The Healer's Warrior (18 page)

Bahja directed Jem’ya’s attention to the clothes hanging up in the wardrobe. Bahja ran her hand across the long row of silky garments in a spectrum of vivid colors. “All of these dresses,
burqas
,
and scarves are yours.
Brand new.
I’m sure you’ll have fun trying them on. Speaking of clothes, I have some changing of my own to do. I want to look my best for the ceremony.”

“Can I go with you to the ceremony?”

Bahja frowned. “Lady
Jemya
, I would love for you to experience the kingdom’s grandest moment, but I’m afraid Tareq did not give you the complete freedom you deserve. You are not allowed outdoors. You are still to remain inside the palace. But…” Bahja walked over and, one at a time, opened the tall glass doors to Jem’ya’s veranda. She waved Jem’ya over to stand next to her out on the balcony. “You can see it from here.” Bahja pointed far north to the center of the capitol where Jem’ya could see fluttering red banners and flags bordering a large public square. “The whole city will be there. Tareq will be on the balcony of that big white building there; Commander’s Hall. You might be able to hear him if his voice carries.” The women looked quietly out at the view. “Well, I’ll leave you to your beautiful new room. I will bring you lunch at 2 o’clock. Dinner with the king will be at 7 o’clock sharp,” she smiled. Bahja bowed and hurried to her engagements.

Will it be a private dinner or will Bahja and Qadir be there?
Jem’ya hoped it wouldn’t be private. It would be easier to politely shame him into releasing her if his brother and his aunt was in attendance. Jem’ya wanted to visit the bird atrium again. She pulled a luxurious white headscarf from the wardrobe and covered her hair. Her own beliefs didn’t align with the practice of
hijab
, but perhaps wearing the headscarf would convey to the people in the palace that she was respectful of their culture. In the gold mirror, Jem’ya studied her reflection. Her features seemed so striking when her hair was hidden. 

Jem’ya returned from feeding the birds in time to meet Bahja for lunch. She learned that dinner that night would not be a meal for two. It would be a great opportunity to influence Tareq’s decision to keep her here, and she looked forward to meeting his rascally older brother.

“None of the guards and servants can find Qadir in his room or anywhere in the palace. It’s as if he disappeared. His bodyguards never saw him leave his room after he was told the news of your father’s death. He must have snuck out, and maybe even ran away, your Highness.”

Tareq massaged at his sore thigh as he told
Asif
to have the guards scour the city and search for Qadir at his usual haunts: the harems, the opium dens, the underground bars, and the poor’s cemetery. Tareq returned to his seat at the head of a crowded table in the meeting room of Commander’s Hall. He’d called for a conference of all the councilmen and financial and military advisors in an effort to get the whole truth about the declining state of Samhia. The regime was plagued with both moral and fiscal irresponsibility, but Tareq couldn’t hold anyone accountable because the men had been following his father’s orders. It was up to Tareq to sort out the mess, and there was a 10-day deadline and limited monetary resources to do it with. Stress was tightening the muscles in his legs and his back. Qadir’s antics were adding more unneeded stress to Tareq’s day.

Tareq let his eyes close and exhaled. He needed to calm his mind to calm his body, or else he’d have a hard time getting to sleep at night because of discomfort. Tareq remembered the sensation of Jem’ya’s fingers at the nape of his neck, playing with his curly black hair. He reluctantly opened his eyes to the bickering bureaucrats around the table. “Quiet, please,” he ordered. Tareq scanned each man’s face in the silence. “We don’t have time to point fingers, and argue and moan. The millions of citizens depending on me want solutions. My father will no longer be a convenient scapegoat for the bunch of you. From now on, you
will
take responsibility for the conditions in this kingdom. None of us are going to leave this room until we have a cohesive plan on how to move my kingdom forward instead of backward into debt and disorder. If any of you aren’t fit to
work
for your wages, leave now so that I can replace you with someone intelligent, dedicated and honorable, because I will accept nothing less in my court.”

All was quiet.

Tareq nodded. “Okay. Does anyone have any ideas?”

Timidly, one of the councilmen raised his hand. He looked young except for the bags under his eyes, but his brown eyes were bright with enthusiasm for progress and the dream of reaching new horizons. “I have an idea, your Highness.”

Tareq smiled.

Over one hundred thousand people filled the city square and spilled into the streets around it. Tareq paced back and forth in the room behind the grand balcony on the sixth floor of Commander’s Hall. His starched, perfectly white
thobe
and
keffiyeh
were embroidered with the Samhian star and cobra in gold thread. He could hear the roar of thousands of animated voices outside. He could feel the anticipation vibrating in the humid air.

“Hello, King Tareq.”

Tareq turned to find a decidedly tall, decidedly ancient man at the doorway. There was something comforting but also peculiar about the man with the long white beard and the ornate royal blue tunic and turban. “Hello,” Tareq responded. “Can I help you?” When the old man neared, Tareq realized it was the man’s lack of eyebrows that made him curious looking.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t. Your help would be wasted on an old man like me. I’m here to honor the new king. It’s tradition that I give a reading before each coronation.”

“Are you the prophet?”

