodded.
Neither of them spoke, nothing left to say or do as they drifted further from the shore. Only the silent oath between them.
As the months passed, Belomi began to take notice of the eunuchs, who eyed him suspiciously as he and Klark rode out on their horses or took long walks in the gardens. It had become impossible to hide the shadow of a beard that crept up along the length of his cheeks and above his lip. He had grown tall—a head taller than his father—and was towering over every boy, lady, and eunuch within the harem. How he had managed to remain in the women's quarter longer than any prince before him was somewhat of an open secret.
For years, his mother, the Sultana, had agonized about the day she would be separated from her son. Every few months, rumors would circulate that Belomi was finally to be sent away. It was during these times that the Sultana retreated into her chambers locking the door from the inside with an iron bolt. When the Sultan would call on her late in night, she had the audacity to refuse him her bed. He was left standing in the cold, like a common beggar at her stoop. He would threaten and shout and pound on the door, but it was all in vain.
The most powerful man in Turkey was rendered powerless. His heart was in her hands. It was only after assurances were made that her son would remain with her for a few more months, a few weeks, a few days, it was only then that she let the Sultan enter her chamber. But one cold night, frustrated by the ornery woman that he loved, he had his men break down her door.
Shouting was heard as the shattering of clay pots and vases sounded throughout the quiet compound. The next day, her door was replaced with a thick, velvet curtain, and Belomi was informed that he was to be sent away. He was a man and could no longer live among the women and children.
Belomi said goodbye to his mother and sisters then gathered his things from the Sultana's apartment. He was given his own quarters with servants, butlers, and beautiful women. And yet he thought only of Klark. He had to find a way to see her again.
As he walked along one of the servants' paths, Belomi spotted Rohit not far in the distance. The Ethiopian eunuch had just rounded the corner disappearing behind a thick wall of tall hedges leading up towards the kitchen quarters.
"Rohit!" Belomi called out as he quickened his pace. "Rohit!" The eunuch spun around to face Belomi.
"Effendi, what are you doing here?"
"How are you, Rohit?" Belomi attempted to sound casual.
The eunuch's expression stiffened. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Belomi took a step back and cleared his throat. "I just thought you might have some news." At the eunuch's befuddled expression, he added, "from the harem."
"It's only been a month."
"A lot can happen in a month."
"Most of the boys cannot wait to leave the harem and become men, but you… You're different, aren't you, Belomi?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand—"
"You want to get back and see the girl, and you think I can help."
"Can you?" Belomi leapt at the suggestion.
"Of course not," scolded Rohit. "Do you want me to get me executed?"
Belomi's posture withered. The eunuch shook his head and hobbled along, his walking stick dragging in the dirt. "There must be some other way," Belomi pleaded. "I need to get back to her."
"The girl is almost fifteen; she will be going home, a woman grown. There is no point in trying to sneak your way back into the harem."
"When? When does she leave?"
"I'm to escort her back to her father's house in a week's time."
Belomi looked around. "Here." He pointed to a tall pomegranate tree, heavy with the hanging fruit, and disappeared beneath it.
"Can you see me?" Belomi called out from behind the wall of leaves.
"You are very well hidden."
Belomi emerged and was standing by the eunuch once more. "I will hide here in seven days' time. Bring her to me."
"You know that I can't."
"Do this for me, and one day when I am sultan, I will be in your debt."
Rohit seemed to mull it over. A favor from the Sultan would be an advantageous thing to have. "Just this once. Be here by twilight."
Belomi clasped his hands together loudly. "I won't forget this."
The eunuch turned away and frowned.
"I really wish you would."
Seven days later, just before sundown, Belomi took his place in the brush of the tree and waited for Klark. While he hid, the kitchen staff bustled past with silver trays topped with delicacies. Wagons of sacks and grain rolled past toward the kitchens, pulled by donkeys.
