Crystals of Air and Water

Chapter 1: The Royal Nuptials-1

Chapter 1: The Royal Nuptials

The tale is told of Shammara the plotter, the queen of corruption, the woman who betrayed good Prince Ahmad and despoiled the fabled sacred city of Ravan, holiest city in Parsina; Shammara, whose name drips like a curse from the lips; Shammara, who trailed misery and destruction in her wake; Shammara, who, from her position of ultimate power within the City of a Hundred Temples, strove for still more power by traveling secretly into the mountains to traffic with the dreaded rimahniya, those worshipers of darkness and the lie.

There in those frigid caverns did she bargain with Abdel ibn Zaid, high priest of evil, and make him swear his strongest vow to kill Prince Ahmad wherever the exiled prince might be. Then, satisfied with her unholy compact, did she return to her palace, with no one knowing of her absence but the trusted servants who guarded her secrets with their lives.

Having the personal oath of Abdel ibn Zaid to kill Prince Ahmad, she could now put all thoughts of the prince aside and concentrate on the business of ruling Ravan. She found much work yet before her. Prince Ahmad’s coronation plans had already been under way when he left Ravan on his ill-fated journey to Marakh to wed his intended bride; those plans could now be modified to accommodate the new heir instead. In a few more months her son, the prince Haroun, would be officially crowned king of Ravan.

Her most immediate concern, however, was the imminent wedding of Prince Haroun and Princess Oma of Marakh. Shammara’s agent Rabah—concubine of King Basir and confidant to Princess Oma—had sent many messages explaining that the princess was vehemently opposed to marrying Haroun; Shammara, though, knew how to manage a headstrong princess. King Basir was actually the weakest link in the chain of her plan, being so indecisive that the wrong gust of wind could always change his mind.

Under intense prodding from his wazirs—most of whom had long since been bribed by Shammara—King Basir would certainly carry out his pledge to send his daughter to Ravan for the wedding. Princess Oma might be a spoiled brat, but she was also intelligent; she wouldn’t run away from her wedding procession once it had left the gates of Marakh, for she had no experience in surviving the common world without a handful of servants, and would soon starve left to her own devices.

Then, once Princess Oma was safely in Ravan, Shammara could keep her in line long enough to have the wedding consummated. After that, the future queen of Ravan would be of little consequence. Shammara knew from Rabah’s reports that the princess had little interest in politics and would not challenge Shammara for control of the city. Rabah had also stressed that there were ways to distract Oma should she show any inclination to politics. Shammara would let the sybaritic princess do as she pleased once she’d performed her official responsibility of marrying Prince Haroun.

In Marakh, the beautiful Princess Oma kicked and screamed, sulked and pouted, but her efforts were to no avail. Though her father wavered a bit in his determination and had to be reconvinced by his wazirs, all the court insisted that she marry the prince of Ravan. Nothing she did could sway their decision.

The servants and chatelaines of the palace spent three weeks preparing Princess Oma’s train and wedding party, weeks in which Oma herself kept to her rooms and refused all company except that of her father’s favorite concubine, Rabah. King Basir, heartbroken that his beloved daughter should be so unhappy over an unavoidable situation, ordered Rabah to do everything in her power to console the princess and ease her grief in these trying days. Rabah obeyed the king’s command, and though many sounds were heard to emanate from the princess’s chambers while the two were together, rarely were they the sounds of sobbing.

At last the royal train was prepared and the time for final parting came. Princess Oma emerged from her rooms dressed in her finest silken robes of gold and white, and surrounded by the handmaidens who would accompany her to Ravan. As Oma left her rooms, Rabah threw over her a red embroidered sharshaf. This shawl traditionally symbolized the protection of her parents’ home, and would totally engulf her until she entered her husband’s. In a sulk Oma started to throw it off, but Rabah restored it with a caressing gesture and a plea for Oma to remember her regal duties. Oma left it on as custom dictated, but her mouth could be seen pursed in a tiny pout behind her sheer milfa.

Oma walked stiffly through the women’s section of the palace with Rabah and the rest of her train. When she reached the end of the last corridor and Rabah could accompany her no farther, the princess broke through her air of reserve and embraced her dear friend. There was much weeping and wailing, and each woman promised the other to write often.

With this emotional display out of her system, Princess Oma remained coldly aloof as she passed through the outer court, ignoring all the wazirs who had conspired to send her to this horrid fate. King Basir wept at the thought he might never see his daughter again. He embraced her warmly with tearstained cheeks, while the princess returned the gesture with a formal and passionless embrace of her own. Then, with the farewells over and the speeches made, the princess’s expedition went forth from Marakh with a loud blaring of horns, beating of drums, and flying of pennants.

Throughout the journey to Ravan, Princess Oma rode on a gilded palanquin with embroidered purple satin curtains to conceal her from public view. Her retinue comprised more than two hundred of her father’s finest soldiers, since the king was willing to risk no repeat of the ambush that overtook Prince Ahmad. In addition to the soldiers there were fifty slaves and twenty maidservants to attend exclusively to Princess Oma’s wishes, plus a small herd of asses to carry all the supplies needed to clothe, house, and feed this contingent upon the road.

