The Healer's Warrior (17 page)

All the while,
Asif
spoke a mile a minute, shoving as much information into the new king’s mind as possible about traditions, laws, etiquette, and the names and histories of important people he was required to know. The frenzy paused abruptly once the late king’s funeral began.
Asif’s
coaching dwindled to an occasional whisper as Tareq walked behind his father’s body in the procession. Tareq wore a black
thobe
—a formal, ankle-length tunic with long wide sleeves—and a black
keffiyeh
—a flowing headscarf kept in place with two black rings on the crown of a man’s head
.
The late king had insisted everyone wear black at the funeral, so that his body, wrapped in white cloth on a white cot surrounded by white flowers and laden with gold jewels and two gold swords, would stand out from the crowd. The long, drawn out procession involved visiting every mosque in the capitol on the way to the cemetery so that six
imams
would pray over him.
As if that would assure the fiend’s salvation.
The procession was silent, as is custom. People lined the streets as four pallbearers carried the dead king’s body through the city, with Tareq and dozens of his father’s “close friends” following behind, not a wet eye in the bunch.

During the funeral Tareq began to appreciate his assistant rather than find him annoying. He realized
Asif
was brilliant. The man was like a human ledger, recalling anything and retaining everything. Many of the men walking in the procession were strangers to Tareq, but
Asif
knew everyone. “Who is he, with the goatee?”

“
Nassim
Alshafar
,” he whispered.
“Silk trader.
Thirty-six years old. Never stare too long at his beard. It’s made of goat’s hair. Fake. He’s embarrassed he can’t grow one himself.”

Tareq heard the amusement in
Asif’s
voice. Tareq hid his smile. This was a funeral, after all.
“
Asif
, how much longer?”

“One mosque down, five more
imam
prayers to go, at eight minutes each.
Four-point-eight kilometers to cover until we reach the cemetery.
Twenty-three minute walk.
Six minute burial.
Approximately one and one-sixth more hours,
your
Highness.”  

“Son of an ass,” Tareq cursed under his breath. He heard
Asif
snicker. It comforted Tareq to have
Asif
at his shoulder, always around to educate him and mitigate any mistakes, sort of like a friend. However,
Asif
was no replacement for Qadir. Tareq was saddened that Qadir wasn’t walking at his side at their father’s funeral. He knew Qadir didn’t respect their father and that it was hard to pretend to care about the man’s demise, but couldn’t Qadir be there to support his younger brother? Was that too much to ask?

“No word on Qadir yet,
Asif
?” Tareq asked when the procession was two mosques away from the cemetery.

“No,
your
Highness. A runner should be here soon with any information.”

The procession continued winding through the streets of the capitol. The streets were getting thicker with bystanders the nearer they got to the cemetery. Tareq noticed a woman in the crowd. Only her remarkable brown eyes were visible from her black
burqa
. Her deep black eyebrows were sharply arched, her eyelids were painted with shimmering gold powder, and her eyes were lined and shadowed with kohl. She bowed to Tareq with her gaze full of seduction. Tareq looked away, unstirred and unsurprised.

Women made passes at him all the time. Being at a funeral was no different. Auntie told him the attention was due to his handsomeness. Tareq was certain it was his wealth that women found so handsome. Tareq ignored the temptress in the crowd, but the incident made him think of Jem’ya. She wore no makeup at all, nor had she ever been suggestive, but somehow she was more noticeable and more seductive than any woman he’d ever known. On one hand, he was happy to know an amazing woman like her. On the other hand, it was grounds for concern. Jem’ya influenced him so strongly and so easily. What could she get him to do in a moment of weakness? What could she take?
His pride?
His sanity?
His fortune?

It was always that fear of losing himself which held him back when he was around her. That fear stopped him from taking Jem’ya into his arms long ago and stopped him from pressing his lips to hers months sooner. The fear stopped him from admitting how much he wanted her. He hadn’t said it yet, but his actions made it clear. If he didn’t want her, he wouldn’t be suffering through her hatred, resentment and anger. He’d have never taken the risk of hiding her in his father’s palace.
Now the palace is mine.

By the end of the day, Tareq would officially be king. He wanted to be a better king and a better man than his father was, so he understood that he needed to release Jem’ya. Not now, not with things the way they were between them, but very soon. Tareq felt an ache in his chest as he thought of having to say goodbye. He hastily refocused his thinking.  

The Samhizzan mausoleum sat in the center of the city cemetery. The domed, square structure made of pink marble towered above the other grave markers, casting a long shadow across the graves behind it. Tareq’s grandfather and grandmother, who died when his father was a young man, were already eternally resting inside the cold, dark structure. The family mausoleum did not contain Tareq’s mother. She was buried in one of the unmarked graves in the plots for the criminals and the poor, beside the garbage heaps. Qadir confided in Tareq once that he was convinced he’d found their mother’s resting place. He said that, even though it was marked only by a pile of rocks like the others, he could feel that it was her. Qadir brought flowers to the grave and sometimes sat and talked to “her”. He invited Tareq a few times, but Tareq delicately declined. He never had the heart to tell Qadir that he was most likely paying respects to a stranger.
Where is he?

Maybe it was best that his older brother hadn’t arrived at the funeral. He might have shown up drunk and laughing. Tareq chuckled inwardly. Tareq never let Qadir know how amusing he really was. Now that the dark tension in their lives had lifted away with the death of their father, Tareq felt he could relax more and not be so serious. He hoped he and Qadir would laugh more together.

The procession came to a stop in front of the large doors of the mausoleum.
Asif
whispered to Tareq as he handed him the large black iron key to the tomb. “Qadir has locked himself in his bedroom. He won’t answer anyone and he won’t come out.”