To pass the time, he began to count the heels of servants and princes passing by. When his back began to ache in his crouched position, he looked up through limbs and leaves as he quietly broke apart a pomegranate with his knife. The moon was bright but he couldn't make out even a single star in the pale sky.
Somewhere in the heavens, his and Klark's star signs overlapped. Earlier, he strode to the dark sanctuary in the compound, searching for the Sultan's spiritual advisor. The old man brushed crumbs from his long, white beard as he confirmed what Belomi had known all along. The heavens embraced their union – Belomi and Klark were made to be together. It did not matter that she was a foreigner or a Jew. It was fated.
Klark, daughter of Josef and Abra, was a perfectly suitable match for the Sultan's son.
His musings were interrupted by the sound of twigs crunching underfoot. He pushed past a thicket of jade and lime colored leaves and spotted Klark. Her turquoise caftan wrapped her in a silk cocoon as she ducked under the remaining leaves and toppled down next to him, thighs touching. Wild flowers rose like a fortress shielding them from view.
Silence reigned supreme; the air pulsating with unanswered questions. He lifted her veil and considered her sky-blue eyes, ran his calloused thumb over the soft, unmarred flesh of her jaw. "I wanted to give you something, if you'll have it." He pulled out small ring that had burned a hole in his pocket all afternoon, the gold warm in his hands and pressed it into her open palm – a glittering ruby encased in the golden bang. Inset, the inscription read, "To my queen, my love."
She examined the stone, turning it around until the moonlight caught the red gleaming facets. "I love you," she whispered. Her eyes met his and they smiled one smile. Belomi slid the ring over her finger. "My father gave us permission to marry in the new year." He kissed her for a long moment, combing back blond tresses with his fingers. Then he peered through the cascade of branches that enveloped them both into the dimming world beyond. The slender treetops of the forest swept wantonly against the silver sky.
"Go," he pulled away reluctantly, grasping her face between his hands, trying to memorize her. "Your family is waiting." She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him by the nape of his neck until his chest was pressed to hers. Her eyes glistened as she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before she said goodbye and slipped away.
A week had passed when Klark awoke to find her father standing over her bedside, shaking her. "Papa? What's wrong?" She glanced beyond the lattices into the thick night. Crickets chimed against a silent backdrop. The moon was still high in the sky, several hours before dawn. "Papa?" She sat up in her bed, hysterical now by her father's silence. Surely her mother was all right? "What's happening? Please, tell me."
"Pack a bag. Take only what you need."
"Why?"
"Get your things. Quickly," he urged.
Klark pulled herself to her feet, hands hovering on what to grab first. "I don't understand what's happening."
"You need to trust me, Klark. Pack your things." He kissed her forehead and combed matted curls from her face, like he did when she was a child. "Meet me at the gate."
Just a few moments later, Klark stood by her father in a hooded cape with a satchel in tow. He took her things and led her by the arm towards a winding dirt road. They walked the path silently until Klark's eyes adjusted and her feet ached. It must have been hours, because the sun was beginning to peak. A large, hooded man in a black cloak and a red beard emerged from the thicket. Beneath him was the largest stallion Klark had ever seen.
"This man will escort you."
"What are you talking about?" The panic in her voice was mounting. She yanked her elbow from her father's grip, looking incredulously at him in the dusk. "I won't go," she fumed.
"Go with him," he said flatly. "I've trusted him to keep you safe on your journey." He thought of his parents, who had orphaned when he was young. They existed now only in his memories, where even his fondest moments were blurry and incomplete. How was it they had sacrificed, had perished for their belief, so that their granddaughter could relinquish it so freely.
"Don't do this to me. Please, don't." She threw her arms around his waist. "Don't send me away, papa, please." Her father must have noticed the ring, Belomi's promise to marry her.
"I am doing this for you," Josef whispered as the rider dismounted the stallion and made his way towards Klark.
"No!" She cried, clinging to his shirt. Tears streaked down her cheeks. "Do not do this."
