A/N: You lucky things, you! Another night of insomnia, another chapter... please do let me know if my writing quality is going down or the tone of the story/ characters seems to be 'off.'
As Najma's hooves delicately picked their way through the bustling hodge podge of tents, people, animals, and dust, a woman's voice hailed Zainab. Pulling on the reins, slightly put out at having her daydreams disturbed, the princess looked down to see a female servant emerging from a close by tent and beckoning towards her.
"The Princess Badreya wishes to see you," the woman informed her, indicating towards the tent. Looking up again, Zainab noted that the elegantly swathed pavilion, its interior concealed by luscious fluttering silks, did indeed belong to her aunt. Sighing, she dismounted and handed Najma's reins to the servant, then ducked through the entrance of the tent.
Zainab paused as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the change of lighting inside the tent, taking in the crimson glow of the silk hangings as another servant lit silver lamps to increase the illumination. The cheerful flames brightened the tent, revealing the luxurious boudouir and its accessories. Rich Persian rugs covered the desert sands beneath, topped with comfortable low sofas dotted with embroidered cushions. It was upon one of these sofas that Zainab found her aunt.
Badreya, Ameera of Damascus, younger sister of Sultan Salahhuddin and widow of one of the most powerful viziers of the Ayyoubi rulership, reclined gracefully against a pile of cushions, book in hand. For a woman well into her fifties, she had aged well and was still striking to look at - her strong facial features mirrored those of her brother's, though softened with femininity. Unveiled as she was now, her chestnut hair boasted few greying locks, and her hazel eyes danced with humour and wisdom.
"Marhaban biki, ya Zainab!" she greeted her niece, stretching out an aged but still graceful hand out in greeting. "And where has my lovely niece been hiding? Or should I say, riding," she corrected, wrinkling her nose at the distinctly horsey smell emanating from the younger princess's now-dusty robes. At the wave of her hand, her servant stepped forward with incense, hurrying forward to waft the aromatic smoke around the smelly royal. "Busy daydreaming of your handsome betrothed?" she added teasingly, and Zainab groaned.
"Baba told you?" she asked, ignoring the incense-waving servant and plopping herself onto another sofa.
"Of course!" Princess Badreya waved her hand airily. "You do know how much your father adores his younger sister... actually, he spoke to me about the proposal before he told you two about it. I approved, of course."
Zainab gazed at her aunt in dismay. "You approve?!"
Badreya looked down her nose at her niece in mock haughtiness. "Of course I do," she lectured. "It is a fine arrangement. What better way to appease the grumbling religious men than to have their very spokesman wed to the Sultan's daughter? And really, my dear," she added with a twinkle in her eye, "You really can't say that you find him unappealing... on a physical level, you know. He's not that much older than you, really, and I must say, he looks *quite* fine. I personally haven't noticed any other men in your father's court who so dashingly fill all the requirements of 'tall, dark, and handsome.' " She grinned, rather wickedly for someone supposed to be so respectable.
Zainab prayed that the sudden heat in her cheeks was unnoticeable in the candlelight, and grimaced. "Yes, well, there are other things besides looks, you know," she informed her aunt archly. "There is always the matter of personalities and compatibility and so on."
Badreya raised an eyebrow. "Now that's a new one... having a youngling lecturing me on what matters beyond looks when it comes to issues of men and women!" she remarked dryly. "My dear, rest assured that I am quite well acquainted with matters of marriage, on both political and personal levels. I, too, was a Sultan's daughter, and we both know that an advantageous marriage is part and parcel of the role. Do not be too crushed, my girl... it may seem unbearable now, especially with the history that you two have, but you will see - as I did - that though you may seem to clash, eventually you two will wear out each other's rough spots and smooth things over. The time together that marriage will give you will lead you to learn many things." The older princess reached out to squeeze her niece's hand. "You will even come to love him," she said gently. "Sooner or later, it will happen. Do not let your politics get in the way of your personal happiness, my dear. It is hard, I know, for I was as wilfull in my youth as you are now, but you will find that some things are not worth fighting so hard over, and that compromise is not so bad." She settled back into her cushions and closed her eyes.
"Now off you go, my girl. Freshen up and do change out of those awful robes - I want you and your father to dine with me tonight, and I will not appreciate the smell of horse ruining my appetite."
"Yes, aunty," Zainab murmured, not really paying attention to the rebuke as she rose and bent to kiss her aunt on the cheek in farewell.
Badreya's lecture echoing in her ears, Princess Zainab made her way back to her tent, heart and mind atumble with contradicting thoughts and emotions. It appeared that she had yet another sleepless night ahead of her.
...
