Free Sultana's Legacy by Lisa J. Yarde

fleshy mouth. He sagged on his knees and toppled sideways.
    His stare remained fixed on Faraj’s face. “I curse you and all your lineage, forever.”
    The Sultan knelt beside him. His bodyguards panted at his side and stared at each other red-faced, almost catatonic. The Sultan retrieved their daggers, each time drawing a sharp cry from Muhammad. The men took their bloodied weapons.
    Muhammad croaked in a harsh whisper, “I call down the wrath of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful upon you, Faraj. May God hear my prayer.”
    He groaned and his head lolled on the stone floor. “There is no God but God, and Muhammad, may peace be upon him-”
    “-is His messenger,” Faraj murmured, finishing the words of the Shahadah , the Profession of the Faith, as his brother breathed his last.
    Faraj sighed at the loss of a final opportunity to reconcile their differences. He had truly hoped, as expressed at Tarif, to bring them together. It was a fool’s hope. Their lives had always run divergent courses. Yet, he would see Muhammad soon enough, united in death.
    The Sultan rose. “A waste of a life. He chased another’s dream instead of his own.”
    Faraj met his stare again. “Send my brother back to Malaka. It is what he would have wanted. I beg only this indulgence, though I have no right to ask it.”
    “You are correct. You have no right to ask. The rivalry between you and Muhammad led him to this end. You bear responsibility for his death, too. His body goes to his family at Qumarich.”
    Faraj hung his head. “Whatever you may think of me now, know that I have always served you loyally.”
    “Except at Tarif. You thought only of your honor and in doing so, you have determined your fate. Just as your brother’s actions sealed his.”
    The Sultan joined the remainder of his guards and left the room, saying as he went, “Take the Raïs of Malaka and all of his men beneath the madina , along the tunnels to al-Quasaba , until I decree a time for the governor’s execution. Summon slaves to cleanse the room of this morning’s treachery and blood.”
     
     
    Princess Fatima
     
     
    Fatima sprinted across the crowded cobblestone street from al-Quasaba , pushing her way among courtiers who cursed at her. She had found one of Faraj’s men waiting in the shade of the barracks. He warned her that the Sultan had summoned her husband to the mashwar an hour after Salat al-Fajr .
    “Faraj? Faraj! Where are you?”
    “My Sultana, your skirts! I can see your ankles.” Niranjan panted behind her.
    What did she care for modesty when her husband’s life was in danger? She regretted her harsh words to him in days past. He had to live, or she would die.
    She entered the first courtyard of her father’s palace and spied the Sultan crossing its northern border, shadowed by his guardsmen. She waved a hand for Niranjan and her maidservants to remain behind her.
    Before her father disappeared into the cavernous throne room, she called out, “No, please wait!”
    The Sultan turned at the echo of her voice, the skirts of his silk robe swirling around his feet. Fatima reached him and embraced him fervently, forgetting all the propriety that demanded she should have abased herself. Her eyes watered with tears of fear, joy, and heartbreak united. She had not seen her father for four years, since she had brought Qabiha to Gharnatah for her grandfather’s blessing.
    Now, the Sultan clung to her before he drew back and framed her face in his large hands. “Why did you come here?”
    “I had to.”
    His fervent grip slackened and fell away. “You are here because of your husband.”
    “Noble father, you have seen him?”
    “I have done so.”
    Fatima studied his pale face for clues.
    He offered none. Instead, the fine lines etched in his complexion deepened. “Then you also know what he has done and why he came to Gharnatah. It would have been better for him, for both of you, if he had fled Al-Andalus.”
    Fatima grasped his fingers.