The Stone Lions

Copyright © 2013 by Gwen Dandridge
Hickory Tree Publishing
HickoryTreeBooks.blogspot.com

Smashwords Edition

NSF grant 9552462

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means
including information storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing by the author. The only exception is by a
reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

The illustrations have been modified for the black
and white issue of this novel. The original color ones may be found
at my Web site at
www.gwendandridge.com

Book Design by

Cover Design by Carol Heyer

Back cover and spine by Sherrie Petersen

Illustrations by Carin Coulon

First Hickory Tree Publishing

Certainly this book would never have been thought of,
much less created, without the generosity and inspiration of Dr.
Dorothy Wallace at Dartmouth. The National Science Foundation’s
support was much appreciated.

Anne Lowenkopf was the person who made this book
happen. She believed in both me and the story, and kept me writing
the many times I would have given up. My greatest wish is that she
were alive to see it published.

Many thanks to Dr. Sarah Tolbert for explaining band
symmetry to me over and over until I understood it and even began
to love it. And to her and Dr. Ben Schwartz for all the walks we
took discussing plot and math.

Josh Schimel, my husband and love, who has stood by
my side the whole time, ever willing to listen, critique or
support.

Judith and Michael Thompson, who patiently read
revision after revision. Heather Latham and Robert Hill, who took
photos of every illustration from the Owen Jones book on the
Alhambra. Carin Coulon for her work creating the illustrations.
Rebecca Finley for her massive support.

Antonio Orihuela Uzal, for his help and his book,
Casas y palacios nazaríes,
about the
Alhambra during the late 1300’s.

My writing group with Val Hobbs, Sherrie Peterson,
Kim Hernandez and Lori Walker who pushed me to rework
The Stone Lions
one last time.

Sonia Connolly, Bob Orser, Teri Davis, Claire Beorn
Norman, Pippa Drew, the Medieval ListServer, Yuki Yoshino and so
many others who have been important to this book’s birth.

And a special thank you to GJ Berger and Kevin Berry
for additional editing to make The Stone Lions even better.

The original fountain from the Court of the Lions is
depicted on the cover. It was stolen in the 1500’s and replaced
with the lower fountain that now resides there.

Chapter
1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43

Appendices

Glossary of
Terms

Glossary
of Names

Symmetry Summary

About the
Author

Chapter 1

Granada, Spain – Early 1400’s,
Alhambra Palace

Ara pulled her brown cloak tightly around her
head as she risked peering out between the sun-dappled leaves. She
had chosen this spot carefully for its thick shrubbery and its
great view of the Justice Gate at the south entrance to the palace.
There was barely enough space to hide a slender twelve-year-old
girl—and it even let Ara see part of the road leading to the
Alhambra, the Red Palace. Any moment the mathemagician might
appear, and now Ara would be among the first to see her arrive.

Ara gnawed at her ragged thumbnail, thinking
again of Suleiman’s reaction if he were to find her not only
outside the safety of the harem, but outside the palace as well. It
was hard having a tutor who watched your every breath.

The Sufi mathemagician, Tahirah, though a
woman, was one of the most important scholars in all Islam—the same
Sufi who had instructed her mother in mathemagics and symmetry when
she was Ara’s age. And Tahirah was arriving now.
Oh, to see her arrive, not just to hear others tell, but to
see the procession herself.
She knew Suleiman would fault
her for being too curious yet again.

Ara rechecked her position—she must stay
totally still while the procession came through.

Not far off, a trumpet blared. Ara jumped.
Still as a mouse
, she reproached herself.
Again the trumpet sounded. Booming drums announced the approach of
the mathemagician. Horses whinnied and tossed their heads, jingling
the silver bells on their reins. As the procession crested the
road, Ara watched in amazement. First came palace guards in blue,
gold and white uniforms, their faces fierce as they marched
four-by-four at the head of the procession. Two men with thick arms
carried a red and gold banner embossed with the symbol of their
tribe. Next, garbed in their billowing, white Bedouin caftans, came
the honor guard astride their legendary desert horses. From her
shelter, Ara strained for a sight of the mathemagician.

Where
was
she?

The parade continued, dust swirling around
the horses’ hooves. Ara’s nose twitched. She fought a sneeze.
Slowly, so as not to attract attention, she brought her hand up to
cover her nose. Too late.

“Achoo.” She froze, panicked. If she were
found outside the palace walls far beyond the safe haven of the
harem—and not just
any
girl, as her tutor
kept telling her, but the sultan’s daughter, alone and
unprotected—she would be in trouble.

A palace guard turned but never looked deep
within the bushes where she sat, still as night, robed in brown and
green. One more searching glance, and he turned back to the
procession. Ara shivered in relief.

