The Serpent's Veil

A Quiet Place

Parviz's office was filled with the sweet smell of jasmine oil and the old musk of parchment. Khaya leaned back in her chair and cracked her neck. They had been dissecting one of Parviz's old cases, a long-winded dispute brought up by the gold traders of the south coast in response to the Caliph's steep gold tax. The traders had won the case, forcing the court to reduce the tax from fifteen to nine percent. It baffled Khaya how the people could lawfully oppose their ruler in such a direct manner, yet the more she read the more she realised it was necessary.

Parviz gathered the case papers into a stack and returned them to their place on the shelf. Khaya shut her book, now growing heavy with notes from their ongoing lessons, and cleared her throat.

"Parviz Qadi..." she paused to look for the right words, "My duties... have caused me some moral difficulty."

The old lawyer pursed his lips. "You speak of your duties to the Prince."

She nodded, avoiding his eye.

Parviz sat down at his desk, lacing his fingers together softly. "Are you afraid that you have committed a sin?"

"Have I not?" Khaya didn't want to speak the words into existence, but he already knew what she was implying.

His expression was soft, sympathetic. "There is no need to feel guilty, my child. God understands that every person's circumstance on this earth is different. I know that your faith is strong in every sense besides, and God knows it too."

Khaya shifted in her chair, wanting nothing more than to disappear. "You don't understand..."

"You may speak freely here, Khayzuran sahiba. Please don't worry."

After a pregnant pause, she said, "The truth is... I didn't feel guilty when I did it. I... still don't."

Each time she read the scripture she expected something in the lines to change, or to find some hidden loophole which absolved her, but it was always the same. And despite this, she didn't feel ashamed. When her bare skin had been pressed against Rehan's, a voice in the back of her mind told her to recoil, told her that it was wrong, but it was too soft to be heard over the fire in her veins and the heat in their shared breath.

Khaya flinched in anticipation of a rebuking remark or distasteful scowl, but none came.

Instead, Parviz leaned back and nodded slowly. "So your guilt is not for the act itself, but your lack of it despite your devout nature," he rambled. "I can see how you feel conflicted by this."

Khaya's shoulders relaxed and a wave of gratitude washed over her. She didn't expect to be understood so easily, leave alone be consoled.

"If you would like to clear your mind, I suggest you speak to one of the imams. Go in the evening, when the crowds are sparse," Parviz advised. He could see the worry in her eyes slowly fade into deep thought, and knew his work was done.

As the rays of the noontime sun filtered through the window, Khaya gathered her belongings and left the Qadi to his work in silence. She ambled between the high shelves, eyes unfocused, listening to the heartbeats populating the library. The clerk's pulse was hammering away, probably from stacking books, while the scholars shared a steady, synchronous rhythm. Khaya skimmed her fingers over worn spines as she made her way to her reading nook. It was a small alcove framed by delicate silk curtains and decorated with tasseled cushions. The wall was set with a low window to let sunlight in at every hour of day, and had an embedded shelf to store her books. Ever since Khaya had become a frequent visitor of the library, an unspoken understanding had bloomed between her and its other patrons.

This space was hers, and hers alone. She sat on the ledge and drew her knees up to her chest, reaching for her most recent read, Poems of Layla al-Akhyaliyya. It was hardly a book, more a set of sheets sewn together haphazardly, with a cover added as an after thought.

Khaya settled in, losing herself in the words. A half hour may have passed, when she heard footsteps approach. She noticed this heartbeat was unlike the others', strong and vibrant and... just a little bit quicker when their eyes met.

The Prince was dressed in blood red from head to toe - his favourite colour. Without invitation he sat at Khaya's feet and pulled at a cord peeking out from underneath the cushions. As the curtains fell together, he leaned his chin against her knees.

Khaya was calmer than she thought she would be, perhaps because they were hidden from view.

"Don't stop on my account." Rehan eyed the book in her hands.

She pulled down her veil and craned her neck forward so their noses brushed against each other, making him burst out in hushed chuckles.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," he said, sitting up straight, "I had a summons from the Vizier at first light."

Khaya's cheeks tinged red as moments from their night together returned to her in flashes. "I forgive you, Sayyidi," she said, smirking.

Rehan's eyes crinkled in amusement as his shoulders sagged, and he leaned against her again. She combed her fingers through his hair softly, gently pulling against the tangles. Outside the curtains, there was a burst of movement and urgent whispers.

"Prince Rehan..."

"Mm," he mumbled.

"Are you trying to hide?"

He said nothing, but the way his shoulders shook slightly told her she was right.

"I'm just... tired." His voice was muffled against her sirwals.

Khaya shifted so he could lay his head on her stomach. The feeling of his weight on her made something bubble in her core. She hated it. "Did the emissary give you a hard time yesterday?" she asked, trying to pull her mind away from other thoughts.

"Mm," he nodded. "They—"

In the crack of silence, she realised her mistake.

Rehan looked up at her. "How did you know I was with the Byzantines yesterday?"

Her heart leapt in her chest. Khaya, you fool!

"I—I just guessed." Even to her it sounded like a lie.

Rehan's eyes narrowed by a fraction. "That's quite a lucky guess."

"I'm a lucky person," she declared, and whipped her chin up.

The Prince smirked, and rested his head back on her belly. "Read to me."

Khaya swallowed slowly and picked up the poetry booklet beside her. As she flipped open to where she had left off, she noticed a change in his breathing. Her voice chanted the lines of poetry absently as she chastised herself for the slip of her tongue. There was no knowing what he was thinking.

X

The palace mosque was a beautiful domed building of teal and forest green marble. It towered over Khaya like a cliffside in the desert, but radiating cool air instead of blazing heat. The sun had dipped below the horizon, its last rays staining the sky pink and red. After washing herself she wandered through the women's entrance to the prayer hall. The walls were adorned with lines from scripture painted in gold and silver. Khaya had never imagined a place so ornate as a house of God, but after all that she had seen in Baghdad, she was not surprised. She kneeled on an empty prayer mat and went through her rakats.

After her prayer she made her way to the front of the hall where the imam sat behind a wooden screen. His clerk, a young boy of hardly ten, jumped at her approach and quickly whispered something to the imam.

As Khaya sat down in front of the screen, preparing to confess her sins, resolve steeled itself within her.

She would tell Yahya what she had seen in the darkness that night.

There was no other option.