Summary
Torn between magic, faith and love, Yaminah confronts changes that challenge her identity.
Chapter 70 Burdened by Legacy
The first clear thought Yaminah had was of prayer—the Morning Office and verses from Psalms that Ishka had whispered at her bedside, the familiar cadence of the Lord's Prayer in Arabic resonating through her thoughts. Opening her eyes to candlelight shifting across carved ceiling beams, her mind surfaced from what felt like an endless sea of fever and magic. Time had lost all meaning—fragments of voices, golden light upon her skin, strange men in robes examining her with crystals and muttering in ancient tongues.
Lifting her head to glance around was a challenge. Silk screens surrounded her borrowed bed in Lord Merlin's chambers, though gaps offered glimpses of the room beyond. Between the panels, she could see the remains of her shattered pendant suspended in a glowing circle, while other crystals floated throughout the chamber, their magic vibrating against her newly awakened senses.
Ishka's faint breathing came from a nearby bed within the screened area, while beyond she heard the quiet shifting of movement. Farouk. No. Gwaine. She felt his presence—distinct and reassuring. The thought that he had remained with her ignited through her mind as her heightened senses began to distinguish more figures in the chamber.
Her fingers found her throat, the bare area there still startling. Each heartbeat pulsed with unfamiliar energy, her magic rippling with every breath. Yet, something pressed upon her consciousness—a sacred obligation she couldn't quite grasp.
"Ishka," she whispered, the sound strange to her own ears, roughened by fever and delirium.
"Thanks be to God, you're truly awake." Ishka's reply emerged in their shared tongue. Her servant appeared at her bedside with water and a damp cloth, helping Yaminah take small sips before dabbing gently at her forehead in a gesture as familiar as sunrise prayers.
"How long—?" Yaminah asked in Arabic, barely audible.
"Fever has held you these past two days."
"Two days?" she tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled with the effort. "When are—the Sabbath preparations—"
"Lie still, child. It's near dawn on Friday. We have time yet before sunset tomorrow."
A chair scraped quietly on the other side of the screen. "Everything alright?" Gwaine asked, confirming her earlier sense of him. His voice rushed through her like lightning, stealing her breath.
"She's awake," Ishka called in the common tongue, though her tone held a note of caution.
"May we enter?" came the question from a voice she recognized yet could not name in her memory.
"One moment," Ishka announced, wrapping a shawl around Yaminah's shoulders. She adjusted the pillows to support Yaminah's head, then smoothed her braids into place. Only when she nodded did Ishka call out, "You may."
A dark-haired knight emerged from behind the screen. She recalled him now—in her fever haze—yet his bearing surprised her. Despite his youth, he moved with the grace of someone far older, his eyes holding a depth that suggested wisdom beyond warfare.
Then Gwaine appeared at the screen, his gaze finding hers immediately. Warmth lit his expression despite the shadows beneath his eyes, suggesting he hadn't slept; and a few more days' growth darkened his jaw. Something within her stirred—not magic this time, but that same flutter he had always awakened in her. Remaining near the screen's edge, he clasped his hands behind his back, a soldier's discipline in every line.
"My lady, I'm Sir Galahad," the knight said to her, keeping a respectful distance near the end of the bed. She hadn't expected someone so young attending her, yet Gwaine had trusted this man's knowledge of magic. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of what he might have witnessed during her fever—her wild magic unleashed, his powers intertwined with hers as he fought to stabilize her condition. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been thrown from a horse," Yaminah admitted. Gwaine's soft chuckle eased some of her tension before she added, "Though I remember little of the last few days."
"That's probably for the best," Gwaine said, restraint keeping him at his post. "You gave us quite a fright." His controlled stance—the careful way he held himself back—made her long even more for him.
"Gwaine," she said, extending a weak arm. He moved forward instantly, propriety forgotten as he knelt beside her bed and took her hand in both of his. Something passed between them—actual magic or simply the fever's remnants, she couldn't tell.
"I thought—" He pressed his lips to her knuckles, his eyes bright. "When you collapsed... these past two days…"
"I'm still here." She caressed his cheek with her free hand, feeling the rough growth that marked his days at her bedside. His devotion through her fever—this unwavering vigil—touched places that magic could never reach.
Sir Galahad's polite cough intruded upon their moment. "I should examine you, my lady. Now that you're properly awake."
"I'll step out," Gwaine offered.
"Stay." Yaminah surprised herself with the request, defying years of tradition with that single word. "Please."
Gwaine's eyes searched hers, recognizing the price of such a simple plea, though he nodded. "Always."
