Princess of Dhagabad, The by Anna Kashina Page A

syllables of the difficult word
“Chamarat”.
    “Ida? What a beautiful name!” Chamar absently
pats the girl on the head and, lifting her, hands her to her
mother. He has so many daughters. Why not sons? Why not just one
son?
    “Will it be your pleasure to eat something,
master?” Ana’id says.
    Looking up, Chamar suddenly feels the longing
for her mature calmness, for her comforting touch. She has been his
for ten years. She knows exactly what he likes.
    “Why don’t you have dinner served in your
chamber, Ana’id?” Chamar says.
    “With pleasure, master.” Ana’id rises from
her seat. “I will make the arrangements.”
    Chamar watches her walk away, her back
straight, her hips gently rocking with her steps.
    He looks at Leila, bent over her needlework,
a few paces away from him. Not much more than a child herself, she
looks tender and fragile, as warm patches of orange sunlight pour
through the palm leaves onto her face, the sharp angles of her
narrow shoulders, and down her long thin arms. On impulse Chamar
moves closer, reaching over and touching her milky skin, just above
the elbow.
    She trembles slightly but doesn’t draw away
as Chamar runs his fingers up her bare arm, over her shoulder,
along her neck to stop at her cheek. He gently strokes her face,
drawing her closer and closer, feeling her hesitate without any
real reluctance to submit to his caresses. Extremely young and
bashful, she has remained a virgin much longer than the others and
even now Chamar is trying to hold off his passion, to take it
slowly, to be very patient with her. At the same time he feels that
today she is finally ready for him.
    “Come with me,” he whispers, holding her at
half arm’s length, looking straight into her cherry-black eyes.
    “My lord,” she whispers back, not struggling
and yet not coming any closer of her own will.
    “Come. Don’t be afraid. We’ll just eat
together.” He gets up from the ground and pulls her with him,
drawing her after him in the direction where Ana’id had
disappeared. Gently, but firmly, Chamar takes Leila to the second
courtyard, the third door on the left.
    Inside, the light is dim. The low table is
set with food and cushions are carefully placed around it. Cushions
for more than two. Ana’id knows all his tricks and fancies even
better than he does himself. The air in her chamber is warm and
lightly perfumed.
    “Come in.” Ana’id beckons them, bowing to the
sultan. She has decorated herself, putting on a robe of green silk
and a heavy diadem of gold, with crystal droplets hanging down over
her forehead. She helps the sultan down to his pillow, the silk
flowing seductively over the curves of her body, and gently pats
Leila on the shoulder, placing her on Chamar’s left and sitting
down herself opposite him. At Chamar’s sign, the slave women
serving at the table leave, closing the curtain behind them.
    A simple meal of dalma —stewed lamb in
marinated grape leaves—garlic chicken, and hot bread, seems
especially delicious to Chamar. He eats his food slowly, knowing
what is to follow and not wanting to rush it, to waste any moment
of his wonderful anticipation. He looks admiringly at Leila, who
blushes and looks down. From time to time he reaches out to touch
her arm or shoulder or cheek, and her shivers fill him with renewed
desire.
    Ana’id pours three cups of sweet
garnet-colored wine and rises to serve it to Chamar and Leila. She
kneels on the floor between them and puts her arm around Leila’s
shoulders, holding a cup to the girl’s lips and urging her to
drink. Watching them, Chamar sips his own wine, feeling
light-headed, a pleasant warmth flowing through his body. He picks
up a handful of grapes, glistening in the light of a single lantern
like long oval pieces of amber, and eats them one by one, their
bursts of fresh sweetness in his mouth adding to the taste of wine,
rising up in bubbles straight to his head. Unfastening the belt of
his silk robe he lets it