Talons of a King

VII: Scent

Before Maria could register what was happening, she was stripped naked, told to sit in a large metal tub, and doused with hot water. She let out a sharp cry and attempted to shield herself with her arms, to no real avail. The woman's sleeves were rolled up, and as she took out many vials of what Maria hoped to be nonlethal substances, she took in the tiled room around them with an incredulous expression. It was constructed beautifully. Each tile, a strange, light shade of blue, was centered with a delicately painted design, as if every solitary one was done by a meticulous hand.

"Months on the road have left you smelling like horse stable," Nasreen remarked, her expression never shifting from blank and business-like. "Maliki will not bed women who smell like horse."

Maria sputtered for a moment, feeling her face turn a violent hue of red. "B – Bed?"

Nasreen looked at her for a moment, an eyebrow raised in confusion. "Of course," the woman replied, as if she was a child that had just inquired upon an obvious question.

A lump formed in her throat. She knew this was going to happen, but the idea of that man's hands on her was sickening and frightening all at once. Thoughts of dread, however, were impossible. Any thoughts at all were, as the harsh wash cloth scraped down her skin.

The woman exhaled in impatience. "I must be rid of the dead skin, my lady. To have beauty is pain." Which meant that she was to cease acting like a child and deal with it. And so in response, Maria ground her teeth together and bore with the rough cloth scrubbing all over her body. After what felt like hours of the same grueling procedure, she moved on to her hair. Nasreen scrubbed her thick, straight brown hair with some kind of concoction that smelled of flowers.

Maria had her knees tucked to her chest as the bathing proceeded. Eventually, Nasreen decided to strike conversation. "Do you fear bedding maliki?"

Such an abrupt, personal question caught her off guard. "Uhm … I do not know him very well."

"So? He will be your husband – and you are lucky that he is young, handsome, and quite talented with his hands." That final comment piqued her interest.

"You … and him have …?"

Nasreen threw her head back in a melodic, musical laugh. "You truly hail from England. So uncomfortable with matters of the body. Yes, he and I have shared a bed – but do not fear; it was without any form of love."

"Then you are a–?"

"Courtesan?" Nasreen said, raising an eyebrow with an amused smile. "Yes. Does it offend you?"

Her sheltered, antisocial lifestyle had kept her from ever coming face to face with a fully fledged prostitute. When she had wasted her days in King John's courts, the other girls would whisper of his dealings with these women of the night. Maria shook her head. "No, no. In fact, I am relieved you speak English. Malik is not much of a conversationalist."

She chuckled. "No, he is not. He is a man who sees no need to refine the art of speech. Malik is a man of business. I, however, must soothe the ears of men, as well as their bodies, so it is among my duties to turn speech into an art form."

"Where are you from?" Maria could not help but ask. Anything to keep her mind off of the next few hours to come.

"Persia," Nasreen replied as she began to wash Maria's back, and her tone suggested it was not a topic in which was up for discussion. "Your skin is soft and fair … it will please him."

Warmth rushed to her face once more. "I do not care what pleases him."

"Such a sharpened tongue you have," she remarked, trailing an idle finger down Maria's spine. "I take it that your upbringing was not as noble as I would suspect."

For a moment, she chuckled. "Yes, you could say that. My older brother raised me."

The woman's hands stilled for a few misplaced seconds, and she stood to her feet and brought forth a wooden comb to brush the tangles out of her hair. "Tonight, you must heed my warning. You must allow him to have his way with you and swallow any sense of silly pride you may have left from your journey. It will do you no good."

The second person to tell her to succumb to defeat. Her jaw set in a hard line. "I suppose I have no choice in the matter."

"You do not," she agreed, although her voice was gentle. "But know this: a woman with your spirit can gain an unprecedented amount of power, and she gains it from the bed chamber."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Nasreen had dressed the queen in the making in a dark, silken green chemise embroidered with silver threads that swirled in all kinds of patterns, the fabric hugging her body as if tailored with her in mind. She did not wear a gown, much to her surprise. Next, she was fitted in poofy, yet comfortable trousers of the same style to match her chemise.

"I thought they did not believe in frivolity," Maria remarked, in awe at the beauty of this outfit.

She snorted. "It is a wedding, there is no such thing as frivolity." Her eyes had been lined with a black paint Nasreen had called 'kohl', a strange substance that made them itch a bit. Silver shimmering shoes with pointed ends were given to her to slip into, and she marveled at how soft they felt on the inside.

With a triumphant smile, Nasreen declared that her hard work had paid off and instructed Maria to go to courtyard outside the castle, where the villagers would be waiting to be introduced to their new queen. Swallowing hard, Maria nodded and made her way from her quarters, down the long stone hallway to a large set of spiraling stairs.