He turned away so she wouldn't see the tears streaming down his face. "You must." He held her for the last time, wrapped her up in a tight embrace. "Go." He could feel her body trembling against his and her wet tears soak into the fabric."Now."
"Where is he taking me?"
Josef spoke in a low whisper. "You are to live in Tiberias." Israel. He was sending her to Israel, so, so far away. "I've arranged for you to stay with an old friend of mine."
"No! I won't go." The man with the red beard stepped forward and pried Klark from Josef as she sobbed loudly and pounded on his chest with closed fists, kicking madly. He tossed her slender body over his muscular shoulder and lifted her onto the black horse with ease, to would take her away from Istanbul forever. She continued to kick and throw her fists wildly, screaming herself hoarse.
Josef watched as the horse carried his daughter into the darkness, until he could no longer hear her sobs and obscenities. The scent of charred flesh filled his nostrils. The screams and sweat and misery of that hot summer day would be branded in his memory until his last breath. Persecuted for their faith. He saw them there, their anguish pulsating throughout his body, out through his fingertips and back through his head.
He saw them burning. There was fire in his eyes.
He would not let that be Klark's fate.
When Josef revealed to Abra what he had done, they stared at one another for a quiet moment. Her jaw twitched in anger. With her face turned away, she slipped the emerald and gold cuff off her wrist. It clattered to the ground and the clasps broke apart, skittering across the floor. She snapped a low curse before looking at him like he was a stranger to her. He had been unable to make out what she said. He had heard the vicious pleas of his daughter as the red man trotted off with her; heard the words from her mouth that cut him deeply. He imagined Abra's curse to have the same effect, a thousand cuts to his core.
He did not arrive at court the next day, or the next. On the third day of his absence, he was summoned to the palace. He entered the quarters of the Sultan's office with his head bowed low, a show of tears drying on his face. He'd rehearsed his speech a hundred times, had gone over the plan in his head countless times.
It really was a perfect plan.
Consumption swept across the region like a tidal wave. There was hardly a family in his community who could claim they had not lost a loved one to the sickness. Certainly, the Sultan would not question it. Josef didn't even need to produce proof of a body, what with the Sultan's issuance to cremate the deceased immediately to prevent the spread of the disease.
"Our daughter…" he whispered in a tone of hushed grief. "The fever… my child… two days ago, it took my dear Klark… there was nothing we could do." Josef could feel his heart throbbing in his chest as he lied to the Sultan. His heart tightened. He had not expected shame to bubble up, thicken like butter in his throat.
Josef fell to the ground and wept at the feet of the Sultan. He would never see his daughter again. He had killed her with his deeds. He had banished her with his lies. Josef took leave of his duties at the palace for a month of mourning – to mourn the loss of all that he held dear. He had lost his daughter, he had lost his wife, and now, he had lost his way.
"She is dead," his father told him.
Belomi looked out of his window. In the very place where the sun should have been, he found a large, black hole in the blue sky. Below, people were bustling, carrying about as usual. Gardeners tended to the shrubs, as though they still believed it were possible for life to continue. Rohit, along with the other eunuchs, continued to guard the gates under the mistaken impression that there was anything left on this earth still worth protecting. A bird chirped a contemptuous song of oblivion as it flitted about the courtyard. White doves brazenly spread their wings and dove recklessly through the wanton sky—a sky so bright and blue and without shame that Belomi grit his teeth and fists in frustrated rage.
He wanted to scream down to all those oblivious, passing by, "You fools! Your appointments, your plans, your dreams! Go ahead and drop them all, only take up your shovels, for we must bury it all. How cruel this life is!" But he didn't shout these words. He did not say anything at all.
Belomi was silent for six days. Day after day, his father sat at the edge of Belomi's bed, talking to him and trying to coax him to eat something. And still, Belomi did not answer, but looked up blindly for trap doors in the ceiling where he wished he could slip away from his life, from his cruel fate.
