The Serpent's Veil

Light of Midnight

"Afsa," Khaya whispered, "Where can I get food?"

Afsa, half asleep, grumbled and pointed at a corner of the cart. There was a stack of wooden boxes Khaya hadn't noticed earlier. She crawled over to it and pried one of them open as softly as she could. There was a myriad of bread and fresh fruits inside; the sight of it made her mouth water. She bit into an apple and her mouth flooded with sweetness. It felt relieving.

As she ate, she opened the mesh flap and peeked outside. It was still early evening and the sky was well lit. She could do with a little exploring.

She grabbed a cut melon from the food box, opened the flap, and jumped out, landing with a light thud. She brushed off her abaya and wondered what had become of her tailored blouse. At least now she was fully clothed and her hair was covered. The sun was low in the sky, and the air was cool and pleasant.

The pace of the caravan had slowed down significantly, and Khaya briskly walked between the riders. She could see some palanquins and wondered who was sitting in them. As the horses kicked up dust she approached the centre of the caravan, where the number of palanquins increased tenfold. Between two of them Khaya spotted a swishing white tail.

Yahya al-Barmaki.

His back came into view as they walked around another palanquin. He had no veil, but Khaya could still see only his back. His hair was longer than Khaya expected – reaching just below his ears. It shone a deep murky brown in the pale evening light. Khaya wanted to see his face.

Someone shouted from behind her to move, and she jumped in fright, almost dropping the melon. A file of towering ebony horses pushed their way through the narrow gap between the palanquins. Khaya shrunk as her eyes followed the riders. All of them wore dark green turbans. She turned her head back, and her eyes widened when she saw the rider on the last horse. It was a woman. Whisps of dark hair fluttered along the edge of her loosened headscarf, likely dishevelled by the desert wind. Her jaw was sharp, body tall beneath her flowing abaya.

Her eyes were dark. Threatening. Despite all that made her beautiful, her mouth was twisted into a scowl.

This must be Princess Rayta.

As her horse ambled on, Rayta kept her eyes trained forward. She had a regal, poised posture – her back straight and stiff, her chin pointed up. Even without hearing her speak Khaya found her menacing.

Rayta's eyes abruptly glanced down, meeting Khaya's own. After she passed, Khaya sighed in relief.

She watched Rayta weave her way through the palanquins. Her black horse sidled up against Yahya's white one, and Rayta turned her head to speak with him. Khaya watched intently, waiting for him to turn and reveal his face, but he hardly looked at Rayta.

After a while Khaya turned around and went back to the maids' cart. She hoisted herself up and sat with her legs dangling off the edge and took bites of the melon one after another. The juice was cool, the flesh sweet and delicious.

As the caravan ambled on, a breeze blew across the sand and the sun began its slow descent.

Ж

The caravan travelled through the night into the next dawn. Now inside their covered cart, Khaya leaned back against the rough, splintered wood and tried to rest.

In Khaya's dream she saw a white horse with a dark haired rider in an endless desert. The dream was so vivid she felt as though if she stretched her hand out she would be able to touch his hair and feel its softness; but when she tried to imagine the rider's face all imagination evaded her and the dream collapsed like a palace made of water. The dusty fragments turned to gold, and from it emerged a menacing serpent with crystal clear eyes, mirroring her horrified face.