“Yes, young man. I am
Moosa
Hassan. I was your father’s personal prophet for almost 30—honestly
long
—years and I’ve been with the Samhizzan family for five decades.”

“Hmm.
Moosa
Hassan, do you mind if I test your abilities?”

“No,
your
Highness. Ask away.”

“Where is my brother Qadir right now?”

Moosa
went into a blinking fit as the answer came to him. “He is inside his room.”

Tareq sighed.
What is he talking about?
Qadir wasn’t in the palace. The prophet was a fake. Or maybe his accuracy varied. Tareq thought of a question regarding his fight against the
Cambe
rebels. The cut on his cheek had since heeled. “Where on my body was I last wounded?”

He squinted. “It was behind you.”

Tareq was about to roll his eyes until he remembered the scratches on his back. He and Jem’ya were the only people who knew about them. Tareq was intrigued. “What nickname did I give Jem’ya?”

“Peaceful.”

Tareq’s heart skipped a beat. It was real. “Will I ever stop living in pain?”

More blinking.
“It will get worse, and then it will get much better.”

“Who…Who will be my wife one day?”

His eyelids fluttered. “She is called…Pearl.”

The name sounded familiar, yet Tareq had not met anyone by that name. “Will I do right as king?”

The prophet didn’t blink at all. He looked down at the floor a moment. Tareq grew concerned. “Your Highness, your ascension to power is fated by Allah. You are meant to be king. Everything you do is sanctified in the eyes of your people. Anything you say, the nation of Samhia will follow. You are supreme ruler, therefore you are righteous.”

Tareq’s eyebrows rose. “I am not my father. Speak the truth, not what you think I want to hear.”

Moosa
Hassan fingered his long white beard then grinned. “You are not so egotistical like he was.”

“I hope not.”

“I believe that you are stronger than him, so I will give you the true prophecy.”

Tareq gripped at the bottom of his long white sleeves.  

“It is for the love of a woman that the kingdom of Samhia will split apart into many pieces, its name one day forgotten.”

Tareq’s stomach dropped. The voices of the immense crowd outside Commander’s Hall began to sound desperate and demanding to his ears. No matter how hard he worked, his efforts would be futile because of what his father did? Due to his fatal passion for
Mariza
, Tareq’s father had spiraled into a life of violence, greed and bitterness and brought the kingdom down with him, irreparably, according to the prophet. Tareq could not accept such a failure. He was not going to let his father control his life from beyond the grave. “But I can—I
will
—make something of my inheritance. Cannot a destiny be changed?”

“You can’t change the facts, but you can always choose how you feel about them. The kingdom will not survive your lifetime, but the legacy you make for yourself will endure beyond your children’s
children’s
days.” Seeing the distress on Tareq’s face, the prophet added, “Do not fear it, King Tareq. The love that you feel for her will be reciprocated.”

“You mean the love I have for my mother?”

“No, for the woman who will be yours.”

Tareq gaped at the prophet in astonishment.
Moosa
Hassan hadn’t been talking about Tareq’s mother and father.
I am
the one that will allow a woman to destroy Samhia?
“Me?”

He nodded. “Yes,
your
Highness. She will choose you.”

“I’m sorry, but I refuse to walk down that path.” Tareq raised his chin. He wasn’t going to let any woman interfere with his political dealings. It was that simple. “You’re dismissed.”

The gray-haired prophet bowed deeply. “God be with you, King Tareq.”

Tareq faced the billowing red curtains separating him from the balcony. He’d witnessed his mother’s execution from that same balcony, sixteen years ago. The breeze parted the fabric slightly, letting a flash of light from the late afternoon sun break through and wash over the angles of his face. On the other side of that curtain there were three chairs on the right side behind the platform. Bahja was sitting proudly in one of them. The other two, Tareq knew, were empty. He’d thought of having Jem’ya at the ceremony, but decided against it. He concluded that she would not like to share this day with him. At best, she’d find the whole thing arrogant.

The other seat was meant for Qadir. Tareq wanted to postpone the ceremony until his brother could be there, but the chief advisor told him it was best to make it known that Samhia was still ruled beneath an iron fist as soon as possible so that order could be maintained. It hurt Tareq that his older brother had abandoned him on a day like this. Qadir had missed the reading of the will. Qadir would have been happy to learn that there were things belonging to their late mother included in their inheritance.

Was Qadir jealous of him? He had no reason to be; Tareq always told Qadir that they would rule together. Maybe Qadir was still upset about what he’d said.
“Who are you to judge? Look at yourself.”
They’d had many spats but they never held a grudge for long, especially not Qadir. Qadir forgave quickly, usually because the next day he had no memory of it.

Even though Tareq felt alone without his brother and worried by the prophecy, he was ready to lead. Every moment of pain and despair, every disappointment, every mistake, each person he’d met and each person he’d lost had all prepared him for this. Tareq parted the long red curtains and stepped through to the other side. As the crowd of thousands became quiet, a bolt of energy sped through his veins. He had stepped into the role he was born to be in.

There was a cool breeze coming from the north. A hush had fallen over the entire city. Jem’ya was clutching the balcony rail as she waited to hear the murmur of Tareq’s voice from miles away at Commander’s Hall.