Princess Oma sulked and complained throughout the journey. Nothing was ever quite right: the slaves carrying the palanquin jostled it too much, the dust from the road sent her into coughing spasms, the food was ill-prepared and tasteless, the sanitary provisions were barbaric, the days were hot, the nights were cold, the insects were a plague, the nighttime noises were too loud, the horses smelled bad, the soldiers were insolent, there was no privacy—the list of complaints went on endlessly. The princess’s piercing voice became familiar, if unappreciated, music throughout the trip, and more than one member of the retinue harbored the wish to silence it permanently if only he could be sure of escaping King Basir’s wrath.

With the only threat to the princess’s safety coming from her own retinue, the expedition passed an uneventful time upon the road, making the long journey from Marakh to Ravan in just over two weeks. Their arrival at the Palace Gate of Ravan was widely heralded, and throngs of people were on hand to provide the princess with a welcome even more elaborate than her sendoff had been.

Prince Haroun and the regent Kateb bin Salih came personally out of the palace to welcome the princess to her new home. Using the excuse of maidenly modesty, Princess Oma remained within the palanquin and peered cautiously through the curtains at her intended spouse. She was not greatly impressed by what she saw.

Prince Haroun was a paunchy young man, flabby and slackjawed. His complexion was oily and his beard looked as though it had spawned like mold randomly around his jaw. His stance was slouched, and he had the irritating habit of shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other while standing, never quite remaining still. His clothes were of the richest fabrics and the finest styles, but his poor posture defeated even the noblest tailor’s ambitions. Everything hung at wrong lengths and odd angles, making him appear a poor parody of a prince rather than the genuine article.

The regent, Kateb bin Salih, was an old man with a high, frail voice and a perpetually perplexed look in his eyes. He gave the princess a welcoming speech that rambled aimlessly for more than half an hour before finally trailing off into nothingness without ever having made its point. Then Prince Haroun gave a speech in croaky, uncertain tones. While his speech was more coherent than the regent’s, and mercifully much shorter, it nonetheless filled Oma with a tremendous despair that she, a royal princess of acknowledged beauty and wit, would have to submit to the s****l advances of such a nothing of a man.

Finally the ceremonies were over. Princess Oma’s palanquin was carried to a side entrance of the palace where she entered and was escorted to the chambers that had been prepared for her within the harem. So relieved was she to be in properly luxurious quarters once again, far from the rigors of the road, that she did not bother to find fault with her new accommodations.

Once ensconced in her new quarters she continued to brood over her dismal fate as her maidservants bustled about unpacking her belongings and setting up a new order within her rooms. Although she knew the rules of diplomacy, Princess Oma had never really believed they applied to her; she made her complaints known loud and long that Prince Haroun was uglier than a camel’s testicles and less desirable than a Malembari ape. She explained in great detail to anyone who would listen that under no circumstances would she let herself be forced into a marriage with such a despicable and worthless lump of humanity, no matter what contracts her father had signed.

That evening, as the palace was getting ready for sleep, Shammara paid a call on Princess Oma’s chambers. The young woman was surrounded by attendants laying out her sleeping silks, perfuming her sheets, and combing out her long, beautiful tresses—but at a glance from Shammara the servants all vanished quickly, leaving Shammara alone with the recalcitrant princess.

“Welcome to Ravan, O beautiful princess,” Shammara said with deceptive gentleness. “May your days here blossom like the flowers in the royal gardens. I am Shammara, mother of Prince Haroun. I’ve come to personally offer you the hospitality of the harem.”

Princess Oma had heard many tales of Shammara, and was uncertain how to reply. On one level she was frightened by this slender, darkhaired woman who wore her age with power and dignity, and her mature beauty like a cloak of ice; but other parts of her knew no fear. Having been raised as a princess with no serious challenges to her authority, she found it hard to believe anyone could threaten her. She tried to steer a safe middle course. “Thank you for your fine welcome, O noble lady. This palace is most beautiful.”

“It’s only fitting that a beautiful palace should house a beautiful queen, as you shall become.”

“That’s most flattering, but I shall not become queen in Ravan. I find I cannot marry your son.”

Shammara moved in two long, graceful steps to the princess’s side and picked up a hair brush one of the servants had set down beside Oma’s chair. Standing over her from behind, the older woman began brushing her young rival’s hair with an experienced touch.

“I’m afraid you must marry him, my dear,” Shammara said very quietly. “The arrangements have all been made, the contracts have all been signed, the dowry has been paid. A failure now would be an intolerable breach of both etiquette and diplomacy.”

“I mean no disrespect to you, O noble lady, but I find your son as unappealing as week-old fish. He is unsightly, ungainly, and unkempt. I’d sooner give my maidenhead to the lowliest camel driver than....”

Shammara gathered a large handful of the princess’s long hair and yanked down on it hard. Princess Oma’s head was jerked back so she looked straight up into Shammara’s eyes with her throat completely exposed. She started to cry out, but stopped when she saw the cold glare of Shammara above her.