A/N: Well, they're in the same room, but they don't really interact. I'm sorry I haven't been able to update more often. I've been pulling extremely late hours at work. I have most of the next chapter written, though. But it's not really meant to be a next chapter. It's supposed to be part of this one. I will try to finish it tonight. If not, then definitely tomorrow!

Chapter 6: Dastan's Excuse

By Jen

The loss of his new coat of armor preyed hard upon Dastan, and he was silent throughout much of the farewell banquet as he ruminated not merely over the material damage, but what that damage meant. He was not overly superstitious, but he believed in omens; and this seemed like a bad one. The symbol of his unquestioned status as a member of the royal house of Persia slashed to bits in a single day? He recalled a dark memory from his childhood, long buried, when he had not been a beggar in the streets, but the pampered son of a cloth merchant. And one day a shadow had fallen across his mother's face while she was napping . . . and he had known then that she would die. He shook away that thought, which had come to him unbidden. Reason said that his armor had been ruined not from any divine mandate, but from his own recklessness in accepting a duel at all. He supposed he had not wanted to lose face in front of Tamina, having forgotten for a moment that she had never been particularly impressed with his acrobatics. And lo and behold, his stunts from that afternoon had not won her over either. She was sitting clear at the end of the banquet hall, and from what he could tell she had not glanced up at him once.

Garsiv was stewing in his own gall to Dastan's right. Fiercely proud of his status and convinced that Alamut would cower and cave under any threat to its alliance with Persia, he had been mortified to learn that not only was Asoka to go unpunished, but he was to have the honor at sitting nearest to the princess's couch during the meal. "What colossal rudeness!" he had exclaimed, upon seeing them together. "His head ought to be sitting before you on a silver platter." He watched them carefully throughout the meal, scowling the entire time.

Dastan on the other hand had been unperturbed by the proximity of the two. Not for the first time did he wish that Garsiv were better able to let a slight pass. It was almost embarrassing to see him glowering at the Alamutian head table. Asoka had been the soul of politeness since their skirmish, and seemed colder to the Princess than to any of his affronted Persian allies.

Observing the Princess's friendliness to her general now, Dastan wondered if his intuition was correct that it had been on Tamina's orders that Asoka had started the fight. He had thought she felt the connection between them, but ever mindful of her scheming, Dastan knew she would not be above trying to win his trust and then kill him. He ate his food with caution, glad that his father had ordered his own taste testers to check every dish in the meal. He would not put it past Tamina to poison every single member of the Persian army if she thought her dagger was in danger.

Dastan tried to remember everything he had told her from the moment he had returned the dagger to her. What precisely had given him away? Had it been his sudden change of mind? The simple act of giving the dagger? His cryptic words and double meanings . . . Or had it been everything taken together? Dastan mentally kicked himself for not being more discrete. He could now admit to himself that he had always wanted her to know, and he simply hadn't known how to convey the full tale to a woman who as of yet cared nothing for him and might laugh in his face or dismiss it as nonsense. But his hints and hopes had been irrevocably foolish. Now that Tamina thought her secrets were in danger and knew her attempt on his life had failed, she would go to the temple in the Hindu Kush. He doubted she would allow Dastan to prevent her, for she had no reason to trust him, not even if he confessed the whole story. His only option was to convince her he knew nothing about it. But how could he do it?

In his mind he tried out several plans, discarding each as foolish or impossible. He would leave in the morning, and there simply wasn't enough time. If he could make her love him, would she think twice? How could he make Tamina love him in one night when before it had taken him months?

"My sons look dour tonight," said Sharaman, who was sitting on Garsiv's other side. (Tus was at Sharaman's right.) The king was smiling, and Dastan supposed that Tus had somehow kept the details of the duel from their father. Otherwise, he would certainly have been outraged by Princess Tamina's insulting forgiveness of his youngest son's attacker.

"I think of the enemies I must face," said Garsiv, alluding to Kosh. Yet he looked up and stared squarely at Asoka.

"I would look happier if my brother did," said Dastan. "There's no one to talk to over here."

At this, Tamina stood from her couch and clapped her hands three times. From behind her appeared a long line of musicians with their sitars and flutes. Behind them came forward a bevy of exotic and scantily clad women. "The princes require entertainment," she said. "Alas, my modesty prevents me from joining you. The women and I shall retire." And she drew her long white veil about her face, covering her eyes, and left.

"My kind of woman," said Sharaman, teasing his son.

Dastan watched her go, admiring her lithe and graceful form until it had disappeared around the door. He supposed it was the last time he would see her until the year was out, for even if she came to bid farewell in the morning, she would surely be veiled. Unless, that is, he broke into her chambers. It was a gamble. She might cast him out, curse him, scream for her guards. Worst of all, she might take his presumption to heart and hold it against him. But he had to see her. He had to know if she had guessed his secret. He had to kiss her one last time. But oh, the risk . . . !

Many hours later when the festivities had risen to a racous binge, Dastan excused himself and returned still unresolved to his bedroom. Looking out upon the balcony, separated from the main room by only a thin tapestry, Dastan observed the crescent moon was high in the night sky and the bright stars that had come out in tribute. He thought of his chambers back in Nasaf where his pet hunting dogs awaited him and his bows and arrows and javelins hung from the high walls. Once his life had been carefree, and he had looked out of his balcony at home upon these same stars and thought only of how in the morning he would take his best horse and go out to the wilderness to find good sport. Now he had fallen in love, and his mind was wracked with doubt and fear. Beautiful, defiant, infuriating Tamina . . . what excuse could he conjure for visiting her?

It was then that his manservant appeared through the servant's passage that was hidden behind a thick tapestry hanging from the ceiling. He had a little tray of mint tea in his hands, but uncharacteristically it jiggled and he spilled a few drops as he emerged from behind the thick cloth. Dastan could not remember him doing that in all his days. Servants in the royal household prided themselves on perfection and invisibility. Looking at the marble floor from whence the man had emerged, Dastan spied the culprit behind his servant's tripping. It was a piece of thin, white cloth. Judging from its sheen, he guess it was silk.

"What's that?"

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness," he said, coming forward and setting the tea upon the large round table. He went back and picked it up.

"Give it to me," said Dastan, holding his hand out. And when the servant placed it in his hand, Dastan saw it was a torn piece of fabric, white with a richly embroidered trim.

"It must have been one of the maids, Your Highness," the servant said. "It was caught in the door."

"This is too rich for a maid's hem," said Dastan, rubbing his finger over the tight crimson thread that adorned the edge of the silk. The pattern reminded him of a lotus plant he had seen once in Egypt. He held the cloth up to his nose, checking for any lingering trace of her perfume. "Does that passage lead to the women's quarters?"

"Yes, Your Highness. I believe there is a connecting passage."

"By the gods, that woman is impossible," Dastan murmured under his breath. When he realized his servant had not understood, he spoke more clearly. "Call out the servants. Ask them to check my sheets for evidence of poison. Check my rooms for a sign of a trap. And find someone without scruples who can show me the way to the zenana."