Chapter 21
“A washbasin,” I repeated after listening to Dunya ramble about the unreliability of literary sources and dialectical differences
in early South Arabian. “You are telling me that one of the most legendary gems in all of history is a glorified lota? Because
of a mistranslation ?”
“I wouldn’t call it a lota ...” Dunya wrung her hands. “I understand why you are disappointed. Though in truth, the idea of the moon’s reflection
is more poetic, is it not? The washbasin is reputed to be lovely.”
I swore profusely enough to make Dunya blanch. “So, no gem at all? Just a washbasin?” When she nodded, I asked, “Then why
go through so much effort to hide it? I’m sure it’s lovely, but silver washbasins are not exactly rare. I have probably stolen
at least a dozen.”
“And washbasins imbued with celestial spirits? Basins with the power to grant Sight? How many of those have you encountered?”
I let out an aggravated groan. “Please stop talking like a back-alley soothsayer and speak plainly.”
Dunya took a deep breath, perhaps trying to figure out the best way to explain ancient occult practices to an elderly ignoramus.
“Al-Dabaran wanted to manifest before Bilqis so the bowl grants one Sight—and not just to gaze upon an aspect of the moon. The moon’s reflection gave Bilqis
the Sight to see everything in al-ghayb, the hidden realm.
All manner of djinn and spirits. Demons and angels, the unknown Holy Names and mysteries of the Divine.
More than most human minds are capable of comprehending.
I mean... that is what my notes suggested.
Apparently a great number of people who came into contact with the basin ended up going mad and killing themselves to stop the visions. ”
I tried to take that all in. “If you believed such, why trick Falco? You might have guided him to the Moon, let him catch
a glimpse of his own foul reflection, and waited until he threw himself in the sea.”
“I was not trying to murder him.” Dunya sounded shocked that I would suggest something so awful as ridding the world of a fanatical sorcerer who had
slaughtered dozens. “Besides, some of the stories I read of what happened when the Moon fell into the wrong hands... My
ancestors would not have gone to such lengths to hide the Moon of Saba if they believed it would simply kill any unworthy
person who sought to possess it. It is not merely hidden, it is inaccessible. Those tablets I found—” She nodded to the cloth
bundle she’d escaped with. “They are instructions for additional rituals in another location in the cave. A portal where the
boundaries between the realms are said to be more porous.”
“A brass door, by any chance?”
She gasped. “You’ve seen it?”
“Just before we came through the treasure chamber looking for you.” I shuddered at the memory of the shining door and its
grisly carvings. “So Falco needs those tablets to retrieve the Moon?”
“Yes. Well, them and me, to decipher and lead the ritual. The tablets are the only artifacts I’ve discovered that give the incantations necessary
to possess al-Dabaran’s power.”
“All right.” I snatched up the bundle and rose to my feet. “Let’s throw them overboard.”
Dunya flung herself in front of me. “You cannot! Those are the only instructions to retrieving the Moon of Saba, and they
are powerful spells! You could anger the lunar aspects and be hurled into a storm. You could risk a sea djinn gaining its
power!”
“Oh, for the love of God...” I tossed the bundle back on her blanket. “This is why this sort of magic is forbidden! So what were you planning to do with the tablets besides launching yourself into the ocean with no boating skills and limited supplies?”
Fresh disgrace colored her face. “I do not know. Not yet. But I... I will find a way to safely dispose of them, I swear.
For now, no one but you and I know the true form of the Moon of Saba. And there are likely time constraints on al-Dabaran’s
return, such as certain cosmological occasions or his particular manzil, which is not for months. I have distant family back
in Iraq, some who keep the old ways. They may be able to—”
“Dunya...”
“What happened in Socotra was my fault, nakhudha!” she said, sounding more distressed. “Which means ensuring Falco cannot do worse is my responsibility.”
“Then go back to your grandmother! Back to your library! Surely there is something there that would help.”
“If I return to my grandmother, I will never get away. She will marry me off and I...” Dunya exhaled, and a pleading note
entered her voice. “I cannot marry that man.”
“Why not? Because he is old? So what? Put in a few years and you will be a rich widow. You’ll be able to buy as many foul
spell books as you want!”
