Putting away her desire to immediately transcribe the beauty of the bee’s flight into poetry, Jahanara waited for her brother to speak. She noted his smooth brow was furrowed under the gorgeous yellow turban. She had not seen him so troubled since Aurangzeb’s poem had embarrassed him before all the court. Jahanara suppressed a shudder, recalling the events immortalized therein: the great war elephant, mad with rage and entirely out of control, trampling slaves and scattering the Imperial household. Her younger brother Aurangzeb, barely sixteen, calmly sitting his horse while everyone fled. The way clear, Aurangzeb charged the great bull elephant and struck it between the eyes, stinging it so badly it ceased its rampage.
The later poem that shamed those that fled brought mother’s sage advice to mind: “Men, they will always feel the bite of words stronger than steel. Steel kills, but one must live on with the words of others. Remember this, and keep your words like sharp steel, with caution and care.”
Keeping that advice uppermost in her mind, Jahanara folded hands in her lap, waiting. It was not often that their father’s eldest son came to visit, but when he did, it was nearly always to ask the same questions.
“And what of Father, sister mine?”
She smiled inwardly, but not wanting to show how easily she had read him and therefore hurt his feelings, she didn’t let the smile curve her lips. “He still pines for our beloved mother, of course. The only thing he looks forward to is the daily meeting with his advisors regarding Mother’s tomb.”
“His remaining wives?” Dara asked.
She smiled openly. She had been composing a verse this morning, a playful little thing, and used part of it now: “The harem persists in its perennial practices: showing their love of Father and whining at his inattention.”
Dara nodded absently but didn’t return her smile.
It was rare that he missed an opportunity to show his appreciation for her work. Resisting the urge to show her displeasure, she asked, “What troubles you, brother?”
“I wonder what it will take to shake Father from his grief.”
She strangled a sigh. “Must he be shaken?”
“Our family does not sit idle while one man mourns, sister.”
“No, but neither are they gathering armies to usurp Father’s place.”
“Not that we know of, at least.”
“Our friend Mian Mir, in his wisdom, would have you set aside your fear, brother.”
Dara sniffed, “I know. I would argue: it is no sin to fear for one’s family.”
“If you only feared for your family, rather than fearing certain members of it.”
Another sniff, this one companion to a bitter twist of the lips, “It has always been thus for the sons of our house.”
Thinking on the unfairness of that remark, Jahanara refused to let him see how much his self-pity annoyed her. “But our father would have it otherwise, for you.”
Looking through the walls of the garden, Dara whispered, voice so low it nearly drowned in the buzz of industrious insects about them: “Some days, I fear he might have chosen the wrong son. ”
****
The stream, swollen with the last of the monsoonal rains, presented less of a challenge than climbing the far bank, an unstable slope of dark, wet earth. Salim stood in the stirrups as his recently purchased and exceedingly expensive Arab slipped sideways half-way up the bank.
Something pointed made a dangerous whistling as it hummed through the space he’d just left, cutting off all thought of cursing his as-yet-unnamed horse.
He heard the snap of more bowstrings as he heeled his mount up the bank. Powerful hindquarters bunched, released, sending mount and rider surging up over the lip of the ravine and out of the path of the arrows.
Two men rushed from the tree line with spears, another emerging from the wood behind, urging them to the attack.
His horse’s scrambling leap had landed them perpendicular to the charging men. He added their position to the tally of the many things he would have to thank the Almighty for when next he had opportunity to face Mecca.
For now, though, the sword. It hissed from sheath and to hand.
His horse, shying from the shouting men, curvetted. Salim leaned sideways, using the mount’s momentum to bring his curved Persian steel sweeping across in a cut that connected with a spear shaft. Surprising him, the crude iron head flew free and over Salim’s shoulder, wielder staring at the cloven wood stump just above his hand. From the youth’s open-mouthed expression, he was clearly imagining what might have been had the sword struck below where he held it.
The other spear-bearer bored in and stabbed. The blade swept past Salim’s nose by a hand’s breadth.
While the first man stared at his severed spear, Salim’s still-spinning horse clipped his companion with a hoof, folding him with a grunt that ended in a roll down the riverbank.
Mindful of the target he now presented to the archers on the opposite bank, Salim spurred the Arab into flight. He angled away from the track and any additional brigands who might be lying in wait.
He heard the horseman pound into pursuit behind him.
An arrow flew past from the far shore, then another. A third traced a hot red line across his forearm, making him drop the reins. Thanks be to the Almighty, the horse had drawn his own conclusions about where safety lay and ran flat out through the narrow opening among the trees.
Out of sight of the archers, Salim spared a glance for his wound. It would keep. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he retrieved the dropped rein and glanced behind.
On an inferior mount, the horseman had fallen behind in Salim’s short gallop to cover. Now, however, the tight confines of the trail favored the shorter horse and the rider with more intimate knowledge of the land.
At least the other wouldn’t be able to ride up alongside to strike.
There being nothing for it but to ride, Salim did just that. Long moments passed, the blowing of his horse and the pounding of hoofbeats beneath and behind his only company.
With a suddenness that hurt the eyes, the pursuit exploded from the wood and into bright sunlight. He felt his mount lengthen stride and gain speed, hoping it could see better than he could. Knowing he was gaining distance, Salim kept his face in the mane, hoping to present as small a target as possible in case his pursuer had a horse-bow.
Eyes adjusted, he looked back and saw the other rider was letting his horse slow, giving up the pursuit in a storm of curses.
Bandits, then.
Good. For a moment he’d worried that-despite all the measures he’d taken to avoid it-one of the prince’s rivals knew of his return and sought to kill him before what he carried could be explained.
He let his mount slow to a walk once he was certain the chase was ended. Remaining in the saddle, he spent some time dressing his wound and eating some of the food he’d purchased at the last caravanserai.
Many kos remained between him and Lahore, but he was at last nearing home. Checking the straps of his saddlebags, Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz rode on, contemplating suitable names for the horse.
****
Her favorite garden was quiet but for the buzz of insects and the musical sounds of water on stone. Most of the court were at Mother’s tomb while the emperor oversaw some detail of its construction. His absence and the oppressive heat left the Red Fort unusually quiet. Jahanara was taking full advantage of that quiet, enjoying a mango julabmost, idly crunching the flavored ice between her teeth while pondering the next few lines of the poem she was composing. The scroll lay ready before her, as were ink and brush.