THE WARLORD'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER 11
Ducard had few things to pack in his downstairs room. The space was not much larger than the rooms that his men called home. He had never minded the conservative size; he had needed nothing larger, for the only time spent in his room was mainly to sleep. He had a bed, a small desk, and a private bathroom; the latter was his one luxury—the men under his command had to share bathrooms. Ducard frowned. Those men were no longer his to command. In fact, two of them stood just outside in the hallway, armed and ready to remove him. But to where?
After Hussein's men had taken him from the Gold Room, they had marched him down to Hussein's vehicle. But after zip-tying his hands, they left him in the Range Rover only a short time before two of the palace security force showed up. At the sight of them, Ducard had a moment of hope that perhaps his men were coming to his aid, but the pragmatic side of him knew better. Yet something had obviously changed, for they opened the door and directed him to step out. Both men looked uncomfortable but resolute as they removed the zip tie and told him to accompany them to his room.
"What is happening?" he asked once away from the vehicle.
"We don't know, sir. We were ordered to take you to your room so you can pack up anything you want to take with you."
Take with him? Where? To his grave? Was this just a macabre ploy or did Hussein have something other than death in mind for him? Surely the man would quickly dispose of him, not spend resources torturing him as punishment. He knew Hussein well enough to know that he was a direct man.
With a heavy heart, his thoughts turned to Melisande. No doubt she had something to do with him being taken from Hussein's custody. He should be protecting her, but here she was protecting him. And now all had fallen apart, just as he always feared it would. But what could be done? Somehow he would find a way to be reunited with her. This could not be the end of their story.
Just as he slipped the last item into his bag, Siddig appeared in the open doorway. Ducard could feel the man's rage as much as see it on his face.
To one of the guards, Siddig said, "Bring the truck around."
"Yes, sir," he said and hurried off, no doubt relieved not to bear witness to whatever his employer was about to say to Ducard. The other guard moved a discreet distance down the hallway to allow Siddig some semblance of privacy.
Respectfully, Ducard faced Siddig as they listened to the receding footfalls and stared at one another. Siddig's strong chest rose and fell noticeably, his nostrils flared as if he had just exerted himself. Distantly, Ducard realized that he felt no malice toward Siddig. They had always had a good professional relationship and on some level had a shared affinity cultivated by Ducard's loyalty and flawless servitude and Siddig's respect and gratitude. But Ducard could never say their relationship was close on a personal level. Occasionally Siddig had shared with Ducard his thoughts and difficulties with his family, but when he did so, he always censured himself, never going too deep. Ducard had shared a few things about his own past, but never too much. Yet the relationship had been intimate enough to make Ducard feel like more than just a hired hand. Because of that, he now deeply regretted that his love for Melisande had ultimately caused Siddig more than just a family rift but a professional one, too. One that could have grave ramifications going forward.
"I should end you myself for this betrayal," Siddig began in a quiet, deadly tone. "I've given you everything, Ducard, everything you asked for, including a position here, in my home. Now I see why you wanted to be here. You've made a fool out of me."
"I love your daughter. I regret—"
"You regret nothing!" Siddig shouted. Then he paused to regain his composure. "Don't continue your game with me. If you truly regretted what you've done, you never would have done it to begin with."
"I'm sorry…for what this has cost you. Truly. But I can't apologize for loving your daughter."
"She's the only reason you're still alive."
"I have no doubt of that."
"You will be removed from this place, exiled. If you ever attempt, in any way, to return or to contact my daughter, rest assured that will be the last thing you do on this earth and know that you will be responsible for Melisande's death as well. A very unpleasant death. Nothing will stay my hand then. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nothing," Siddig repeated, jabbing a finger toward Ducard's face.
"What about Melisande? What will you do to her?"
"My daughter is no longer of concern to you. To you, she never existed. Forget her."
"I can never forget her, but I will do as you say and leave."
When Maysam came back inside the palace with the aid of Dawoud's supporting arm, she saw that Siddig was no longer in the foyer. He had not even lingered to see his daughter driven away. Bitterness welled in Maysam, making her sick to her stomach.
"Find my husband," she instructed Dawoud, brushing the dirt from her clothing, "and tell him I'm waiting for him in our suite."
"Yes, ma'am. But let me help you up the stairs first."
"I'm perfectly capable of navigating the stairs, Dawoud," she said, even though she still trembled from head to foot and had little confidence that her weakened state would indeed allow the climb. "Just find my husband."
"Yes, ma'am."