Whether or not she was going the right way was beyond her, but she decided to follow her instincts and trailed down the steps, her footsteps bouncing off the walls and echoing into the air. Halfway down, she came across a small door that had cobwebs growing on the knob. Curiosity seizing her, she pushed the heavy wooden open.

She let out a fit of coughs at the dust floating around the room. Confused, she squinted her eyes to make it out through the darkness, and noticed that small sources of light were peeking through otherwise thick curtains. Maria strolled over and yanked one of the curtains opened and watched, with awe, as the room illuminated to reveal large shelves that stretched high into the air. Each solitary space was filled with leather-bound books of all shapes and sizes.

Her breath caught in her throat in awe, and she dashed over to another window and drew the curtains with an excited yank. The room grew in size, and the amount of books doubled and then tripled in a matter of seconds. She did not believe such a quantity even existed but here it was. Maria rushed to one of the lower shelves and pulled a book out, opening it to a random page in an attempt to make out its contents.

A frustrated curse bypassed her lips. This was not lettering that she recognized. It looked like someone had scribbled nonsensical lines into the page. It occurred to her that this was probably Arabic, and she pouted in disappointment as she slipped it back into its place on the shelf.

"Sayyidaty!" Whirling on her heel, she came face to face with a handsome boy that looked no older than seventeen. His nose and face shape reminded her of Malik, but in the place of analytical onyx eyes, they were bright, innocent blue. He said something in Arabic, gesturing to the exit with a rushed, somewhat frantic expression.

She tilted her head in confusion, and could only make out yalla since he kept saying it again and again. From what she could decipher, it could have easily meant that they needed to go. Exhaling in impatience, he dashed forward and seized her wrist, tugging her back out the door of the library.

He led her to the main door where she could hear the cheering and bustle of a large crowd. He stopped, released her and told her to wait, if her understanding of body language had not failed her. Within moments, Malik stormed forward from the outside, his hand on his hip.

"How nice of you to join us," he said. "I hope my brother did not catch you trying to run away, as you are most late." The boy was his brother?

She frowned. "It is not my fault that this God forsaken castle is so large."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he let the subject drop. "We will discuss your tardiness later – the people wait to be introduced to you." He gestured forward with an expectant look in his eyes. Heaving a nervous sigh, she sucked in her gut and made her way out to the courtyard, where Altaïr was facing the crowd with his hands behind his back, his posture perfect and unyielding. He wore gray and red robes – his hood, as always, was up. A monarch, above all else.

The crowd reacted upon her stepping onto the platform, and he turned to make direct eye contact with her for a few seconds before scanning her up and down. His facial features did not even make the slightest twitch before extending a hand to her. She took it with hesitance, noting its rough texture, and looked upon the crowd, who were regarding her with apprehension and curiosity.

Malik's voice boomed out to the large group of people as he discussed the both of them. He used her name once or twice, and it took a large amount of nerve to stand before them so vulnerable and exposed to ridicule. As Malik spoke, she could make out young women in the audience glaring at her with malevolent scowls on their faces. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Oh my, she thought. My new husband has a bit of a following, how lucky of me to have inherited it.

Her hand was hoisted into the air all of a sudden, and the crowd let out a roar. And she was unable to tell if it was positive or negative. In that instant, she was turned to face Altaïr, and he stared at her with the strangest look burning in his amber eyes. Before she could register the situation, he was leaning in, eyes shut and lips puckered. Panic seized her, and in haste she turned her head, and his kiss landed on the center of her cheek, his stubble tickling her skin.

A low rumble shook the citizens of Masyaf and gasps of surprise shot into the air. Her heart was hammering against her rib cage. The uniformed guards observing the spectacle burst out in a fit of simultaneous laughter, and even Malik seemed to be suppressing a smile of amusement. The king's face darkened and Maria was perfectly aware of the fact that she had just humiliated him in front of his people, and felt apologetic. But then, he could have given her better warning than he did.

Soon, she was being pulled back into the castle, Altaïr's grip on her tightening painfully. He brought to her what looked like a study, with a large wooden desk situated in the center of a room adorned with red flags and a strange, triangular black symbol upon them.

He let her go with an uncaring shove, yanking the hood of his robes off so he could give her a proper nasty look. That was when she noticed the scar stretching down the edge of his lips. Malik appeared swiftly in suit.

"That was unwise," he informed her, although she could still detect the twinkle in his eyes. The king made a sharp, angry remark, never taking his eyes off of her. Malik appealed with his hand up, palm forward, but the king did not seem to want to hear of it.