Tareq was angered at first, but then suddenly very concerned. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his gut. “Have his personal guards break the door open. Make sure he’s okay. And, also, tell Bahja that Lady Jem’ya should be moved to a fully stocked guest room immediately. I don’t want…Tell Bahja it’s not time for Jem’ya to be outside of the palace just yet.”

“Yes, King Tareq.”
Asif
relayed the information to the messenger who then sprinted away toward the royal manor on the hill in the distance. Tareq turned the key in the mausoleum door. Two sentinels helped him pull the marble slab door open. A chill ran through his body when he stared into the blackness inside. Tareq stepped away from the opening to let the pallbearers carry his father’s body into the void.

“Good morning, Lady Jem’ya,” Bahja smiled. She balanced a tray of food in one hand as she unlocked the gate with the other.

Sitting at the little table, Jem’ya looked up from the basket she was weaving. Days ago, Bahja gave her a small bushel of willow tree switches to occupy her time with. The thought of weaving had saddened Jem’ya because it was an activity she used to do with her half-sisters, her girlfriends, her aunts and her cousins. However, this morning Jem’ya needed something to do with her hands while she contemplated how she could convince Tareq to let her go home. “Hello, Miss Bahja.” Jem’ya noticed Bahja was in a good mood.

Bahja set a bowl of muesli cereal with berries, a cup of fresh cow’s milk, and a pastry with apricot jam on the table.

Jem’ya tore off a corner of the buttery pastry and began to chew it.

“Sorry I’m late with your breakfast this morning. Tareq’s father passed away.”

Jem’ya paused mid-chew. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically. She knew he was an evil man, but his death left Tareq with no living parents, so it felt wrong to be glad the King was gone.

Bahja shrugged. “No need to feel sorry. Tareq’s not. I’m not. That’s why I’m here instead of at the funeral. Tareq had to attend, for appearances. His brother locking himself in his room interrupted my schedule. I spent half an hour talking at a door, trying to get Qadir to go to the funeral. Hopefully Qadir will come out of there in time for the ceremony. This evening, Tareq will be named King of Samhia. Tareq’s been waiting a long time for this moment. We all have.” Her green eyes sparkled.

King Tareq
. During their time at the Coast, Jem’ya had secretly called him ‘King Tareq’ when he was being impatient or demanding. The thought of Tareq being supreme ruler of Samhia was shocking and unbelievable. It frightened her. He was now more powerful than millions of men, but Jem’ya sensed that his prominence would also make him dangerously vulnerable, to the bad intentions of spiteful people around him and to the misguided desires of his own ego. She was scared for him and scared for herself. Could she convince a
king
that he should let her go home?

“Also, you no longer have to be here in the cellar,” Bahja grinned.

Jem’ya’s heart leapt. Was Tareq freeing her?

“Tareq’s orders.
You’ll have your own beautiful bedroom in the palace now. And you can walk about freely, without secrecy. His palace is open to you. Lady Jem’ya, it is such a relief that I do not have to lock you up in this cage anymore,” she smiled.

Jem’ya smiled back. She was a few steps closer to home.

Proudly, Bahja walked Jem’ya through the halls and archways of the palace, showing her the luxurious rooms on each floor, the dining room, the prayer room, the library, the sauna, the gymnasium, the indoor swimming pool, the family room where paintings of the paternal Samhizzan family line hung on the walls, the trophy room with treasures and relics from all over the continent and beyond, and Jem’ya’s favorite room: the bird atrium. The aviary was a cylinder cut straight through all four stories of the palace. The glass ceiling let in magical streams of sunlight that illuminated the rainbow of exotic birds flying from tree to tree.

Jem’ya enjoyed the tour of Tareq’s home, but the stares and whispers from some of the servants who were seeing her for the first time was discomforting even though they bowed to her respectfully. She saw them eyeing her sleeveless, blue cotton dress and considering her dark skin. She wondered if they knew her secret; she had kissed their king. When Bahja and Jem’ya went up to the third floor where the royal living quarters were located, they came upon a group of sizeable palace guards standing around a door. Jem’ya gasped as two of the guards began to kick at the door in unison.

“That’s Qadir’s room. Wait here a moment.” Bahja went to a guard standing by and asked a few questions. Jem’ya didn’t understand Samician so she couldn’t eavesdrop. She read Bahja’s face instead. Bahja nodded as she spoke with the guard and she seemed concerned but not worried. Jem’ya took that as a sign that Tareq’s brother was not in a dire circumstance. The two guards kicked at the door with all their might two more times before the wood around the lock splintered and the thick wooden door slammed open. Bahja and all six of the guards rushed into Qadir’s bedroom. The bed was empty. Jem’ya walked up to the doorway and watched them search the bathroom, the balcony, and even under the bed. Qadir wasn’t there.

Worry and disappointment lined Bahja’s face as she exited the room. She sighed. “Come, Lady Jem’ya. I’ll take you to your room.” Bahja pointed out Tareq’s bedroom door and the late king’s bedroom as they walked past to the east wing of the third floor.

Jem’ya’s mouth fell open when Bahja opened the door to her suite. Everything was golden; the frame of the canopy bed, the fabric of the bed sheets, the wardrobes and dressers, the chairs, the oil lamps and candlesticks, the mirrors, the vanity and the bathroom tub were all gold. Even the veins in the white marble floor throughout seemed to shimmer like gold. Jem’ya felt very out of place and overwhelmed. She would have preferred the simplicity of the room in the cellar over the garish opulence of the guest suite. The feature of the room that Jem’ya could appreciate was the tall, magnificent windows. She hurried to them, pressing her hands against the glass and looking out at the sun, the sky, the clouds, the trees, and the garden surrounding the palace. Nature; Jem’ya was renewed just to see it.