One pillared corridor flows into another, with spacious, open-aired chambers concealed in cleverly designed niches, their ceilings exposed to the elements. An occasional courtyard shaded by tall fronds materializes as a burst of yellow brightness amidst the sheltered passageways and still pools.
As I turn a corner, movement in my periphery snags my attention, and I slow, angling toward a dark shape near the vast double doors leading to the Library of Ishmah.
The man is broad of chest, an unnatural stillness swathing his form. He wears loose ivory trousers and an emerald, knee-length robe. A white scarf wraps his hair, shielding the lower portion of his face from the boiling sun. Though I cannot see the man’s eyes, I experience the intensity of his gaze, as if the sharpest of arrows pierces my breast.
It cannot be. Years have eroded much of my past, yet some memories retain their clarity. I swear I recognize him. “Excuse me—”
But the man retreats down a side corridor. By the time I reach the end of the hall, he has vanished.
It takes a moment for my heart’s rhythm to settle. I must have been mistaken. The man was likely a traveler who lost his way. When he does not reappear, I hurry past the library toward the stables. Generally, I would bribe the watchmen at the palace gates to let me pass, but not today. Due to the prince’s arrival, the palace is doubly guarded. None may enter or depart without the king’s permission, including me.
But a secret passage hidden in the stable walls grants me access to a cool, dark tunnel, which deposits me beyond the palace grounds in the upper ring. The Queen’s Road cuts south through Ishmah, with the perpendicular King’s Road stretching east to west. Tidy, single-story homes hewn from red clay line the streets, and glorious windows ofstained glass reflect colored light onto the paved road. Drought has touched everyone in Ishmah, including the wealthy. Where hedges once ornamented green lawns, only sand and shriveled branches remain.
Dressed in my nondescript cloak, I blend in with the passersby easily. The roads narrow. The jeweled windows vanish. The stones underfoot fracture to gravel, packed soil, dust. In the lower ring, wagons multiply, and stalls spring up to clutter the streets. Merchants hawk their wares as unruly children scrabble underfoot, chasing a herd of goats through the crowd.
Eventually, the road squeezes to a thread, halting anything aside from foot traffic. An arched entryway marks the entrance into the souk.
It is, on the best of days, disorderly, and on the worst, absolute madness. Beyond the crumbling wall, alleyways fold around sharp corners, the area so littered with carts, tents, and stalls that it is impossible to pass through without knocking againstsomething. The offerings are varied and numerous. Colors assault my vision and scents dizzy me with their potency. Fruits and nuts and grains, pottery and tapestries and useless trinkets.
“The Red City’s finest rugs! Buy now!”
“—can’t agree to a lower price, I’m afraid I’ll have to go elsewhere—”
“What did I tell you about eating things off the ground?”
Coins are passed into outstretched hands. A young mother attempts to shepherd her five children through the rush. Always, there is more. Shallow bowls of hammered copper, inside which pile small hills of spices acquired along the Spice Road: the fired red of sumac, the ochre of cumin, turmeric, ginger. As I ease around a bend, I accidentally jostle a young man carting a crate of live chickens. He snarls at me; I snarl back. Then, suppressing a smile, I hurry onward.
A door dressed in peeling yellow paint lies slightly ajar at the end of the lane. I slip inside, into cool darkness tinged with the warm, earthy scent of sandalwood.
Children seated on colorful woven rugs occupy the small room I have found myself in. At the front sits a wizened woman draped in a frayed shawl. Her name is Haneen. She perches on a three-legged stool,her milky eyes staring sightlessly. As though having sensed my arrival, her mouth curves. But of course that is impossible. How is a blind bard to know that the princess of Ammara attends her weekly storytelling hour?
“Now,” she begins, her voice like a creak of aged wood. “Where did I leave off?”
The air stills as the room holds its breath.
Last week, our fierce and loyal Aziza enlisted in Ammara’s army by disguising herself as a man and declaring her grandfather’s identity. War was coming. And if Aziza was to save her grandfather from being conscripted into the army, then she must become his replacement.
Training was ruthless. These soldiers were strong, agile, prevailing. Aziza was the weakest by far. None knew she was a woman. She was forced to bathe far from camp in the dead of night and hike back before dawn. But Aziza didn’t give up. One month passed, then another. Her muscles hardened. Her will became unbreakable iron.
I listen to the tale of Aziza with the desperation of one who fears it might all be stripped away. This transportive narrative, a glimpse of whatcouldbe. As the story slowly unravels and the hour slips its knot, I find myself in awe of this bold, selfless woman, who managed to overcome unsurmountable odds.
One night, Haneen continues, her tone darkening,Aziza was not so careful. She failed to realize that Omar, one of the men from her unit, had heard her leaving the tent to wash. He wondered where she was going and decided to follow her.
The children gasp. Even I catch my breath. I did not wish Aziza to be discovered. She was brave—braver than I hoped to be.
After arriving at the small oasis where she bathed, Aziza shed her clothes and began to submerge herself when the scuff of a boot stopped her cold.
“Yousef?” the man whispered.
There is a pause. I expect Haneen to go on, but she merely sits there, more satisfied than the fattest of cats drunk on cream.
“What happens next?” a young boy cries. “What happens to Aziza?”
She grins. “You will have to return tomorrow to find out.”
The slap of my sandals travels the length of the palace corridor with the percussive rhythm of hide drums. I have nearly reached the throne room when someone drawls, “I hear celebrations are in order, Princess Sarai.”
I slow, angling to the right. A buxom woman draped in yellow silk reclines against one of the smooth pillars—and she is not alone. Three noblewomen flank her. My pleasant mood promptly sours. Dalia Yassin.