"You summoned me?" They all turned at the sound of Nasreen's voice, and Maria assumed by the fact that she was speaking English that this matter concerned her.

"Yes," Malik said, sticking to English. "Take the queen up to her chambers. I would prefer it that she does not wander off again before she is needed later tonight."

The woman nodded in understanding, beckoning Maria forward with a quick motion of her hand. She did so in silence. As soon as they were out of earshot, Nasreen spun around and put her hands on her waist, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Did everything I say fly out of your ears?" she demanded.

She lowered her eyes, embarrassed. "I panicked."

"And now you have insulted him not even ten seconds into the marriage," she deadpanned, shaking her head. Maria muttered unintelligible words under her breath and stalked back to her quarters.

Xxxxxxxx

His room was far simpler than would befit a king. A large, comfortable-looking bed sat at the edge of the chamber. There was a shelf filled with books and a burgundy desk sitting beside it, scattered papers thrown all over it. Nasreen had instructed her to wait for him, to surprise him. She had dressed her in a light blue, shimmering material that clung to her body.

"And for God's sake," she had said before they reached his room, "look happy to see him."

Heart racing, she made her way over to the bookshelf and ran a finger across the many leather spines. Any and all pride had been swallowed, because she knew now more than ever that this was inevitable, and she had to be brave and see it through. Her fingers froze when the door swung open and Altaïr strode in, taking in the sight of her standing there.

He regarded her for a few moments before removing his hood and the outer layer of his robe, tossing it uncaringly to the ground. Unrelenting amber pierced through her like a sharpened dagger, and in silence he marched over to her, stopping uncomfortably close. In the candle light, she could see the chiseled line of his jaw and his strangely pale skin for one of his race.

She whispered the word for apology in Arabic. Nasreen insisted that it would mean more if it was said in his native tongue. She found herself worried if she said it right, as she took the woman's Persian accent into account when learning the word.

No reply was given to her, and without a word, he began to undo the fastenings of his robes – all the while, he never broke eye contact from her. Layers fell onto the ground one by one until his chest was bare. It was in that instant that she realized that he was missing a finger on his left hand.

To say she was unimpressed by the amount of muscles on him would be a gross lie, and her face grew redder at her attempts to not look like she was gawking. What alarmed here was the amount of scars crisscrossing the skin of his body. What kind of battles had he faced, while looking so young? His hands grasped her face for a moment, and this time, she was far too flustered with the situation to avoid his kiss, and he did so with an unnerving ferocity.

It almost felt like revenge, to make her feel what she missed when she humiliated him in front of his subjects. With that keeping her distracted, she did not notice that his hands had snaked down to her garments and began untying the knots that held it together with an expert finesse.

She knew she had to move, to respond to him, but virgin terror and shyness and dread all mixed together into a potent feeling that froze her muscles. All of her life she had avoided excessive social interaction with other people for the purpose of protecting herself, to make sure she was always in control of her own life. And here this man was, holding it in his hands.

A shiver tore up her spine when his hands traveled down her now bare, smooth shoulders as the fabric previously covering her up began to slink off of her body onto the ground. Being so vulnerable was maddening to her. His eyes examined her as if reading a book, and yet his expression never changed to signify that he was pleased with her. It was up in the air whether or not he was even attracted to her.

He pushed her down onto the mattress, meeting her mouth again and clutching at the fabric separating him from the flesh of her thigh. Hands went on a manic exploration, and it was all too much for her to comprehend all at once. The speed, however, stilled after a few moments. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and as quickly as the onslaught began, it ceased.

Altaïr rolled off of her and sat in silence for a few agonizing moments before finally speaking, his voice as sharp as a blade. "Leave."

Her jaw slackened. "Wh … What?"

"Leave, I say." His words, spoken in such an indifferent tone, cut deep, wounding her self-esteem more than he could ever comprehend. She was not even relieved, tasting hot disappointment in the back of her throat. Nonetheless, she decided to leave with a semblance of dignity, putting her clothes back on and storming out of the room with her head held high.

She slammed the large wooden door shut behind her and dashed back to her chambers with haste. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. All of that preparation, all of that frustration. Was it revenge for earlier today in front of the people of Masyaf? She would not put it past him. How dare he, she thought. Was she not good enough for him? Did she not please him? Did the hours of preparation and the swallowing of pride mean nothing to this selfish bastard? In an attempt to be civil, she had decided not to be difficult – and because she was not one of his courtesans, it bored him? Anger boiled inside of her.

Maria leapt onto the bed of her room and buried her face in the cushions, digging her nails into the cloth.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

A/N: Oh, the drama. I hope I don't accidentally turn this into a soap opera, hahahaha. Buuut Thanksgiving break is coming up so WEEE more time for writing.