Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
O ne hundred and sixty-eight hours.
Seven days.
One week.
It didn’t matter how Soraiya quantified the length of time between her last meeting with the man she was to marry and today, her wedding day, she was still outraged that he hadn’t invited her into his presence again. He couldn’t have announced his indifference more clearly if he’d shouted it from the minaret.
And she certainly hadn’t sought him out. One would only seek out someone like Sheikh Zakariyya if one was a masochist, and she wasn’t one of them. No doubt she’d see more than enough of him after the wedding. The thought made her uncharacteristically anxious.
Instead, she’d remained in the visitor’s wing of the ancient palace—sidelined and ignored, except for a visit from her sister-in-law to be—Sarah. Wife of Kadar, Zak’s brother. She’d been surprised at the unscheduled visit. It wasn’t an expected part of the pre-wedding protocol, but Soraiya had been happy enough to receive her.
Sarah had promised to help in any way she could, startling Soraiya when Sarah had suggested how difficult it must be having first been promised to Kadar and then to Zak. Soraiya had tried to convey, in as dignified way as possible, that it was all the same to her. She was merely doing her duty. But to her even greater confusion, Sarah’s sympathy had increased and she’d ended up giving her a warm hug. For some reason it had made Soraiya want to cry. All in all, the visit had been an unsettling one. But at least it had alleviated the boredom of her week running up to the wedding ceremony.
But that period of inactivity had come to an end. She was dressed in all her wedding finery, and being checked over by the ever-vigilant Daria. She turned to look out at the now familiar view. But, as her gaze swept over the barren desert, fringed by equally inhospitable looking mountains, instead of boredom a choking kind of grief welled up inside of her. This land was nothing like the beautiful shorelines of her native land—her home which she’d never live in again.
“You look beautiful, Sheikha,” observed Daria, as she carefully fixed Soraiya’s veil into her elaborately styled hair.
Soraiya swallowed down her sadness and turned around to inspect herself in the full-length mirror. The only thing which marred the confection of white satin and jewels was her slight frown and pursed lips. But her expression didn’t change as she checked every detail. She refused to show any emotion and was reassured by the cool mask reflected back at her.
With a mother who’d died when she was young, and a step-mother who showed no interest in her whatsoever, Soraiya had learned to be indifferent to how she looked. She’d always been made to feel her green eyes were a mark against her. Her mother had claimed they ran in her family, but wherever they came from, they didn’t help nurture any love from her father. And it was the same with her tall, curvaceous figure—Amazonian she’d once overheard her father describe it with distaste. It had made her work harder to fit in. So, now, on her wedding day, she didn’t see what others saw, only someone who would do her duty. Someone who would get the job done. That was her. And that was enough.
“It’ll do,” she replied to Daria, as if she were surveying an official gift, wrapped up in ribbons and about to be delivered to the enemy to ease the path of diplomacy.
A sharp rap at the door made Daria jump, but not Soraiya. She was accustomed to her father’s entrance. It was always made with a rush and a roar and he was never to be kept waiting. She didn’t deviate from her routine now. She nodded to Daria who opened the door and her father swaggered into the room, commanding the space with his arrogant gaze and corpulent body.
He looked her up and down, and for a moment she thought he might compliment her. The gown was by a famous French designer and the satin shimmered in the brilliantly lit room. Her long veil hung over her face, skimming the gold-embroidered collar of her dress, stopping short above her hands in which she clasped a bunch of exotic blooms, all white. But he simply tugged down his jacket over his protruding gut and looked away.
“It’s time, Soraiya.”
“Yes, father,” she said, hiding her disappointment, just as she’d done a thousand times before. She’d hoped that doing her duty would somehow bring them closer. She lowered her gaze, so he wouldn’t see the hurt in her eyes.
He held out his arm and she slipped hers through it. It was the closest she’d got to her father in years. Surreptitiously she brushed her thumb over the fine stuff of his uniform and glanced up at him but he was impervious to her touch. Instead, he focused on lecturing her on the importance of this marriage. Two separate families who would create a union to strengthen both countries and produce children who would further cement the alliance. It was all about family, blood line and lineage. If she’d hoped for words of endearment or affection, she’d hoped in vain.
The tips of her satin-covered high heels rang out on the old stone of the ancient colonnaded walkways, and her stomach tensed further with each step. She barely saw or smelled the perfumed abundance of the gardens, or heard the tumbling water as it descended from the hills above them through the rills and fountains to the lower levels of the palace where the mosque was. And she stopped listening to her father. All her thoughts were on the man who was waiting for her in the mosque—a man in military uniform who she was to be joined to forever, to forge a new life where she didn’t even feel wanted. But it wasn’t that which unnerved her. She was used to not feeling wanted. The anxiety which ground inside of her was because of the unknown—the man, the country and how she’d be able to shape her life.
The sound of laughter, murmured conversations and the footsteps of people finding their seats grew as they approached the mosque. Her nerves ratcheted up a notch and she fixed on her public smile to hide them as she entered the reception rooms. People openly stared at her, and jostled to take a look at this sheikha they’d only heard about, as she made her way towards the entrance to the palace’s mosque. She felt strangely out-of-body, as if she weren’t really here, but reading about it. It sent a surge of panic through her and she halted.