“Because I cannot marry any man. I cannot...” Her face went red, and she averted her gaze. “I know women do it. But when I think of being touched
like that... of being made up as a bride... I-I cannot. I cannot do it.”
There was something in her words, and even more in her utterly panic-stricken expression, that gave me pause. Because such a marriage was exactly what a noble-born girl from a fading family
would have been raised to expect. To make peace with, even if it wasn’t what their heart desired. For the clever ones—and Dunya
was certainly that—to learn how to turn to their advantage.
But as I took a moment to regard Dunya standing there before me, I suddenly wondered if her reservations ran far deeper, recalling the well-worn pamphlet in her room lyrically relating the giddy delight the caliph al-Amin’s companions took in imitating the hairstyles and garments of the opposite gender.
Though Dalila had offered a dress that would have fit more comfortably, Dunya had chosen men’s clothing.
“Is this how you see yourself?” I asked, nodding to her outfit. When Dunya’s eyes skittered nervously at me, I tried to reassure
her. “A life at sea often attracts those who don’t fit in, Dunya. You would hardly be the first soul I’ve met to prefer the
effects of another gender. Or none at all.”
She dropped her gaze, visibly struggling to compose herself. Gone was the eager scholar; I had clearly touched upon something
more personal. “My grandmother would say you were lying. Would say those you met were merely misguided souls. I should know,
for that was her response every time I read of such a person in one of my books and tried to share with her my feelings.”
Bitterness crept into her voice. “Falco said the same.”
“You spoke of this to him?”
Dunya shook her head. “Not truly. I wanted to cut my hair while we were at sea, give up some of my more feminine aspects.
See how it felt. When he asked why, I lied and suggested it might be better, safer if I did not look so girlish.” Dunya pressed
her lips into an unhappy line. “He told me not to, claimed it would be too confusing for his men.”
“Oh, fuck his men. And him.” I sat on the cushion opposite of her. “ Is this how you see yourself? How you wish to be addressed?”
Letting out a broken laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone far older, Dunya met my gaze. “I do not know, nakhudha.
Nothing has ever felt quite right. I had hoped to find out, but for now I suppose I am still Dunya.” A hint of grief entered
her brown eyes. “I do know, however, that if you insist on returning me to my grandmother, I will be made into a governor’s wife and nothing else.”
“You would be safe ,” I argued weakly, but the fire had left my voice as the true weight of her situation became more apparent.
“That’s not nothing. If Falco lives, he might come for you again, and you and your grandmother would do well to be behind a governor’s walls.
There is power behind those walls. You are from Yemen; think of Queen Arwa and Queen Asma!
Being tied to a powerful man is not the worst
fate.”
Dunya blinked away tears. “I don’t want power. I just want my books. And even they would not be worth the future awaiting
me back home.”
Staring at the pleading young person before me, I could not help but waver. It is not permissible, of course, to force someone
to wed against their will, though it happens, especially among powerful families who rely on such ties. And while Sayyida
Salima didn’t strike me as the type to force her grandchild into a wedding bed, she was an ornery old woman set on a course
Dunya had already endangered.
You would not have stood for such a fate , a voice in my head chided . Nor would you consign your own daughter to such unhappiness . And yet... if my child were dabbling in forbidden magics, making enemies out of Frankish sorcerers, and such a husband
offered her the best means of protection and safety... I might be tempted. There was also the harsh truth that Dunya was
not the only one with no choice. Salima had made it clear that if I didn’t return her grandchild, my family would pay the
price.
But I didn’t want to tell Dunya that. She wasn’t responsible for her grandmother’s actions and was already dealing with enough.
Instead, I sighed. “You have admirable scholarly skills, aye. But you have no connections, no money. No papers from the right
school, no letters of recommendation with the right names. The world is not kind to women—to those raised as women,” I amended, “particularly those who reject what society deems respectable.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “You did it.”
“Did I?” It was everything I could do not to laugh.
How rich the irony that the woman Dunya saw as a hero for blazing her own path was now being blackmailed because of that path by Dunya’s own kin.
“Is this what you think I wish to be doing? No—don’t answer that.
It matters not.” I rose to my feet. “You can war with your grandmother over all this when we return to Aden; neither your fate nor your wedding are written.”
“But—”
“But I am taking you home.”
***