“Of what?”
“Do you remember, when Zaqir first came from Rimmal Madar to marry Ra’abi—”
The boy laughed. “Ab’ya, I wasn’t born way back then!”
For a moment Alessid was startled. Such was his love for Qamar that it felt as if the boy had been in his life all of his life. “Someday you’ll be an old man, too, and plagued with a pest of a grandson!” he scolded, but with a smile. “Ra’abi and Zaqir traveled the length and breadth of Tza’ab Rih, showing themselves to the people, getting to know them and the land. They were in one of the smaller villages beyond Sihabbah, dining with some people who had actually known my grandfather al-Gallidh. With the qawah and sweets at the end of the meal, nuts from their own groves were served. Zaqir swallowed exactly one of them—and began to choke to death.”
Qamar’s eyes could hardly get any bigger. “Why? Poison?”
“Don’t be absurd, boy. Everyone ate from the same bowl, and no one else became sick. But if a Shagara healer had not been with them—Ra’abi was pregnant at the time, and taking no chances—Zaqir would have died. His throat swelled almost closed. He was from Rimmal Madar, where such nut trees are unknown.”
A frown darkened the usual bright whimsy of Qamar’s face. “If what you imply were true, then we ought to eat nothing that doesn’t come from our native soil. I ate everything they put in front of me in Joharra, and so did everybody else, and nobody—”
“Zaqir’s case was extreme. But let me tell you why this thought occurred to me.”
He was only halfway through an explanation of how place and people belonged to each other when Qamar suddenly cried out in surprise and pain. Green wax had been melting all this time in its little glass bowl set in a bronze scaffold, gently heated by the small candle below it. But the candle had flickered and flared in an unruly draft. The luxuriant feather quill Qamar had been twirling idly between his fingers had caught fire, burning his hand. “It’s all right, Ab’ya,” he said at once. “It doesn’t hurt—I was only startled. Here, let me set the seal, and then you can tell me the rest of your ideas.”
“Leave it be,” Alessid told him. “I’ll call for a healer.”
“No, it’s nothing. I want to hear more.” He didn’t wince as he smoothed out the page, then folded it neatly so that the four corners met in the middle. He ran a singed and slightly bloody fingertip over the matrix of Alessid’s personal seal, making sure there was no lingering wax to disfigure the impression. Green wax was poured, the seal was set, and the letter set aside.
Rihana and Ra’amon pleased each other very much. The people of Joharra were equally pleased. The man they considered their rightful ruler had returned. The woman he married had openly declared her love for their land and had all the power of the Empire of Tza’ab Rih behind her to keep them safe. His conversion to the Glory of Acuyib troubled them but little, for they saw it as an expediency. Joharra was worth a change in liturgy.
A few months after the marriage, Alessid received a letter from his granddaughter that confirmed everyone’s wisdom, including his own. Love there was between Rihana and Ra’amon, and great joy; as far as each was concerned, no other man and no other woman existed in all the wide world; and she was already pregnant with their first child and hoping for a girl. Rihana praised everything from her new husband to her new Joharran-style clothes (their women dressed even more oddly than their men, imprisoning themselves in tight bodices and voluminous skirts). Alessid decided Mirzah ought to read it as well, and accordingly made his way to her apartments.
“ With regret, al-Ma’aliq, the Empress is indisposed.”
Alessid regarded his wife’s maidservant, his eyes narrow and his lips taut. He had heard this same sentence a hundred times and more. He saw Mirzah only at official functions nowadays. She never even sat down to dinner with the family, preferring to stay in her rooms. He had indulged her even more disgracefully than he ever had Mairid or Qamar.
“Open the door.”
“With regret, al-Ma’aliq—”
“Open it.”
The woman’s hands twisted. “I cannot,” she whispered. “She has ordered whippings if—”
“Open the door or I will order your tongue cut out and your eyes burned blind,” he snarled. He would never have done so, of course—not only was he disinclined to physical cruelty but terror was no way to rule an Empire. But the servant was already in such a state of nerves that she believed him. With a shiver, she opened the door she guarded, and he was admitted to the rooms of the Empress.
He had not been inside for years. This entrance was not the one that led to the fountain room with its tile garden; instead, he came in another way, by the portal from which she emerged in all her finery to receive ambassadors. There were servants here, too, and fear in their eyes at the sight of him. Alessid was more determined than ever to discover what was in his wife’s rooms, that she so seldom and so unwillingly left them.
When he finally saw, he wished he had not.
Mirzah sat in the center of her bedchamber, on a priceless rug from Dayira Azreyq that had been a gift from the late Sheyqa Sayyida. She was filthy, her graying hair lank and unwashed, her body reeking, her robe stained with food. She was rocking slowly from side to side, humming as she stroked the yarn hair of seven dolls in their cradles, lulling them to sleep.
“She believes they are her babies,” said a familiar voice behind Alessid. He turned to find Leyliah, suddenly bent and old, sorrow thickening her voice. “She calls them by their names . . .” She hesitated, then murmured, “And sometimes, the one that is usually Kemmal, she calls Qamar.”
Alessid refused to feel. “How long has she been like this?”
“Until recently, it came rarely and went swiftly.”
“How long this time? How long will she be like this?”
Leyliah shrugged. “Another day, or forever.”
“Do something for her.”
“There is nothing to be done.”
“There must be!”
“Nothing, Alessid. It is not a thing a Shagara can heal—or the al-Ma’aliq can command.”
He could not bear Mirzah’s humming. He drew Leyliah into the outer chamber and kicked the door shut. “What happens when the people discover this?”
“They will not discover it. Her servants are few, loyal, and silent.” She paused. “Qamar sits with her each day for a little while—she thinks sometimes that he is Azzad, when your father would visit the Shagara tents.”
“But—you said that sometimes she—the doll—”
“Yes. Sometimes, when Qamar sits with her, she uses his name when she sings her children to sleep. He is very good about not being shocked by his grandmother’s madness.” She trembled briefly. “There, I have said it at last. My daughter is mad.” And she covered her face with her hands and wept.
Alessid left his wife’s rooms. He sat alone in his maqtabba for several days, and emerged at last to declare that the Empress, as befit a pious woman, had decided to spend the rest of her days in solitary devotion to Acuyib, praying for the happiness of the people of Tza’ab Rih. They revered her for this, sending tribute of the land’s bounty: oranges, wine, silks and woolens, gems, candlesticks wrought of iron. Alessid thanked them in Mirzah’s name and quietly distributed the gifts among the poor.
When Mirzah died, the whole Empire mourned. And when Leyliah followed her daughter into death a few months later, Abb Shagara himself came to take her body home to the desert.
He also came to speak his piece to Alessid. In the privacy of the great tent in the gardens, he confronted the al-Ma’aliq.