would only destroy your father now. Forget the past. Preserve the future.”
***
On the next morning, Fatima stood alone in the second floor apartments of her father, awaiting his arrival. In winter, everyone in Gharnatah retreated to apartments on the second floor. She gripped his bejeweled khanjar . Lapis lazuli and gold filigree covered the leather sheath in ornate, swirling designs.
She removed the weapon from its encasing. It had been her grandfather’s dagger. Her father kept it in his quarters, among the possessions he prized for display. The metal felt cold, but light against her palm. How many people had her grandfather killed with it?
“Are you contemplating murder, daughter?”
Her father’s sudden appearance startled her. Fatima’s fingers closed on the blade and it sliced into her palm. He rushed to her side. She opened her hand and revealed a long, bloody gash.
Her father took the dagger, while she dipped her hand in the ornate fountain at the corner of the room. Afterward, she accepted a clean cloth from him and bound the wound.
“No more playing with weapons for you,” he said. “At least, not until I’m around to save you.”
She mimicked his animated smile, but her mood did not allow for levity. His expression smoothed. He must have sensed the tension roiling inside her.
“Your note was delivered to me just after the council meeting. What could be so urgent, Fatima? Has something happened to one of my grandchildren?”
“No, I have had no news from Malaka since my arrival. Amoda knows well enough to write if something is wrong with the children. They miss you and long to see you again.”
He turned toward the fountain. “Fatima, you know my grandchildren are welcome at any time in Gharnatah.”
“Even after your executioner has murdered their father?”
Her shaking hand, wrapped in linen, closed on his shoulder. He stiffened at her touch. Despite it, she willed courage into her voice.
“Father, this cannot continue. How long shall you imprison my husband?”
He scowled into the depths of the fountain. The ripples of water made the reflection of his face appear blurred and older than his fifty-eight years.
“Fatima, do not speak of matters that do not concern you. When I am ready, I shall decide Faraj’s fate. You cannot sway my decision. It’s useless to try.”
She shook her head. “Would you have me forsake him? You are my father and Faraj is my husband. Both of you are the two men I love most in this world.”
“His actions have shamed me before the Marinids. I cannot ask you to choose between your father and your husband. You must decide.”
He shuffled toward his writing desk and sank down on the cushioned stool with a grunt. She eyed him through vision blurred by unshed tears.
His anger rose swiftly these days. The years had changed him. The incident with Shams ed-Duna nearly two weeks before proved it. Although he apologized later to his queen with a gift of a turquoise and gold filigree necklace, Fatima had never seen her stepmother so withdrawn and submissive in her father’s presence. Perhaps, Shams feared he had become a tyrant, like her former second husband.
Over his shoulder, the Sultan asked, “Did you come only to plead for forgiveness for your husband?”
She stared at his rigid back. “No. There is something else. Father, I have always trusted your judgment….”
He turned to her and raised a dismissive hand. “Then, trust me in matters concerning your husband. Consider him lucky that he lives in the security of my jail for now. If he were any other man, I would have executed him upon his arrival. It is my right.”
Fatima nodded and bowed before him, though her heart pounded a tattoo behind her chest.
He gestured toward a carved cedar stool beside his seat. She settled next to him, gathering the silken folds of her jubba around her. Her stomach knotted and she drew a deep breath before speaking.
“Father, I must talk with you about the Crown
***
On the next morning, Fatima stood alone in the second floor apartments of her father, awaiting his arrival. In winter, everyone in Gharnatah retreated to apartments on the second floor. She gripped his bejeweled khanjar . Lapis lazuli and gold filigree covered the leather sheath in ornate, swirling designs.
She removed the weapon from its encasing. It had been her grandfather’s dagger. Her father kept it in his quarters, among the possessions he prized for display. The metal felt cold, but light against her palm. How many people had her grandfather killed with it?
“Are you contemplating murder, daughter?”
Her father’s sudden appearance startled her. Fatima’s fingers closed on the blade and it sliced into her palm. He rushed to her side. She opened her hand and revealed a long, bloody gash.
Her father took the dagger, while she dipped her hand in the ornate fountain at the corner of the room. Afterward, she accepted a clean cloth from him and bound the wound.
“No more playing with weapons for you,” he said. “At least, not until I’m around to save you.”
She mimicked his animated smile, but her mood did not allow for levity. His expression smoothed. He must have sensed the tension roiling inside her.
“Your note was delivered to me just after the council meeting. What could be so urgent, Fatima? Has something happened to one of my grandchildren?”
“No, I have had no news from Malaka since my arrival. Amoda knows well enough to write if something is wrong with the children. They miss you and long to see you again.”
He turned toward the fountain. “Fatima, you know my grandchildren are welcome at any time in Gharnatah.”
“Even after your executioner has murdered their father?”
Her shaking hand, wrapped in linen, closed on his shoulder. He stiffened at her touch. Despite it, she willed courage into her voice.
“Father, this cannot continue. How long shall you imprison my husband?”
He scowled into the depths of the fountain. The ripples of water made the reflection of his face appear blurred and older than his fifty-eight years.
“Fatima, do not speak of matters that do not concern you. When I am ready, I shall decide Faraj’s fate. You cannot sway my decision. It’s useless to try.”
She shook her head. “Would you have me forsake him? You are my father and Faraj is my husband. Both of you are the two men I love most in this world.”
“His actions have shamed me before the Marinids. I cannot ask you to choose between your father and your husband. You must decide.”
He shuffled toward his writing desk and sank down on the cushioned stool with a grunt. She eyed him through vision blurred by unshed tears.
His anger rose swiftly these days. The years had changed him. The incident with Shams ed-Duna nearly two weeks before proved it. Although he apologized later to his queen with a gift of a turquoise and gold filigree necklace, Fatima had never seen her stepmother so withdrawn and submissive in her father’s presence. Perhaps, Shams feared he had become a tyrant, like her former second husband.
Over his shoulder, the Sultan asked, “Did you come only to plead for forgiveness for your husband?”
She stared at his rigid back. “No. There is something else. Father, I have always trusted your judgment….”
He turned to her and raised a dismissive hand. “Then, trust me in matters concerning your husband. Consider him lucky that he lives in the security of my jail for now. If he were any other man, I would have executed him upon his arrival. It is my right.”
Fatima nodded and bowed before him, though her heart pounded a tattoo behind her chest.
He gestured toward a carved cedar stool beside his seat. She settled next to him, gathering the silken folds of her jubba around her. Her stomach knotted and she drew a deep breath before speaking.
“Father, I must talk with you about the Crown
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