The Serpent's Veil

Mirages

Three leagues east of the holy city of Medina, a camel walked into a dust cloud without blinking an eye. Those who knew this route knew that people who ventured into the haze often never returned, but the camel had no such qualms. It had travelled this way many times, and knew what was waiting on the other side.

The camel lurched forward as its front hoof slid down a steep dune. The dust had cleared to reveal a wide basin, completely deserted but for the small stone temple at its centre.

The doors opened into a brightly lit atrium mosaicked with glass shards, reflecting the distorted bodies of two figures whispering in the centre.

Al-Kuma smoothed his robes and motioned to the arch leading down into the inner sanctum, and the other man followed. He was dressed like an arab, in sirwals and a loose qamis, but he carried himself with a trepidation that Al-Kuma could feel from a league away.

The chamber at the bottom of the staircase was frozen and dark, and sent a shiver down the foreigner's spine. Al-Kuma procured a flint stick from his robe and struck it against the wall, sparking a flame to life. He dropped it into a reservoir of oil, and instantly the hallway burst into colour — sapphires, rubies and emeralds sparkled all over the walls and on the ground, gathered in piles as high as a man's knee to create a central walkway.

"Stay behind the line of stones," Al-Kuma warned when the foreigner moved forward.

He nodded solemnly, pausing tentatively between each step. The wall of gemstones gleamed in the firelight, but that was not what he was here to see.

There, beyond the stones in the darkness, a menacing leopard emerged. As the fire burned brighter, more beasts came into view — a lynx, a python, a hawk, a pony. At first they appeared ordinary, but as the light burned longer they began to change. The python's scales changed colour, the hawk's feathers sparkled, the leopards spots began to shift.

But they all had the same eyes, clear as glass, reflecting light in all directions.

"I cannot believe..." The foreigner gaped. He did not expect the legend to be true, and now that he was seeing it with his own eyes, he was lost for words. "These are the spirits?"

Al-Kuma picked up a loose ruby from the ground and tossed it at the spirits' mortal forms "Yes. We use the stones to suppress them."

They disappeared in a cloud of moisture, and the room was still as death once more.

"The Emperor will be pleased," said the stranger as they ascended. Al-Kuma's disinterested silence did not encourage him, and he was quick to depart.

The temple was silent once more.

X

Khaya slid the last pin into place to secure her veil. Her reflection stared back at her with tired eyes and dull skin, but there was no time to line her waterline and powder her cheeks. Zayan had left before the first prayer to deliver her urgent message to Yahya, and returned just after with the Barmaki's reply. They were to meet in the library solarium, where their conversation would go unheard and undisturbed.

Her conversation with the imam had brought relief, but her sleep was still restless, always on the edge of waking. She had made little notes by candlelight in the small hours of the morning — God is forgiving and merciful; Good deeds wipe away bad deeds; Forgive yourself; Forgive him.

The library was as quiet as always when Khaya entered, unaccompanied by her aides. The letter had instructed her to wait in the atrium, alone, and someone would bring her to them. Her palms were beginning to grow moist with sweat as time dragged on, and the scritching of quills on paper became a disorienting buzz in her ears. Finally, one of the clerks stood up from his desk and approached her. Avoiding her eye, he gestured to a set of shelves behind the main writing desks, and she followed close behind. He weaved through the shelves, until Khaya didn't know where left or right would lead her, and abruptly stopped in front of a shelf that looked no different than the rest. The clerk turned to her and bowed, then dashed around the corner before she could utter a word of protest. Her stretched out arm fell limp by her side, useless. She gave the shelf a cursory glance, and held in a gasp when it swung inwards. Standing in the doorway in robes the colour of midnight, was Yahya. His hair was braided loosely, making him look almost girlish.