She waited for him to leave before she turned to ascend the stairs, holding tightly to the smooth, cool balustrade. Closing her burning eyes, she paused long enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks and gather her ragged breath into something more controlled. She did not want the palace staff to see her looking defeated and fragile. But how could she be strong and composed after losing her only child? How could she even face another day without Melisande? She should have found a way to save her child, but instead she had only watched and uttered useless words.
Once she reached her suite, Aditi met her just inside, concern on her face. Word of what had transpired in the Gold Room would have traveled quickly among the palace staff.
"Oh, sahiba," Aditi said, hovering. "Let me get you something cool to drink. Your face is flushed."
"Thank you," Maysam said, gratefully sitting on the living room sofa.
After Aditi brought a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade, time slipped by as Maysam sipped the iced beverage. At first she thought her husband meant to avoid her as long as possible, but just as Aditi poured her a second glass from the pitcher on the nearby coffee table, Siddig arrived.
"Leave us," Maysam ordered the servant.
Aditi bowed and hurried from the suite.
Siddig said nothing as he poured himself a glass of lemonade. A chill filled the air, a wall of tension rising between them.
"Tell me you have a plan for retrieving our daughter," Maysam said coldly. "Tell me you have not truly thrown her away like a piece of garbage."
"What's done is done. Melisande made her choice."
"She made that choice only to save Ducard."
"I'm referring to her choice of marrying an infidel. She sealed her fate when she made that decision."
"She made a mistake, Siddig."
"She betrayed this family."
"She was going to get a divorce."
Siddig stared at her from the other side of the coffee table. "What did you say?"
"This week; she was going to get a divorce."
"And how do you know this?"
Maysam squared her shoulders, sitting up straight. "Because I arranged it."
Fury expanded Siddig's chest. "So you lied about not knowing she had married Ducard. You lied to me and to Hussein."
"No. I never said I didn't know. Melisande protected me from having to say it by claiming she and Ducard were the only ones who knew."
"And you think that excuses your behavior? How long did you know? How long did you keep this from me?"
"I was taking care of the situation. I wanted to spare you from finding out. I never condoned her marriage. I found out after the fact."
"So now I know why these past weeks you kept pressuring me to let Melisande choose her own husband."
"I've always felt that way, and I didn't hide it from you. Times are changing, Siddig. Melisande is growing up in a different world from when our marriage was arranged."
"That is the excuse you use for her disobedience. It's bad enough that you hid this, but to continue to do so after the marriage contract with Hussein was signed… I see where that girl got her willfulness."
"She's in love, Siddig. And she's young. Think of the foolish things you did at her age."
"Stop making excuses for her."
"They're not excuses. And if the Husseins hadn't gone behind our backs, this would have been taken care of this week with the divorce, then the marriage to Jamal could have gone on."
"You think it would have been that simple? The Husseins believed their son was marrying a virgin. You think Melisande could hide her shame from Jamal on their wedding night? And what would have happened when he found out he had been deceived?"
"Melisande could have convinced him not to tell his parents." A statement in which Maysam had little confidence.
"You have no way of knowing that. And Jamal telling his parents would have led us to the same point where we currently stand, except it would have been worse because they would be married."
"I don't care about the Husseins. I only care about my daughter, our daughter. Our only child. You will get her back, and quickly, before something terrible happens to her."
"I will not. She chose to take Ducard's punishment. I agreed. Unlike Melisande, I will not bring further dishonor to my family by lying, especially to someone as dangerous as Hussein. Our only hope is that he will be mollified by taking her. That's our only hope of keeping our bargain intact or of retaining our territories."
Maysam jumped to her feet. "I don't give a damn about territories, Siddig. I want my daughter back. That is all I care about. And that is what you should care about, too. What sort of father are you?"
Siddig came around the coffee table with such forceful speed that Maysam took a step back, but she would allow herself to retreat no farther.
"You would know what kind of father I am if you had given me a son. Instead, all you've given me is a troublesome, traitor of a girl."
Maysam slapped him without another thought, tears of rage springing to her eyes. He snatched up her wrist with so much force that she thought the bone would break. Siddig twisted it painfully, but Maysam refused to even wince.
"I am not a man to beat women," he said between bared teeth, "but you and your child have brought me to it today. The deal is done, and if you try to go behind my back and retrieve that girl, you will forfeit her safety and the safety of everyone in this palace. The Husseins will kill her. Do you understand?" He wrenched her arm even more.
Through her pain, Maysam spoke in a low, frigid voice. "I'm glad I didn't give you a son. You don't deserve any children. But know this, you will have my hatred for this betrayal."
"You are my wife. Know your place, woman." With a slight shove, he freed her, then strode toward the door.
With an enraged outcry, Maysam swiped up her lemonade glass and flung it after him. It shattered against the doorframe just as his hand reached the knob.