"Al-Sayyidah, no." Ishka moved forward. "It isn't proper for him to remain."
Gwaine's grip tightened around her hand, his gaze pinned to her servant, tension in every line of his body. Her fever had blinded her to this silent war between them—Ishka's disapproval hardening into open hostility, Gwaine's patience cracking against the constant reminders of his outsider status.
"Step aside, Ishka." The quiet authority in Yaminah's words rose above her weakness, yet Gwaine's hold ease slightly despite her command. Every lesson in propriety, every rule of modesty ingrained since childhood told her Ishka was right—no man outside her family should witness her in such a vulnerable state. Still, the same force that had drawn her to this knight was older than time-honored custom. Perhaps her magic pushed against those boundaries that had always contained her—because of their differences.
Gwaine pressed a kiss to her knuckles before his hands fell away, acquiescence settling across his features. "I'll wait outside." He rose, receding from her like the sun behind clouds. "Summon me if you need anything."
Ishka's shoulders relaxed slightly as she moved forward, triumph flickering on her face. Yaminah watched Gwaine's retreating form before fixing her servant with a hard glare, knowing this small victory would only fuel Ishka's resistance to their bond.
Sir Galahad pulled a chair to the bedside, his movements unhurried as he seated himself. 'May I?' he asked, gesturing to her wrist. At her nod, he cradled her wrist in his fingers, reading the rhythm of her life force.
"Tell me if you can feel this." His fingers traced along her arms, testing the warmth of her skin. When she tilted her head, he pressed his thumb against her palm. "Now make a fist." She complied, though her grip remained weak. Examining each limb in turn, her muscles trembled with the effort to respond to his tests.
"Do you understand what happened to you?" he asked, gently lifting each lid to examine her pupils. His face hovered so close to hers that she could feel his breath, the unexpected intimacy of his examination making her acutely aware of Gwaine's absence.
"I…" She twisted the edge of her shawl, suddenly feeling adrift without him. "I'm not certain. My pendant…"
"Your body is learning to channel magic naturally for the first time," he explained, sitting back. Gold flared briefly in his eyes as azure light gathered at his fingertips. Ishka took a sharp step backward as his hand began to weave intricate patterns that left trailing wisps of blue light. Sir Galahad turned to address her servant. "I won't harm her, Mistress. This is only to aid in her examination. The light helps me see how her magic flows."
"It's alright, Ishka," Yaminah murmured in Arabic. Her servant swallowed, fear diminishing even as she clasped her hands tightly at her waist. After two days of watching uncontrolled magical outbursts, it surprised Yaminah that Ishka still found Sir Galahad's deliberate use more frightening – as if intention made the power an abomination.
"When your pendant fractured," he continued, sketching luminous symbols in the air between them, "years of contained power surged free at once." He held his palms over her, his magic flowing like cool water across her skin—a subtle stream compared to the wild energy that had coursed through her veins. "Your magic raced without direction—surging and retreating, responding to your emotions, your physical state, even the magical energies around you."
Sir Galahad traced a finger through the glowing symbols, which shifted and swirled at his touch like ink in water. "As for feeling like being thrown from a horse," he added, his serious expression lightening, "your body fought the surges much as it would resist a fall—tensing and twisting to protect itself. Lord Merlin said even experienced sorcerers would struggle against such a sudden release of power." A glance at Gwaine's direction. "Your knight barely left your side through the worst of it."
Yaminah's cheeks warmed at his mention of her knight as Sir Galahad closed his fingers into a fist, extinguishing the ethereal glow. "According to the life tracings, your powers are still settling. It will take time for your body to adjust. This is why these protective measures are necessary, at least until you learn to channel the flow yourself. These first days will be... unpredictable."
The crystals chimed softly as a fragrant aroma reached her—cardamom and mint, the tea of her people, of countless prayers and ceremonies. Yet now, even these cherished traditions seemed fraught with danger. How could she perform the sacred rituals when her own body harbored such erratic power? She glanced at Sir Galahad, unable to keep the sudden tremors from shaking her body. "What will happen to me now?" The question carried all her unspoken fears about her future, her faith, her place among her people.
"Lord Merlin and Master Ruadan are the men who attended you with me," he supplied. "But I'm well-versed in the art of magic, my lady. If you're willing, I offer my services to help guide your training."
Training. The prospect itself made her tense. She had only flashes of these men during her delirium—Lord Merlin with his singing crystal and the elder drawing glowing runes in the air with a silver stylus—strangers reshaping the woman she was meant to be. This was witchcraft. Evil. Youssef was right about Baba's betrayal, but what would their father think of her now? A shiver spiked through her, a nearby crystal chiming suddenly, its pure note filling the chamber.
