Threads of Gold

Seven | سات

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Like a phantom spell climbing up one's spine, calling their essence forth only to capture it in its chilling hold, the Hyderi mehal was drawing near as the sawari from Gulzaan was approaching forth. There was a tinkling rapture in Qalmazar's sands that was enough to make civilians delirious but the dread began to bleed into their hearts as soon as the Sultan's residence became visible. The palatial stones tiered into turrets whilst daunting domes loomed overhead.

Under the scorching Kalthuran sun, all Zartasha could think about seated inside her palanquin of cherry-shaded velvet and layered gilt was whether she would become a tortured puppet in this city or be able to return as the governing puppeteer of her own land.

Through her slitted window, the shehzadi spotted rows of crooked wooden poles upholding sheets of cotton; the tops of some rising to a point, while others tilted flat. Tents wove into one another. The canopied ones resembling a sea of jewels with their vivid colours.  Zartasha was watching the eagerness of vendors sharpen to adorn their shining customers from a few meters away when suddenly, an idea came to the forefronts of her shrewd mind.

Who said you couldn't have your fun in another's domain?

And so the Malka-to-be tapped her decorated fingers twice against the roof of her tusk-coloured palanquin as an indication that she required a stop. When sturdy shoulders lowered her shahi sawari to the ground, she exited it and ordered the Sherquli soldiers to stay in place as she was only retrieving a cup of water from the kind-faced spice trader that sat in front of them. It should have been expected that was not what Zartasha aimed to do when she had left the journeying structure but she supposed there was no cure for the witless.

Turning back around to face her guards and pair of personal handmaids, the shehzadi curved her lips into a docile smile of falsities then disappeared into the jummah bazaar upon their next blink.

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The people of the city were staring at her, children peering over their guardian's shoulders to get a longing look at the walking display of royalty. Zartasha was embodying emerald envy, gold hanging from her limbs as embellishments and unperturbed confidence bubbling under her skin as she strutted forward in search of locating a specific tent she had viewed from inside her palanquin earlier.

When the shehzadi caught sight of the small jamni canopy, she hurried her footsteps towards it and entered, the flap lifting with her arrival.

Inside, incense burned and only women were permitted. Sitting on a thick pile of intricate carpets was an elderly vendor. Her hands looked toughened, indentations permanently carved into her skin from the tasbeeh in her hand, and her mouth was moving with murmurs of worship. Zartasha shifted her scrutinizing gaze when the aged woman slowly and lowly uttered out, "Aao."

The purveyor cast the almost-queen a pointed look, eyes dipping down to the few frayed cushions placed in front of her. The shehzadi was disgusted at the seat the old woman unspokenly directed her towards so she crossed her arms and stood standing to flout, after which she quickly said, "O bibi, I don't have any time to spare for formalities. I saw a sign stating that you have merchandise for the parda nasheen."

The devout vendor gently set her tasbeeh aside and rose from her mundane throne of threads to address the soon-to-be Malka, "Yes, I sell coverings for the modest," then the aged woman craned her neck, sunken eyes gleamed with suspecting inquisition as she continued, "but you don't seem like you care for it."

Zartasha knew where her faith stood. She didn't understand why a woman was always the one to be judged for her clothes as if that was a true depiction of her connection with Allah. This religious insecurity was years old, now the judgement was more irritating than piercing so she spoke, "Never mind whether I care for it, do you have a burka I can purchase?"