"Bring my daughter back, damn you!"
Siddig glared over his shoulder at her before opening the door.
"Do you hear me?" Maysam shouted. "Bring her back!"
The door closed behind him. She loosed another primal scream of anger and anguish before picking up the tray with the pitcher and sending them both crashing down.
"Where are you taking me?" Melisande asked of her armed escort for the fifth time. As before, the three men remained silent and expressionless. The vehicle had veered away from Hussein's sedan within half an hour of leaving the palace, surprising and worrying Melisande even further.
She shrank within herself and cautioned against asking anymore questions. The three men appeared sullen about their errand as it was; no need to anger them and invite violence. With her hands bound, she could offer little resistance if they tried to rape her. But if they planned to do that, surely they would have already done so.
"You know my father is a wealthy man," she said after a long silence. "If you let me go, I will make sure you are well paid."
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror at her, then gave a small, derisive laugh. The man beside her grinned at the driver, making Melisande feel foolish for her attempt. Anger welled in her, and she stared out the window to hide her gaze from them.
The desolate, heat-shimmering, tawny landscape was unfamiliar to her as they traveled ever westward. Few vehicles on the dusty, pockmarked dirt road. They passed an occasional donkey cart, and once halted for a camel herder urging his recalcitrant charges across the road. There was only one thing west of her father's domain—the Thar Desert. Was she going to be abandoned there, left to die with no food, water, or shelter?
Where was Henri? Would her father truly allow him to live? Would she ever see him again? She would, she told herself. No matter what happened to her, she must believe that she would see Henri again someday. It was the only thing that would give her hope and strength. She closed her eyes, pictured him. If she lived through this, he would come to find her. Perhaps he would even rescue her from whatever it was Hussein had planned for her. Yes, she needed to believe all of this.
Eventually they came to a village; small, primitive homes of earthen walls just the other side of an oasis. A few curious villagers on the outskirts, carrying water from the oasis in large clay jars atop their heads, watched the SUV pass by and leave them in a choking cloud of dust. Melisande wanted to beat on the windows and cry out for help, but she knew it would be pointless. Beyond the village rose an ancient fortress with architecture similar to her family's palace. It looked battered by the harsh elements, like the village itself. No visible life on its verandas.
The SUV came to a halt not far from the dusky brick walls of the fortress. A large, militaristic truck was parked nearby, its bed roofed by dusty canvas. Men in military fatigues were unloading crates. Other men stood near a low, circular stone wall where thick ropes were being handled, the men looking downward as if watching something being lowered. Crates of various sizes were stacked nearby.
"Looks like a resupply," Melisande's driver said. "Good. We can give her to them."
"No," the one beside her said. "The boss said we're to take her down ourselves and make sure no one touches her."
Dread rose again in Melisande as the driver got out of the vehicle. The man beside her took her bag in one hand and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her from the Range Rover. After the SUV's air-conditioning, the crushing heat nearly caused Melisande to gasp. Was this merely a rest stop or was she being taken to the fortress? Her gaze reached up to its towering ramparts, eyes squinted against the blazing sunlight.
As she stepped across the reddish, rocky ground, all eyes turned to her, and work halted. The SUV's driver advanced to the low wall, asking, "Who's in charge here?" first in Arabic, then in Hindi when the men looked blankly at him.
Melisande could not hear the ensuing conversation from where she stood near the vehicle. She desperately scanned her surroundings, looking for an escape route if she were able to break free. She tried not to pay attention to the lustful stares of the other men. Could her guards really protect her from them?
A moment later, the driver returned and spoke to his comrades. "They're almost done, then we can take her down. They'll leave their two men down there while you two rappel, then I'll lower her. They said the doctor can show you where to put her."
Take her down? Melisande wondered what that could possibly mean. Was this not a well before her? It must not be if crates were being lowered over the sides. But what else could it be?
"Can't we wait in the car?" she asked. "Out of the sun?"
"Enjoy the sun while you can," her guard said sardonically.
"What do you mean?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
Her fear increased. Sweat poured down her body, and she regretted the dark brown color she had chosen for her traveling clothes. The horizon shimmered over the Thar Desert to the west. Nothing to see beyond the fortress and village, nothing but sand and low hills. How far had they traveled from her home?
A few minutes after the last crate disappeared over the side of the low wall, the rope was hauled up again. Leaving Melisande with the driver, the other two men stepped over to the wall where they were given rappelling harnesses. Then they, too, dropped from sight.
The driver prodded Melisande with his rifle. "You're next. Move."