Dismounting from his mount with a practiced leap, Mullah Khaled strode through the camp and to the stables swiftly, deeply disturbed and unsettled. The ride in the desert had not been the soothing of his soul that he craved. No indeed... it was quite the opposite. Even now his eyes flicked upwards, scanning absent-mindedly through the crowd for a face that, logically, he knew would be hidden behind light folds of dark silk - a face that had been hidden to him, up until recently. Perhaps, he thought with a hint of dourness, it had been better that way.
He shook his head at himself irritably. He was furious at himself, at his own lack of control, at how swiftly he had been thrown off his guard and putting his own piety into danger. Even now he could not quite believe the reality of the encounter that had taken place. Truly, what had he been thinking? The moment he'd seen her in the distance, identified the dark figure upon the dancing mare as the princess - which other woman in the camp would have been audacious enough to ride in the desert alone, with no escort? - he should have shut his eyes, turned his horse the other way, and galloped off. Instead, he had allowed the other rider's steed to draw closer, the wild gallop slowing to a canter that let him see the princess's face clearly. She had unveiled herself and her head was thrown back, eyes shut and an expression of pure dreamy rapture on her lovely face. He had never seen anything quite so amazing. Unbidden, a verse of the Qur'an came to his lips and in the deep, haunting voice that led the faithful in prayer every day, he whispered to himself. "And their countenance shall be that of pearls and rubies..." It was the verse that referred to the unearthly women of Paradise, the Hoor al-'Ayn. And yet he was quite sure that even the heavenly handmaidens of the believers could not be quite so beautiful as the very earthly woman before him.
Khaled winced as he recalled his actions and felt like mentally slapping himself. Good God, he was treading dangerously close to blasphemy! Perhaps he was going mad. Maybe it was the heat. Or the stress of the ongoing war and the ever-growing tensions of politics. He suppressed a groan at the memory of what had happened next.
Again, what had possessed him to call out to her? Nor was it a particularly intelligent comment, he remembered. Some idiotic remark about her riding. Then, to inquire about her destination, and worse yet, to ride with her - next to her, not even ahead of her, as was proper - and to talk! To apologize about his past behaviour! His behaviour was inexcusable. Had he witnessed such a thing from anyone else in his congregation, he would have been disapproving enough, for all knew that no unmarried man and woman could meet in seclusion. It could only lead to something terrible, to shame and sin. How much worse was it, then, that he, the very man whose duty it was to keep the other believers strong, could be so very weak and commit such an error? How could God, how could *he* accept himself in that position?
Passing a weary hand over his brow, the mullah felt deeply distraught. Khaled's love for his religion ran deep and true, finding in God and the Qur'an a strong comfort and guide towards which he could channel the restless energy that coursed in his heart and blood. He strove hard to learn, to teach, to guide himself and his Muslim brethren to what was the only path to victory in this world and the Next. He demanded perfection, or something close to it, first from himself and then from others. It was, Nasser had commented before, a flaw in what was otherwise a commendable goal. Striving hard for eternal salvation and accepting little in the way of personal failures made Khaled somewhat too rigid on both himself and others, overcompensating in his zealousness.
Reaching his tent, the mullah gratefully entered the cool shadows and stretched out on his low bed, still thinking on the event that had transpired. A low mewing at his feet informed him of the presence of the stray kitten that had mysteriously chosen to adopt him, and with a sigh he gathered the warm mass of fur and twitching whiskers into his arms. He bent his head and silently prayed for God to keep him on the straight path.
...
Dusk. The magical moments of betwixt and between, after the passing of the fiery sun into the cooler waters of night sky. Trailing wisps of crimson and gold mingled with purple velvet in the west while the soothing glow of a pregnant crescent moon caressed sand dunes and rough hills.
The army of Salahhuddin was assembled for the after-sunset Maghrib prayer. Hundreds upon hundreds of men, from the great Sultan of Syria himself to every last general, officer, noble, common soldier and slave, stood in seemingly endless rows, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot. Behind them, another vast congregation of womenfolk, cool breezes flirting with their robes as they too came close together in sisterhood. Faces and limbs shining with moisture from ablution, the mighty force that conquered and united half the Muslim world and sought to free the other half stood in humbleness and purity, laying bare their souls to God All-Mighty. Before them all stood one man on a simple woven mat, his black robes whispering around him, the stray end of his turban teasing dark curls that escaped the cloth wrapping. Raising his hands to his shoulders, breathing in the scent of God's Mercy, Mullah Khaled's voice called out to the desert, to the believers, and to God Himself: "Allahu akbar." God is the Greatest.
In a voice that put all singers to shame, in hauntingly beautiful tones, Khaled recited the opening words of prayer, so familiar and so beloved to Muslims everywhere. Entrusting themselves to God Alone, purifying their souls, opening their hearts to the Words of God being recited so beautifully, the believers' eyes moistened from the staggering power and beauty of faith.
For the first time in a long time, both Mullah Khaled and Princess Zainab were equally oblivious to each other and at peace.
But not for long.