18. The Envy of the Population #2
In their hurried retreat, one servant left behind a black, gauzy face veil draped over a low wooden stool near the bathing oils.
It seemed all the servants wore them. With my heart hammering in my chest, I stared at it for a long moment.
The servant would likely return for it, but not immediately.
At least not while I was still having what they probably assumed was a modesty-induced meltdown rather than a water-terror crisis.
Without fully understanding why, operating on pure instinct, I snatched the veil and tucked it into the folds of my discarded clothing.
Maybe being in a foreign kingdom where I was considered property made me want to hold on to anything that might give me even the illusion of control. Or concealment.
Over the next few hours, they tended to my wounds, rubbed me with sweet-smelling narcissus oil, and applied rouge to my lips and kohl around my eyes.
The entire experience was surreal. Like being a doll.
A very pampered, very confused doll. Mali deemed my hair “atrocious” and ordered a servant to even it out.
When the torture was over, I hardly recognized myself.
With strikingly dramatic eyes and tousled caramel locks falling just below my chin, I looked…
alluring. Huh. Maybe Mali was onto something with the whole makeover thing.
They dressed me in a long, sleeveless, sapphire-blue silk kaftan tied with an embroidered sash and an ankle-length floral brocade robe with wide sleeves.
As one servant fussed with the drape of my robe and another adjusted my sash, I carefully transferred the stolen veil into the deep interior pocket of the brocade robe.
I slipped my feet into soft felt slippers, curled to a point at the toes and adorned with intricate swirls of beadwork.
To complete the ensemble, they slid a stack of gold bangle bracelets onto my wrist. I was vibrant and undeniably comfortable.
If I ignored the whole 'captive' situation, I could get used to this level of luxury. The slippers alone were divine.
But as striking as it all was, my lumin shard necklace, tucked beneath the neckline of the dress, was my sole link to the person I knew myself to be.
I ran my fingers along the soft fabric of the servant’s headscarf inside my robe, feeling a small measure of relief knowing it was there. It was a potential key to freedom; however slim the chance.
Once they deemed me “presentable,” as a servant irritably commented—rude, by the way—they escorted me to one of the most luxurious rooms I’d ever seen.
They called it the Seraglio. Bolstered seating lined a circular recessed area in the center of the space and overflowed with silk pillows and cushions in an array of deep purples, crimson, jade green, and indigo.
Overlapping rugs in intricate patterns and rich colors covered the tile mosaic floors.
Alcoves in the corners of the room, draped in sheer, luminous fabrics, obscured clusters of low couches and the dancing kaleidoscopic glow of brass lanterns suspended from above.
It was a riot of colors, textures, and patterns.
And the room was far from empty. Several women lounged on the cushions and lingered in the alcoves.
And those women were currently peering at me from all over the room.
Unease prickled up my spine—was I in the wrong place?
Just then, Mali entered through an arched, carved door and stopped mid-stride when her sharp eyes locked onto me.
“I knew you would look magnificent!” She came bounding over to me and began fussing with my clothing, with my hair, examining my make-up. “You will be the talk of the meal tonight. And just wait until the Festival of Light!”
I didn’t know what to say. It was as if I were a porcelain figurine, and she had just added me to her collection. I just hoped I didn’t end up on a shelf somewhere.
“Come! We must get to last meal,” she laughed as she put her arm through mine and led the way out the door.
The other women followed behind us, chatting among themselves.
Each with wooden staffs, two imposing men in black robes and turbans opened the heavy double doors and escorted us through the corridors back to the throne room.
We passed by that strange tapestry again, hung sideways on the back wall, with its many shades of grey. The only color in it was a small, round, red dot in the center of the weaving.
Oddly, the design resembled the equatorial plane of a stereographic projection. Curved longitudinal and latitudinal lines intersected a circle bordered by two shooting stars. The white star’s tail arched around the top of the circle and the black along the bottom.
It was a stark contrast in a room full of various tapestries in deep greens, velvety reds, and shiny gold scenes of the sun shining down on its people.
Some depicted dancing, others praising with arms raised or kneeling in subjugation.
But every one included the sun. Except that one.
Strange. I made a mental note to investigate the oddity when I wasn’t being paraded around like a prize poodle.
Throughout the hall, clusters of people had already gathered, perched on cushions around low tables for the meal that was about to begin.
Servants brought in trays of lamb kebabs over rice, falafel, and spreads of hummus and pita.
My mouth watered at the smoky, spiced aromas of cumin, coriander, and garlic.
It had been days since I’d had a proper meal.
That hungry feeling turned into a knot in the pit of my stomach when I thought of Griffon.
I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was being fed.
Twin gods above, how I hoped so. I had to have faith that they were treating him well until I could devise a plan.
But if I wanted to help him escape, I had to first figure out where they were keeping him.
And preferably before they turned him into a human torch.
Mali guided me to the front of the room and sat me at the first table on the right, just below the dais.
The murmuring grew quiet and, just like in the room with the women, I could feel dozens of eyes on me.
I wasn’t sure where to look, but my eyes inevitably stopped on Mali as she took her place next to the king.
The smile on her face could have lit up the room.
Much to my relief, soon the murmuring grew louder and normal conversation resumed. Apparently, my novelty had a time limit. Thank the gods.
A girl who had walked to last meal in our group sat next to me and gave me a dimpled smile. She wore a kaftan similar to mine, but in warm shades of turmeric and gold. The yellow was such a striking contrast to her deep olive skin.
I returned her smile and reached for a kebab when the girl snatched my hand back and hissed in my ear. “We are not to touch the food until the king selects his meal and begins to eat.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back, pulling my hand into my lap like a chastised child. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Just follow me. You will learn. I assume your training will start soon.”
“Training for what?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I wouldn't like the answer.
“Training in the ways of the court, of course.”
I nodded, but didn’t plan to stay that long.
I scanned the room. There were four entrances.
The large main entrance by the strange tapestry, a set of double doors behind the dais, and then one to the right of the dais and one to the left.
The left door was obviously to the kitchens, as servants with trays went in and out in that direction.
I assumed the doors behind the dais led to a private room for the King, or at least the way to his private quarters.
That left the door on the right, the door they escorted Griffon through.
I had to get through that door without drawing any attention.
The girl next to me nudged my side. “Eat before it gets cold.”
She pulled small pieces off her lamb before putting them in her mouth. I followed her example. If I were going to be a captive, at least the food was excellent.
“I’m Salma, by the way.”
“Wren.”
She cocked her head to the side. “The name is strange, but it suits you.”
“Thanks…I guess?” I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but I decided to take it as one. My self-esteem needed the boost.
She laughed, her deep voice as smooth as honey as she flipped her long brown hair back over her shoulder.
The group of girls I arrived at last meal with were sitting in clusters at the front of the room nearest to the dais. Except for one sullen woman sitting on her own with a sprinkling of gray throughout her ebony hair. These girls must be part of the king’s harem.
Then it occurred to me. Sitting amongst them, it became clear: I was now part of the harem.
I inhaled jasmine rice.
Salma patted my back as I coughed and gagged. So much for trying to go unnoticed. My face heated as I tried to wash it down with wine.
“Don’t worry, little bird, you’ll settle in before you know it. For you are now one of the chosen. The envy of the population,” she whispered with a grin.
I returned her smile with as much sincerity as I could muster. That was the last thing I wanted to be. Besides, at least one woman here didn’t seem to be so happy about it. “What about her?” I asked, pointedly looking at the lone woman.
She followed my eyes, and sadness washed over her face. “That is Zara. She is the former queen consort to King Asad prior to his assassination.”
“Oh,” I whispered, “she must be devastated that he’s gone.”