With her small canvas bag now over her shoulder, Melisande stumbled forward, glancing furtively at the two resupply men, hoping to find something in their expressions that might give her hope of finding an ally to help her out of this nightmare, but their open leers did nothing to ease her anxiety.
Her guard gripped her shoulder tightly and pushed her forward until she bruised her knee against the wall.
"Step up there," he said gruffly.
Melisande tried to back away. "No."
Her forced her forward. She struggled against him, hoping to break free and run for the village.
"Stop it!" he snarled, jerking her closer. "Or I'll throw you down without the rope."
The well's maw gaped before her, drawing a gasp from her. The interior walls plunged downward, the surface made up of rough gray stones that seemed to spiral away and reminded her of a rifled gun barrel or a missile silo. Not far below the opening, a couple of narrow ledges jutted from the wall, but below those only occasional, shallow outcroppings could be seen. Down, down, not a few meters but perhaps a hundred meters or more. At the very bottom, she thought she detected steps on all sides leading down to what might be water. This was not a simple well but instead what appeared to be an enormous baori like she had seen during a trip to Abhaneri. But even that stepwell, one of the deepest in India, did not reach as far beneath the surface as what lay before her.
"Sit," the guard ordered her, pressing painfully down on her shoulders until she sat on the hot stones, her heart beating wildly, her breath strangling with fear.
"Please," she begged as another man looped the rope end around her, "don't do this. Just let me go. No one will know if you do. I won't go back home; I'll stay here in the village, hidden. My father won't know; Mr. Hussein won't know. Please."
"Shut up," the guard snapped.
She gripped the outer edge of the wall, determined to remain above ground, as the coarse rope tightened around her waist, a connected loop dangling over the edge.
"Put your feet in that loop."
"Please don't do this. Just let me go. I promise no one will know—"
The guard gripped her chin like a vice. "Shut up and do as you're told if you want to live another minute, girl."
He lifted her just enough to clear the wall. She uttered a small outcry of surprise, one hand clinging to the rope, the other reaching for the wall.
"Put both hands on the rope," he growled.
Melisande made the mistake of looking down, down past her feet, down, down. The men who had descended before her were nothing more than specks at the shadowy bottom of the enormous shaft. The distance made her head spin, and she thought she might pass out, so she momentarily squeezed her eyes shut, both hands now tightly wrapped around the rope as the descent began. Eventually she forced her eyes open and looked upward to the harshly faded, cloudless sky. Would she ever see the sun or the horizon again? How would Henri find her here? Her lower lip trembled, and tears flooded her eyes, but she fought against them. What good were tears now, now as she gradually descended? She needed courage for whatever lay ahead. She had to be strong if she hoped to get out of this.
The nearer she drew to the bottom of the shaft, the cooler the air became and the dimmer her surroundings grew. She chanced a glance downward and made out the four armed men who had descended before her and another man, unarmed. The latter was the only one whose face was turned upward to watch her, the others seemingly vigilant for threats around them. Hussein's man had mentioned potential danger for her. What could that danger be? Who lived at the bottom of this pit? Suddenly conscious of the fact that she wore a dress, she kept her legs close together to keep anyone below her from seeing more than he should.
Now nearly at the bottom, she realized this was indeed a baori. A series of steps on multiple levels, working back and forth in a diamond pattern, led to a large, rectangular pool of water. Everything around her was stone, gray and foreboding and dank smelling. Just above the steps, a broad ledge ran the circumference of the shaft. This was where the unarmed man stood, almost directly below her. Did he mean her harm? Would this be the beginning of the end for her? No, the guard had said she was to be protected.
"Don't worry," the man below her said in Arabic, arms raised toward her. "I will help you."
He offered her a smile of reassurance and a nod of encouragement as her feet touched down on the smooth stone surface. Her arms and back ached from tension from the long descent. She was unsure if she could pry her fingers open to let go of the rope.
"Stand here while I remove the rope," he said. "Are you all right?"
All she could do was nod and allow him to free her. He was middle-aged with a dark complexion, his face slightly long, full lips that naturally turned downward at the corners, his brown hair thinning, several days' growth of beard sprinkled with gray. He wore plain, coarse pants and a sarong, both showing years of wear and so faded that she could not tell what the original colors had been. Wrapped around his shoulders, shawl-like, was a dull brown blanket. His shoes were something akin to leather moccasins, lacking a hard sole. He had the same musty smell as the shaft.
"What is your name?" he asked.
For a moment she could not find her voice, then finally stammered out her name.
"I am Dr. Assad. We must hurry, Melisande. I will carry your bag for you."
Fearfully she clung to it. She would not lose what little was left to her now, especially Henri's blanket, to some stranger. She had the distinct, unnerving feeling of being watched by many eyes.
