A/N: New chapter. I honestly never believed this would happen. It has. Reward me with a read and review!
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The next day, however, the anticipation Zainab had savoured in the darkness of the night and the shadows of her dreams had vanished - in fact, she refused to leave her tent for fear that she'd come across the mullah. So, restless, she paced around her tent, unable to sit down or concentrate on anything. When Maarya gave her a piece of cloth to embroider to take her mind off Khaled, her hands shook and the embroidery swiftly became a tangled mess of colourful thread. Her attempt at reading suffered similarly - her eyes passed over the Arabic words absently, unable to appreciate the beauty of the calligraphy nor comprehend the complex, layered meanings.
Eventually, even patient Maarya - she who could deal with the princess in all her stubborn, passionate moods - got sick of Zainab's agitated moodiness, and ordered her out of the tent. The princess looked stricken. "But... but what if I see... him?" she blurted out.
"You will be veiled," Maarya pointed out. "How will he tell the difference between you and every other robed and veiled woman in this camp?"
The princess looked relieved. "Well then... I think I shall take Najma for a ride," she decided, referring to her mare.
"Good," said Maarya, pleased that the princess would be out of her way. "But do not be too long. It is late afternoon already; sunset will come quickly."
Relatively cheered up, Zainab slipped on a long, loose black robe over her dress, and expertly wound a length of similar fabric around her head, covering her hair and pulling the end of it over the bottom half of her face. Thus veiled, she emerged into the bustling open space of the camp, fervently glad that the war camp was split into two - one half for the women, the other half for the men. Her relief, however, was short-lived when she remembered that the stables, where her horse and those of everyone else, were located right between the two sections of the camp, and were open for both men and women.
Hoping against hope that she wouldn't see Khaled anywhere, she lowered her head and picked up her pace.
Zainab entered the stables, lifting her head and breathing in the unique smells of horse and leather - many found the combination of scents unpleasant and overwhelming, but she liked it. It reminded her of the days of her childhood, of when her father gave her the gift of her first mare and taught her everything she need to know about horses and the care required in their upkeep. Despite being raised within the glorious palaces of Egypt and Damascus, the blood of her bedouin ancestors still rushed strongly in her veins - and with that blood came a love for all things equestrian.
Anonymous and unrecognizable as the Sultan's daughter in her simple veil, the princess made her way through the stables, stopping at different stalls to greet the various horses she was familiar with. There was her father's stallion, well-named Malik - the King - for he resembled his master in almost every way - the great black-and-silver steed was larger than almost any other horse in the entire camp, his magnificent strength evident in the muscles that rippled under his smooth hide; yet his large eyes seemed filled with wisdom and even twinkled with humour. Stabled nearby were the warhorses of Salahhuddin's army, big beasts all of them, yet none matched the stallion king.
The mares were located at the extreme end of the stable, to keep them out of the way of the hot-blooded stallions. Most of these mares belonged to the ladies of the camp - Zainab's aunt, the princess Badreyah, also had a fondness for horses, and many of her attendants rode on similar steeds. Zainab's own mare, Najma, was amongst them.
The princess finally arrived at her destination: the stall of a bronze-haired mare, long-limbed and slender of neck, yet swift in speed and powerful of muscle. Najma, Star of the desert and Zainab's most precious possesion - although, upon reflection, she realized that Najma was not so much a possession as a companion. In a way, they were almost sisters - Najma's sire was Malik, Salahuddin's own stallion, and her dame was a member of the Sultan's great brooding mare harem. Given to a young princess Zainab while still a colt, the mare and the girl bonded immediately - and it was a running joke in the royal family that the two were taught their manners together as well. Sometimes Najma displayed more princess-like qualities than Zainab did; and Zainab was often teased by her older brothers for acting like an unbroken foal.
Leaning over the stall door, Zainab darted a glance around the stable, found no one nearby, and risked removing the end of her scarf which covered her face. Nickering happily, Najma's warm brown eyes seemed to return the princess's smile, which widened into a grin when the mare knowingly nudged her in the chest, seeking the lumps of sugar which Zainab brought regularly. As Najma nibbled on the sugar, Zainab threw her arms around the mare's neck and breathed in her horsey smell. "Ah, Najma!" she exclaimed, pressing her cheek against the horse's smooth neck, "So much has happened these past days... you'll never believe it... Mullah Khaled and I are to be wed!"