"Yaminah," called Gwaine, his tone concerned.
Sir Galahad reached for her wrist again, his other hand already weaving a calming spell. "Be still, my lady," he murmured. "Let the magic settle."
"Habibti." Ishka took a hesitant step closer, her eyes fixed warily on Sir Galahad's glowing magic.
"I'm alright," Yaminah replied, catching her breath as the trembling eased, several footfalls approaching from beyond the panels. "I'm alright."
Farouk appeared at the screen's edge, bowing deeply. "Al-Sayyidah, pardon. Perhaps tea from our mint gardens would settle your spirits?"
"Yes," she replied, the offer itself comforting her. "Thank you."
Her servant withdrew and Gwaine entered, stopping at a distance as Sir Galahad concluded his examination. "You're still very weak," he said. "I recommend at least two more days of complete rest."
"That isn't possible." It came out sharper than she intended, the knight diverting his eyes from her momentarily. "The Sabbath begins at sunset tomorrow. There are preparations tonight—"
"Which others can handle," Gwaine interjected. "Surely your faith allows for illness."
She gazed at him, seeing the care in his eyes but also a fundamental misunderstanding that made her chest tighten. "Sabbath preparations are not mere tasks to be delegated. As Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila, I must—"
Gwaine stilled at the unfamiliar title, his brow creasing as he took a step closer. "What does that mean mean—exactly?" he asked.
His unwanted question died as heat flooded her vision—her first acknowledgment of a title inherited through her father's sedition, through Youssef's betrayal of the crown. Rigid obligations that could not be abandoned now held her captive. She caught her reflection in a nearby crystal, revealing eyes of liquid gold, ancient and strange in her face.
"No, please—" Yaminah cried, terror clawing at her throat.
Ishka gasped, stumbling backward into Farouk as he approached with the tea. The tray clattered to the floor, porcelain shattering. Scrolls whipped through the air, vials rattled on shelves, furniture groaned against stone, while the crystals' hum rose to a piercing intensity. Gwaine crossed to her bedside in two swift strides, catching her quivering hands in his.
Sir Galahad's incantation resonated through the chamber, cooling waves flowing through her fitful magic until it settled like morning dew on flowers. When she could breathe properly again, shame burned behind her eyes as she watched the golden shimmer fade from hers and Gwaine's joined hands. Even surrounded by their protection—Gwaine beside her, Ishka's constant faith, her household's loyalty—she felt unmoored from the foundations of her life—every revelation stripped away another layer of certainty about her place in the world. She was a sorcerer.
"Gwaine," was all she could utter, each breath surrendering to her altered state, to her family's betrayals, to a destiny she never sought.
His grip tightened as he leaned closer. "I'm here. I'm right here."
Sir Galahad's calming influence began to fade. "Your magic responds to emotion," he explained. "Fear, anger, confusion—they all feed into it. That's why proper training is essential before attempting anything significant—"
"As Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila," she interrupted weakly, the title bitter on her tongue, "I must lead my people. Our faith has endured through far worse than this."
"Your faith isn't in question," Gwaine replied gently. "But even leaders need time to heal."
"You see only the physical danger," she said as Sir Galahad's foreign magic ebbed away. "What about the spiritual cost of neglecting my holy obligations? What message does it send to our household if their Al-Sayyidah cannot even direct the Sabbath preparations?"
"I'm sure your household is aware of your condition by now, my lady," Sir Galahad stated, studying a nearby crystal pulsing with blue light. "At least, that you had fallen ill. They'll see your need for rest and recovery."
Two servants arrived to clean the spilled tea, broken porcelain tinkling as they gathering it in trembling hands. Farouk returned with a fresh tray, placing it on the small table beside the bed, his usual poise faltering at Sir Galahad's mention of magic. Their subtle flinches, their averted gazes—these betrayed their true feelings.
"What do they truly see? That their leader was brought low by forces our faith condemns?" Yaminah's throat tightened. What did they truly know? Did whispers travel through the tribes now about her collapse and her magic? That she could not touch holy objects without risking sacrilege? "Even so, the Sabbath isn't negotiable, my lord. These rituals have sustained us through exile, through loss, through every trial. I won't abandon them now."
"No one's asking you to abandon your faith," Gwaine said, measuring each word like steps across uncertain ground. "But surely there's a way to honor both your beliefs and yourself."
"By hiding away? By letting others prepare the sacred vessels, direct the prayers, maintain the traditions that bind us together?" She met his gaze, willing him to understand through his evident agitation. "What happens if word spreads that their Al-Sayyidah's magic makes her unfit to serve?"