He threw her an irritated glance and tugged her arm. She had no choice but to follow. She blinked under the dazzling lights set in huge circular pendants which hung from the ornate ceiling supported by a soaring maze of columns. But then she felt the welcome breeze which blew from one open side to another, causing the lights to shimmer against the earth-toned walls and sparkle on the women’s jewelry. She took a deep breath.
Suddenly the crowds parted and she looked up to see Zak standing waiting for her, his outline made hazy through her lace veil. Tall and commanding, dressed in his military uniform of dark blue with red braiding, he looked impossibly handsome and very unlike the European womanizer which was how she’d always thought of him. Following the directions of the Imam, she moved forward, just as she had at the rehearsals from which her husband-to-be had always absented himself. She could do this.
But it wasn’t the same as in the rehearsals. It was hotter, there were more people, and seen through her veil everything was hazy, reinforcing the out-of-body sensation. Her crystal-encrusted bodice caught the shifting light, dazzling her, making her feel even more unsteady and unreal. A surge of panic made her seek out Zak. He was a fixed point on which to focus amid the confusion.
The long, ornate train felt heavy as it dragged behind her on the plush carpet. Slowly her awareness of everything around her—the murmurs of the hundreds of people assembled to witness their marriage, the soaring music and even the presence of her father—faded as she kept her eyes fixed on Zak’s unreadable gaze.
He gave her and her father a slight bow as she took her place beside him and her father stepped away. Beside Zak stood his brother, Kadar who gave her an encouraging smile and slight bow. There were only the two of them there. She’d thought Zak’s mother would have come, but it seemed not. Soraiya, along with the rest of Sirun, wondered where she was.
She remained feeling curiously separate and unreal—as if she were watching herself from afar—as they were seated by the Imam. Suddenly the room fell quiet and all eyes were upon them both as the ceremony began.
Some of the Imam’s words she caught, yet others drifted away from her. Prayer followed prayer, until it was her turn. She cleared her throat.
“I accept, I accept, I accept.”
Zak uttered the same words. Then pledges were exchanged and more prayers were delivered and the contract was signed. When the cheers erupted Soraiya knew her life had changed forever. She was married. For better or for worse. And, at that precise moment, she had no idea which it would be.
She nibbled on a plate of dates presented to her and listened to the blessings offered by strangers. And there were a lot of strangers but she was used to entertaining people she didn’t know, accustomed to stepping into the breach left by her mother’s departure and subsequent death. And she murmured appropriate responses and ventured short conversations with everyone who approached her.
The afternoon reception went off without a hitch. Everyone’s expectations had been met, including Soraiya’s. But the day was waning and she knew what came next. As the emptied plates of traditional food were eventually taken away, people turned to dancing as the music changed. And, while the guests relaxed and enjoyed themselves, Soraiya’s nerves grew. She’d scarcely eaten any dinner and now, as the afternoon turned to evening and the evening finally drew to an end, the knots in her stomach twisted tighter.
While they’d been seated beside each other, she’d hardly spoken with Zak as they’d constantly been surrounded by people wanting to speak to him and get to know their new Queen. Her cheeks ached with smiling, her mind was numb with small talk, and her nerves grew by the minute. So when the evening drew to a close and Zak stood up, she was more than ready to leave. It seemed to her it was better to face whatever was ahead then to deal with her nerves a minute longer.
They were accompanied only up to the double doors which led to the private wing of the palace. For a moment, Soraiya panicked. She gripped her father’s arm which he pulled away from. Then she watched as he and her brother turned away, laughing, already having moved on. They’d done what they’d come to do and would leave first thing in the morning. She didn’t know when she’d see them again. But then the heavy doors closed and she and Zak were alone. Zak had walked ahead but, suddenly aware she hadn’t moved from the door, looked back at her.
“Are you all right?”
She swallowed and turned around to face him. No light shone on his face. He was a stranger, and one to whom she’d just committed to spend her whole life. She opened her mouth to speak but a lump came into her throat. Instead, she nodded, because she’d made her choice. But the nod was a lie. She’d never felt less right in her life.
She half-stumbled past him—needing to put space between her and the celebration which felt more like a wake to her—to the safety of her bedroom. She could plead a headache. He surely wouldn’t inflict himself on her if she was unwell? She lifted her heavy skirts and began to run.
“Soraiya!” he called. Then she heard him mutter something. She didn’t answer him but continued on until the corridor ran out and she was faced with a choice of directions. She turned right to retrace her footsteps to her bedroom. But then she stopped. She suddenly realized she was no longer a guest and it was no longer her bedroom.
She jumped as she felt his hand on her arm. It wasn’t firm enough to hold her, and she began to pull away, but then he said her name once more and there was something in his gentle tone which stopped her from running. She stood, breathless, on the white, stone-flagged corridor, which dipped in the middle, smoothed by thousands of years of passing feet. Above them the vaulted ceiling disappeared, high into the shadows.
“Soraiya,” he repeated, his deep voice saying her name slightly differently to her father. It sounded more exotic on his lips. But she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” she asked in a strangled voice. “Everything.” She grasped the fine material over her throat and tried to pluck it away but it was stiff and hardly moved. “I need air,” she said with a gasp. She turned and ran out of the building, taking the first open door into the garden, not caring what he thought, nor where she went, so long as it was away from him.