"Very well," he said. "I understand. Just let me climb down from this ledge, and then you can follow. I'll be right below to help you. We must hurry; the soldiers are impatient to leave."
His repeated urgency motivated her to awkwardly sit at the edge of the ledge, looking down to where he now stood. Assad nodded and waved his upturned hands. It was a long enough drop to invite injury should she jump and not be caught, but if she turned around and tried to climb down by clinging to the edge with her hands, she would not be able to see where to place her feet.
"I will catch you," Assad said after a glance over his shoulder at the closest gunman.
"Hurry up," the man shouted in Arabic, nervously fidgeting with his AK-47.
Melisande detected a strange sound, like the low murmuring of male voices, all with an echoing quality in the stone shaft. How many men were here? Obviously a large number, considering the four gunmen watching all four directions. She swallowed her trepidation about hurting herself and pushed off from the ledge. Assad grunted as he caught her, then gently set her down. Swiftly he grasped her hand and ushered her around the topmost level of the stepwell as the murmuring suddenly pitched upward into guttural shouts, whistles, and catcalls, some from afar, some from close. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized she was passing by prison cells all around the shaft, men standing at the bars, some watching silently with unreadable expressions, others reaching out in vain and shouting lewd things that made her pull her long hijab closer around her face.
On the opposite side of the shaft, Assad ushered her into an empty cell that measured only about twelve feet deep and ten feet wide, then closed and locked the door behind them. Melisande took in the stark interior—stone floor with a squat, cold brazier, a small charpoy with a single blanket and something so thin it could barely be called a pillow, a toilet at the rear of the cell and a battered wooden wash stand with drawers and a basin on top. Assad spoke in a quiet, soothing voice that did little to ease her: "Don't worry; no one can get inside. I have the key."
Melisande dragged her horrified gaze from her surroundings to meet his concerned, kind eyes. She nodded, then watched him drag the charpoy from one side of the cell to the opposite. Perhaps that was to keep her away from the inmate in the adjoining cell, for only bars—not a wall—separated them, and the swarthy prisoner there was grinning lewdly at her. When he started to approach the bars to speak to her, Assad cursed him back and apologized to her.
"Why don't you sit?" Assad gestured to the charpoy. "I will set your bag back here."
In a daze, she relinquished her belongings, never looking away until he had placed the bag near the wash stand.
"Let me start a fire for you. Fuel is not plentiful here, so you must ration it, but I will give you some of mine."
When she looked into the stepwell, the armed men were starting to leave. She almost called to them a final time, to beg them to take her out of here, but she knew it would be futile, and self-preservation encouraged her to avoid drawing more attention to herself.
As Assad lit a match to the tiny pyramid of charcoal in the brazier, he said, "We were not prepared for you. Give me just a little time and we will provide you with a bit of privacy by hanging a couple of blankets." He straightened from the brazier. "There. That will warm you. I will fetch something to eat. Are you hungry?"
She shook her head, eyes roaming apprehensively.
Assad touched her shoulder and offered an ineffectual smile. "I will not speak like a fool and say you will get used to this place, but you must learn to endure it…as we all do. I will help you in any way I can."
At last she found her voice and murmured, "Thank you."
"They will come after the soldiers leave," he warned her. "The other prisoners, I mean. There is nothing I can do about that. Everyone is free to move about the prison. Except you, my dear. For your own safety, you must stay locked in your cell. Anything you need, I will bring to you." His attention went to the cell to the left of Melisande's, and he crooked a finger. "If I am not available, Bane will help you."
She followed Assad's gaze, and a small gasp escaped her as a young teenaged boy stepped out of the shadows in the cell to the left, dressed in the same drab, ragged clothes that appeared to be the norm in this place. Though a shemagh covered most of his head, she could tell that his hair was cropped short. His dark eyes studied her, but not with the carnal light that sparked in the eyes of the older prisoners; his showed curiosity and intelligence, no threat, and somehow in that fleeting moment, Melisande felt that she had an ally, a friend perhaps. His full lips and smooth skin added to his good looks, a softness of features beautiful and almost feminine. But why was he in this forsaken place? Surely he was too young to be a criminal. Perhaps, like she, he was a victim of someone else's malice.
In astonishment, she said to Assad, "He is just a boy."
"Let us speak in English," Assad said with a small smile. "Bane is learning Arabic, but he is not yet fluent."
The boy blushed and avoided her shocked gaze.
"Bane," Assad said, "this is Melisande."
Thank you for reading my story. If you want to find out what happens next for Melisande, I invite you to read my fic Risen From Darkness.