"So you'd rather risk harming yourself?" Gwaine's fingers tensed against hers, his frustration giving way to rising alarm. "What happens when it manifests during prayers? When the faithful see their Al-Sayyidah lose control?"
His questions bore deep, but Yaminah kept her chin lifted. "Then they will witness their leader facing her trials with grace."
"Grace?" He withdrew his hand as he stood, leaving her fingers cold. "There was nothing graceful about watching you writhe in fever. Nothing dignified about hearing you cry out as magic tore through your body."
"Gwaine," Sir Galahad cautioned, but Gwaine continued pacing with the restless protectiveness of a devoted heart.
"No, she needs to understand. You weren't conscious," he said, turning back to Yaminah. "You didn't see what this power can do. For two days, objects hurled across the room, windows shaking in their frames—even Merlin struggled to contain it at first."
"Which is why I will master it," Yaminah insisted, her hands twisting in the bedsheets. "Not hide from my duties like a frightened child."
"Mastery takes time," Sir Galahad interjected. "Years of study and practice—"
"Time I do not have right now." Yaminah pushed herself straighter against the pillows, though the effort made her arms shake. "The Sabbath begins at sunset tomorrow. Our people need routine now more than ever."
"Your people need you alive." He knelt again beside her bed, his eyes bright. "I need you alive, Yaminah. Can't you understand that watching you suffer like this—"
He broke off, the raw pain in his expression compelling her to reach for him. Magic crackled between them, blue-white light dancing, but Gwaine didn't pull away. Instead, he caught her hand, the power making his fingers tremble against hers.
"This is why you must rest." His voice was rough with fear rather than anger. "Please, just give yourself a day or so to heal."
"You don't understand." Yaminah closed her eyes, steadying herself. Beneath her weariness lay a deeper need—to prove her worth despite this change, to show that magic hadn't stripped away her ability to serve. When she opened them again, resolve strengthened her. "I cannot properly prepare for the Sabbath here, amid these other magical currents." She eyed the suspended crystals, the shelves lined with artifacts that hummed against her new senses. "I need to return to my quarters."
"My lady," Sir Galahad began, "your condition—"
"Is precisely why I must return to my own chambers." She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her white gown flowing around them as her feet found the softness of a bedside rug. "How can I learn to control this power if everything here pulses with foreign energy? How can I distinguish what's mine from what exists in this room?"
Disappointment shifted across Gwaine's features. "So you risk everything for hubris," he said. Not a question.
Yaminah forced her gaze from his, her heart fluttering at the worry in his eyes and the defeated tone that had crept into his voice. Pride? No, duty. Obligation. The weight of generations. "My quarters are better suited for our Holy Day preparations."
She gripped the bedpost and pushed herself up, but the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet like desert sand. Her legs failed her. Both Gwaine and Ishka rushed forward, but Yaminah raised a hand to ward them off as her grip tightened around the solid wood post.
"The Sabbath begins at sunset tomorrow." She planted her feet on the rug, drawing slow breaths until the room settled around her. "There is much to be done before then."
"You can barely stand," Gwaine said, hovering just beyond arm's reach as if expecting her to fall.
"Then I will sit if I must." She took a tentative step, pride flickering as her legs held firm. A chair waited only a few paces ahead. "But I will not neglect my duties to my household and my faith."
"You should remain here, my lady," Sir Galahad insisted. "The binding spell's aftermath—"
"Can be monitored in my quarters as easily as these." Her next step sent bottles ringing like distant bells. "Please. I need the solace of my own quarters."
"Then I'm coming with you." Gwaine moved towards her, tension evident in his stride.
"The preparations are holy, my lord." Ishka's words fell like iron on anvil and Gwaine halted his approach. "For the faithful alone. Your presence would profane our rituals."
Yaminah sank into the chair, her limbs burning with each movement. She observed her servant and her knight, feeling pulled in opposite directions—faith on one side, her heart on the other.
"Is that how you see it too?" Gwaine's jaw clenched as his gaze snapped from Ishka to Yaminah.
"I'm sorry, habibi," she said. "The Sabbath requires absolute purity, especially its preparations. Even those of our household who don't share our beliefs know to keep their distance during these days."
"Purity." He practically spat the word, her term of affection ignored. "And what of your magic? Does it not defile these 'sacred rituals'?"
"My lord!" Ishka stepped forward, but Yaminah raised a hand to stop her.