She felt her eyebrows rise as elaborately
dressed slaves bearing the litter of the Sufi mathemagician
approached. The Sufi’s companions, concealed beneath the muted
indigo hijabs of the mathemagician’s clan, walked alongside. Behind
them followed more veiled women in sand-colored robes, their hands
clasped and heads bowed, honoring Allah. The horsed guards came
next, followed by three more litters. Trailing these, dozens of
Sufis from the whole of Granada followed in hope of seeing the
visiting scholar.

Ara held her breath, knowing the price she
might pay for her curiosity if she were caught. But if even half
the wonders whispered about the mathemagician were true, the wise
woman would have the power to transform Ara’s life. The curtains
within the gold litter slid aside. It seemed to Ara that violet
eyes met her brown ones, laying bare all her secrets.
No one can see me
, she reassured herself, no one,
certainly not through the silk curtains of the litter. The litter
passed, and the parade moved toward the grand steps of the palace,
but for Ara the moment of connection with those eyes remained.

At the top of the steps, Ara’s father,
splendid in his robes of state and flanked by his principal
advisors, waited to welcome his guest. Three of his wives stood
behind him, veiled in black hijabs. Only their eyes showed, as was
fitting in so public a place.

Abd al-Rahmid, the wazir, stood off to the
left, his mouth pulled down in its usual scowl. His eyes scanned
the peacefully assembled crowd.
He always looks
grumpy when there is no one to bully
, thought Ara.

The curtains of the litter were pushed aside,
and a woman stepped out, her hair wreathed by a white shawl. Her
handmaidens quickly moved to assist her.

Why, she’s tiny
, Ara
thought,
almost as small as my cousin,
Layla
. Again, Ara felt violet eyes watching her—although
Tahirah never turned in her direction but walked with poise to
Ara’s father.

He smiled and bowed. “Welcome, kinswoman. You
grace us with your presence. We hope your stay will be long and
enjoyable,
inshallah
—if Allah wills.” When
he spoke everyone quieted, and his words carried far over the
crowd.

The tiny woman bowed in return. “Allah is
gracious in allowing me to visit your fair city,
alhamdulillah—
praise be to Allah.” She tilted her head
slightly, her shawl moving with the gesture, her voice as strong as
the Sultan's. “It is long since I last saw the countless beauties
of the Alhambra Palace and enjoyed the hospitality of the Nazrids.”
Her hand gestured toward the mountains. “Word comes even from the
far reaches of the world that you continue the enlightened rule of
your father and his father before him. The honor is mine.” The Sufi
bowed her head with the grace of a queen.

Ara heard her father reply, “I am proud to
call you kinswoman, however distant.” He gestured to the
hijab-covered women. “My wives have requested the privilege of
escorting you to your rooms in the Palace of the Partal. I could
not refuse them so great an honor.” Concern crept into his voice.
“But you are weary from your travel. Rest—and when you feel
renewed, I hope you will give a small talk on symmetry or a reading
of poetry.”

Tahirah nodded, her eyes meeting his. “I
would be delighted to do so. But you are right. It has been a
trying time.”

One of her father’s wives—Zoriah, Ara
guessed, noting the erect posture—spoke quietly to the Sufi. Zoriah
turned back to her sisters-in-marriage.

If only
my mother still lived,
Ara thought
,
she also would be standing there.

The women conferred softly before quickly
taking the traveler to her lodging.

Ara watched the crowd dissolve through the
Gate of Justice into the walled palace, going their separate ways
to baths, servants’ quarters, and stables. The wazir stayed until
all were gone. Ara glared, willing him to go. What was he waiting
for? The longer he stayed, she was more likely to be missed. She
shivered. The image of her petite, graceful cousin drifted before
her, disapproval and alarm radiating from gentle brown eyes as
she’d listened to Ara’s plan.

Ara closed her eyes and pleaded to the
heavens.
As Allah is kind, don’t let Suleiman ask
Layla where I am.

The wazir remained, pinning her to her hiding
place. Abd al-Rahmid glanced around, as if making sure he was
alone. Searching the folds of his caftan, he retrieved a shiny
metal rectangle. He scanned the plaza again.

Why the secrecy?
Sunlight flashed against the metal, a ray of light glinted on its
edge. The wazir snatched a small frog from beneath a bush. The
light seemed to disappear, and then
two
frogs dangled by their legs from his hand. He turned the metal over
twice and rotated it once in a circle, all the while chanting.
Darkness gathered where he stood. Ara jumped as she heard a slight
pop and one frog vanished. Blood dripped from the wazir’s hand, and
a foul stench drifted across the courtyard on a small gray
cloud.

Ara’s stomach churned. The wazir looked
around again. He tossed the remaining frog into the bushes before
wiping the gore from his hand. A thin smile reached his lips. He
pocketed the piece of metal within his sleeves and strode through
the palace gate.