Free Sultana's Legacy by Lisa J. Yarde Page B

patted her arm. “You must cease these tears. They cannot secure your husband’s release nor sway my husband.”
    “Shams! How can you tell her that? It is cruel.” Nur al-Sabah, the Sultan’s favorite, hugged Fatima and kissed her hair.
    Shams rolled her eyes. “Nur, you cannot deny that Prince Faraj was a fool and coward to do such a thing. He has betrayed our master, and the love and trust Fatima showed her husband. Where was Faraj’s love and concern for her feelings when he decided upon this foolish course?”
    “Shams, hush! You are only making things worse.” Nur pried Fatima’s fingers away. “Look at me, please.”
    As her blurred vision cleared, Fatima managed a weak smile for her father’s lover. She touched Nur’s golden curls, tumbling free from a gossamer purple veil. Tiny amethysts and diamonds glittered at the fringe of the material. Nur’s ice-blue eyes were perhaps as red-rimmed as Fatima’s own might be.
    Fatima sighed. “Don’t be mad at Shams ed-Duna, Nur. She speaks the truth.”
    “You see! Even she must admit it!” Shams slapped the low olivewood table at which they sat. Her dark eyes, the color of obsidian, glowed with a spark of fury at their centers.
    “How could he do this to us and to our children?” Fatima shook her head. “How am I to tell them they may never see their father again?”
    Nur sat back on her heels. “I shall speak to the Sultan and beg for your husband’s life. It is the only kindness I can offer you.”
    Fatima grasped the concubine’s slender hand and raised it to her lips. “You offer so much more. You have been my friend of many years. To think, I once reviled you for claiming Father’s heart.”
    Nur hugged her again. “That is long past, all forgiven. I have found three great treasures in my life in Al-Andalus. The love of your father. The friendship I have shared with you and Shams. The blessings of my children.”
    The kadin looked to the corner where her long awaited son, a golden-haired little boy of only seven years played with a wooden sword. He whacked it against the stucco wall beside him, fighting some imaginary adversary. The Sultan had named him Nasr. Like all Nur’s children, Nasr had his mother’s coloring.
    Nur called to him. “Nasr, it is soon time for prayers. Go to your nurse, Sabela, for your bath.”
    “I don’t like prayers! I don’t like baths.” Her son took out his spite on the wall.
    As Nur gave an exasperated sigh and shrugged, Fatima said, “If you do as your mother commands, I promise to teach you how to use a bow and arrow tomorrow.”
    He pushed back the golden curls falling over his cherubic face and glared at her, every bit the prideful Nasrid prince like his elder brothers.
    He muttered, “You don’t know how to fight. You’re a woman. Father says women should not fight.”
    “They should not, little brother, but sometimes they must. When I was young, perhaps twice your age or a little older, our brother the Crown Prince Muhammad taught me to use the bow.”
    Nasr’s pale blue eyes widened. He approached her. His wooden sword dangled between his chubby fingers. “Truly?”
    His mother chuckled and reached for him. “A Sultana’s word speaks only truth. Little princes shouldn’t question it.”
    He wriggled away from her embrace, his gaze still on Fatima. “ Ummi says you’re my sister.”
    “I am, Nasr. Your father is my father.”
    “Why don’t you live here at al-Qal’at Al-Hamra ?”
    “I live with my husband and children at Malaka. I have a little son, Muhammad, who is two years older than you.”
    He frowned at her. “I’m not little!” He stamped away toward the corner, before he stopped and turned around.
    “Would your son want to play with me? I have only sisters and slaves. No one fights me. My sisters don’t know how and the slaves are afraid of me.”
    Fatima chuckled, despite the lingering sadness in her heart. “The slaves should be afraid of you, since you are the