"His anger is with me, Ishka, not you." The air grew suffocating, her power building within, but somehow she managed to maintain control. "And you are right, Gwaine—I don't know if my magic will respect our sacred boundaries. But I must try. I must prove that this power has not changed who I am at my core."
"Even if it kills you?" His restraint finally crumbled. "Even if it means pushing away those who—" He turned from her, raking fingers through his hair.
She completed his unspoken thought: Those who love you. The truth cut bone-deep, more than she expected. He couldn't—or wouldn't—understand that her faith and her position demanded certain sacrifices, even from him. When the tears leaked from her eyes, she recognized this familiar ache of a heart breaking.
"Forgive me," Gwaine said, concern replacing his anger. "That was out of line."
"But not untrue," Yaminah murmured, wiping the moisture from her cheeks.
"My lady," Sir Galahad said quietly. "I will be happy to begin your training when the Sabbath ends." With a gentle motion of his palm, the healing crystals suspended around them glowed briefly before floating to his waiting hand. So casual his display of magic – such open use of power still felt forbidden, despite her own gifts. "For now, I have urgent business that might aid in the efforts to find the king. Master Ruadan will check on you later."
The mention of King Arthur struck them all silent as Sir Galahad departed. Through the haze of her changing nature, Yaminah had nearly forgotten the larger crisis gripping Camelot. Now she saw Gwaine's features twist with guilt—his loyalties divided between duty and her.
"Go," she urged gently. "Join the search. I'll be well-attended and guarded in my quarters."
"I made my choice when you collapsed in my arms two days ago, habibti." His response came swift and firm. "I won't leave you."
For a precious moment, the world narrowed to just them – his unwavering loyalty warming her more than any magic could.
"Even if it means remaining on the other side of a door?" Ishka remarked, cruelly severing their connection. "Unable to approach or assist? Separated by laws older than Camelot itself?"
"Kafana, Ishka," Yaminah rebuked, the harsh command overlapping Gwaine's defiant "If that's what it takes."
Weariness settled over Yaminah, her eyes closing briefly against their conflict. "Please, both of you. Can you not discern how much your discord tears at me?" She met Gwaine's gaze. "You may attend me to my quarters." He nodded, accepting his place as she turned to her servant. "Prepare my clothing. We leave for my chambers immediately."
Gwaine moved to the chair where she sat, his hand lingering near her shoulder, not quite touching. "I'll be right on the other side of that screen," he said softly. "If anything happens—if you need me—"
"I know," she replied, lifting her chin. "You'll always be there."
Always. Such a dangerous word between them. She watched Gwaine retreat through the screens, speaking in hushed voices with Farouk. His devotion only emphasized what stood between them. Yet she couldn't allow him to share in the sacred moments that defined her life, not even to stand guard outside her door. But until the commencement of the preparations, she would cherish his presence, even if from a distance.
As she stepped into a modest silk caftan, its high collar and long sleeves providing proper coverage for the journey to her quarters, memories of the coronation feast surfaced—that first spark of a link to Gwaine. Perhaps her bound magic recognized not just a kindred spirit in breaking conventions, but someone whose authenticity called to her true nature – the self she had to keep contained, just as her magic was contained. Their connection transcended social barriers because they both understood what it meant to hide essential parts of themselves. Now, caught between worlds, their situation stretched beyond impossible—a knight of Camelot and the daughter of an accused traitor. An unbeliever and a woman of faith. Centuries of beliefs dividing their hearts.
"Some loyalties cannot breach custom, child," Ishka murmured in Arabic, tugging the folds of the caftan into place, adjusting the intricate fastenings at her throat and wrists, smoothing wrinkles from the delicate silk. Her servant's glances held knowing sympathy, but also warning. After all, hadn't Ishka already witnessed the whispers about their Al-Sayyidah's unseemly attention to a Christian knight?
Those whispers would pale against the truth of her magic. Would her people accept a sorcerer as their leader? Would they see her power as divine blessing or demonic curse? As Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila, she held authority over all aspects of their lives – property, resources, even personal matters that once fell to her father and brother. Perhaps this power was meant to strengthen her rule rather than diminish it, granting her the freedom to choose her own path, including whom she would marry. Her magic surged at the thought—this truth pulsing through her veins like sacred verses.
Yaminah sank into the chair, fingers gripping the arms as Ishka knelt to wind the leather straps of her sandals. But this energy felt new and unfamiliar, coursing steadier now. Through the screens, she found Gwaine, his presence calling to her like a prayer of its own. In her heart, she knew this man would remain at her side no matter the circumstance. As her magic settled within her, perhaps it had revealed not just her true nature, but her true path forward.