On the seventh day, he finally spoke. "I loved her."
He had not left his chamber in a fortnight. The room was kept dim, the shutters drawn tight. In the darkness, the Sultan could barely see his son's face. Curled up in a snail's silhouette, Belomi sat with his knees tucked up to his chin.
"I loved her."
His father only looked at him, grief evident for his favorite son. "I know."
Belomi fought back his tears, caved into his father's embrace. He had always seen her as a force of nature, with the power to shift gravity, tilt the world on its axis, through sheer force of will.
The idea that a force as such as death that not even his father, the most powerful man in the Ottoman Empire, could bring her back, thoroughly stunned him. That she was only human was inconceivable. In fact, it was more than he could bear.
"No," he breathed in a tone so eerily low and dismal, it sent a chill through the Sultan.
"No," he told the servants when they attempted to serve him delicacies from the furthest reaches of the empire. "No," he would hiss, his eyes cold and distant. Everything tasted of ash now. He dismissed them all with a dangerous, thrashing gesture, a motion so sweepingly violent, it could have knocked over even the sturdiest of men.
He believed she could come back, if only she willed it. In Belomi's distress, visions of Klark weighed heavy on his lids. Her mischievous smile, her blue eyes that reflected an August sky, her pale skin… it all bled through his dreams, until he could no longer discern what was real. They were leaching images, eerily sedentary, and haunting. They snuck upon him the way a dead body washes ashore under the cloak of night.
It was just a few hours before sunrise when Belomi was startled awake, his sheets were drenched in a cold sweat. Crickets chimed in the still of night and a silver mist hung low over the Bosphorus strait.
He summoned the Sultan's spiritual advisor to his bedside.
"What is it?" The Sheik's long robe trailed as he hurried to his side.
"I had such a strange dream." Belomi kicked his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up. "Tell me what it means."
"You have dreamt many dreams before."
"This one... it's different." Belomi leaned forward anxiously. "I know it."
"Go on, then. Tell me what it is you dream of."
Belomi closed his eyes, trying to envision it. "I was laying on the grass out there, in the garden, with the sun above me."
"You weren't alone, were you?" the man interrupted.
Belomi shook his head. "She was on the grass beside me. Not speaking, not moving, just being there, together."
"Take your time, Belomi. Tell me all."
Belomi nodded, his lids still sealed tight. "It was strange. We just lay there, content, for a lifetime. The seasons changed, a hundred years came to pass. I awoke shortly after."
"You and this girl will be together again."
"Impossible. She's dead."
"Belomi," the advisor pressed. "Fate has a way of happening."
Belomi waited.
He hoped that the Sultan's advisor was right—that Klark was alive and she would come back to him—that she would find him and unearth him.
Belomi waited.
Weeks turned into months. Seasons passed and colors changed, gave away to years, decades. And still, he waited, haunted by every part of her. He grew more desperate in time, certain she was alive, and that he could find her, that he would find her. He dispatched a small army in search of an azure-eyed girl with white gold hair and a mark above her lip.
Across continents his soldiers searched, but never did they find Belomi's beloved.
His father died in the arms of his mother. Belomi ascended the throne. Heartbroken by the loss of Klark, he retreated from state politics and allowed his grand vizier and chief adviser to pick up his slack.
Many had thought he'd gone mad.
Through the years, he'd turned bitter and locked himself alone, away in the palace. He took concubines and bore children – as was his duty - and yet, never forgetting his love for Klark, he continued the empire's policy of religious tolerance towards persecuted minorities, welcoming hundreds of thousands of refugees from Europe's inquisition into his empire.
At the hour of his death, he summoned the royal scribe to his chamber.
It is said that to this day, Sultan Belomi died in waiting.
A/N:
I was going to rename them in past life, but that would be such a hassle, so I just used Klark and Belomi, as Trigedasleng spells it, I guess. This is part 1 of 2.