Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 4

          With the shutters barred, the night's breeze was denied the disturbance of this fledgling new family of mine; it was more effective now that my years of service to Mu'awiyah were rewarded with relocation to a more prestigious wing in the palace and quarters of greater space. The superior quarters were not the only gift bestowed upon me by the master of the household, however.

I traced a finger through my boy's thick dark hair, but he shied away. Sa'ad, his mother called him. Mine was a recurring fear that Sa'ad would emerge soft and weak, sheltered within palace confines and indulging in the trappings of luxury and docility. Indeed, he seemed to be intimidated by me. He would rarely meet my eyes or answer to my call and touch, preferring to shy away or cringe at my instructions.

Those were not traits shared by his mother, however. Hafsa, she was named. Mu'awiyah had us wed four years prior, a sort of consolation to 'Abd al-Ka'aba's unfortunate...mishap. She was said to be of fine stock; a chaste Muslim woman of fine lineage. A noble match indeed, a most generous one offered by Mu'awiyah. He even paid her family the dowry for the marriage.

However, the woman turned out to be far too opinionated for her own good. Unlike Zaynab, she would not be easily cowed. Though she did share her piety, hers was more rigid, less prone to reducing her to pathetic tears. Hafsa's brazen glare defied all attempts to subjugate her or to impose my own authority. There was an intelligence to her eyes that reminded me of Sumayya; that made me resent her all the more.

"You've taught the boy to fear me," I accused her now. We barely spoke but to reprimand one another. "He flinches at my touch."

Hafsa scoffed. "Your own actions reflect you as a monster even in the eyes of those dearest to you."

"No. You've turned him weak and soft. He ought not show fear. He is a man."

"He fears only his creator. As is proper."

I shook my head, weary from the weight of this world. We had returned from Cyprus days before, but that night long ago, the sudden reemergence of Qasim and his band of dark robed men yet haunted my thoughts. It triggered the nightmares once more.

Foul dreams of the night I was forced to watch the half-beast Zayn ibn Yazid, the boy they called the Crow, hurt my son. 'Abd al-Ka'aba's eyes in the dream were accusing, overflowing with disappointment that I put him in harm's way. I was consumed with the prospect of capturing Qasim that I paid not heed to the safety of my own flesh and blood. And now he was short two ears for it.

There were other dreams as well. The severed finger, pale and rotting, wrapped in cloth. Who did it belong to? It made no matter. My children were suffering for my very being. Perhaps I ought to drive a sword through my heart to spare them the life of cruelty and constant ache that was forced upon me. That would certainly count as outmaneuvering my enemies. Qasim and Zayn would not be expecting that.

I wiped the sweat off my brow, remembering another nightmare that left me sleepless on the journey back to Damascus. The shrill screams of the villager I burned echoed in my head, the gruesome crackling of the flames as they consumed his chin and face, finally succumbing to a brutal end. The pleading eyes of helpless men and women that were shown no succor, the blaze and blood reflected off them as their final words were those begging for mercy.

I would wake from my dreams sweating and panting. When my breath calmed and I regained my wits, I would look around, surveying the chamber I shared with Hafsa, wearing a scowl on my face.

I was yet in Damascus, the seat of the governor of the Levant. Serving a man who did not trust me. A man most untrustworthy. A man who betrayed me.