The princess could've sworn that the look in Najma's eyes was one of incredulity, and she nodded vigorously in response. "Yes... I can hardly believe it myself. Come, let us ride... I have too much pent up energy and can scarcely contain myself." In a very un-princess-like movement, Zainab vaulted over the low stall door and began to saddle up her mare. Within moments, the princess was mounted, and horse and rider cantered out of the camp and into the surrounding desert, picking up speed until they were little more than a cloud of dust on the horizon.
Hooves pounded the rocky sand and the spirit of the princess, of the desert, and of the mare melded and soared: unspoken, unwritten poetry - the glory of the gallop. For Princess Zainab, these moments that lasted an eternity; this was all, the very peak of existence. There was no thought of Khaled, his dark eyes and curly hair; of their hands touching; of figs and sweet kisses; of a future in which all of it would be there, inescapable. There was just this. Princess. Mare. Desert.
Najma's strides shortened, slowed. The princess lifted her head, and her spirit left the mare and the desert to return to her, so that she became aware of her heart thudding in time with Najma's heaving breaths; of the breeze blowing at her face gently, lifting her scarf and swirling the length of silk around her. She tipped her face upwards, towards the warmth of the late afternoon sun, feeling its rays wash over her like molten gold...
"You ride well, for a woman."
The voice startled her, and Zainab jerked the reins to see who it was. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Mullah Khaled, alone and astride his own stallion - and so close that she wondered how he'd gotten there without her noticing.
She stared at him for a full moment before remembering that she was unveiled, and clutched at the end of her fluttering scarf, clumsily trying to veil herself. The fabric escaped from her fumbling fingers, and she glanced up desperately to see how the mullah was reacting. An odd expression on his face, he made a gesture - almost involuntary - that she need not cover her face - and then, realizing what he'd just done, he flushed.
She, too, blushed, but was inordinately pleased... and did not cover her face, letting the extra length of fabric remain draped over her shoulder. She sat up straighter on Najma, balancing as Najma did a little dance under her before settling down in the presence of the stranger.
In the awkward silence, the princess gazed at the mullah, and he uncomfortably returned her glance.
Finally, Khaled cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "I... wanted to apologize. For... my behaviour before. I have been... harsh... towards you."
Shocked, Zainab gave up polite pretenses and stared at him openly. And then, as what he'd just said sunk into her brain, the overwhelming urge to laugh came over - but she managed to bite back the giggles just in time.
Instead, she inclined her head gracefully and responded, "I accept." She paused a moment before adding, for good measure, "I, too, apologize... I have not always behaved as I ought to." It was true - her father had sometimes rebuked her for the way she spoke in council, particularly when she and the mullah were debating a particularly sticky issue. In her annoyance at the mullah, she would usually brush off the scoldings, but reflecting on it later on she had to admit to herself that her aggressive attitude wasn't doing much to endear herself to Khaled.
The silence stretched between them again, and once more Khaled attempted to break it. "Are you riding back to the camp?" he asked, and Zainab nodded, gentle pressing her heels against Najma's sides to get the mare moving. Khaled and his stallion fell into stride beside them, and for a few minutes they rode together in silence.
"You ride well, for a woman," the mullah said after a while, echoing his earlier statement.
The princess hesitated a moment before answering. "Yes... my father taught me how to ride when I was very young." She smiled a little at a memory: she was perhaps four or five years old, astride a huge war horse whose back was so wide her little legs could barely straddle it... bouncing up and down in excitement, she would have fallen off were it not for her father's strong arms holding her steady. "Let's ride, Baba, let's ride!" she squealed with impatience, and tugged at the reins which he held in his hands, and then they were off: the horse's hooves thundering against the turf, the wind whipping her hair around her so that she could barely see, the solid warmth of her father behind her, and the delirious feeling of almost-flying.
Khaled's voice drew her out of her reverie. "We have arrived. You may want to... cover yourself," he added, indicating awkwardly at the extra length of fabric that fluttered over the princess's shoulder.
Zainab glanced up to affirm that the peaks of the tent city were indeed appearing before them, and allowed her gaze to return to his face - in time to find that his own eyes lingered upon her. There was something in that look that sent a flash of heat through her, a delicious quiver along her spine and dancing in her stomach. Clumsily, she groped for her veil and drew it across her face, rendering herself hidden and anonymous once more.
She looked back at the mullah, but now his gaze was properly averted and he stared ahead at the nearing camp, an unfathomable expression on his face. As he shifted on his horse, about to press his heels against its flanks, he inclined his head towards her. "It was... pleasant... to see you again." His voice was odd, rather strained, and he straightened up swiftly to overcome his embarassment. "Peace be upon you," he said curtly, and with a flick of the reins, surged off before she could answer.
Gazing after him in wonder, tingling all over, Zainab rode back to the camp in a daze.