The Serpent's Veil

Wicked Whispers

A stack of documents rose from the Caliph's desk like a towering minaret, casting a long shadow across the room. Shiny wax seals were stamped on every report, beckoning the Caliph to the business of the treasury, orders of weapons from the smithies, the state of the wheat crop, the latest findings of the academics, and the concerns of his most ordinary citizens.

But his mind was currently drawn to the letter in his hand. It was a small scroll, barely the width of his thumb, and bore no seal. The message was short, written in half sentences and bursts of thought. It was a cry for aid from the governor of Rey, the eastern stronghold of the Caliphate.

The seeds of rebellion had begun to sprout much faster than he had anticipated, flooding the city with chaos and riots, upending the lives of laymen who had no interest in the rise and fall of empires, only of their daily bread and business. It would have to be quelled with a powerful and defining stroke, with no room for error or doubt.

The Caliph pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and tapped his inky quill on the side to begin writing. He trusted only three men to deal with this situation, one was himself, one his vizier, and the third his crown prince. After penning the short message he set his quill aside and rang for his clerk, who appeared like a spectre from the shadows, silent and ready to serve.

"Yes, Sayyidi?"

He handed the clerk the letter. "Send a runner, time is of the essence."

The clerk bowed and glided out of the room, like he was moving backwards in time, and in an instant the Caliph was alone again. He turned his attention to the pile of paperwork on his desk with a resigned sigh.

It seems that more often than not, a king's weapon is his seal, not his sword, he thought as he dipped his ring into a crucible of molten, blood-red wax and pressed it into the first document — a request for funds to purchase two hundred new war horses.

For what war, the Caliph didn't know.

X

The guard manning the doors to the Calipha's solar nearly jumped when the Prince emerged on the landing of the spiral staircase. He raked a hand through his thick curls, a faint smile on his lips as he dipped his chin in greeting and pushed open the doors to his mother's private hall. The solar was washed in peach and sky blue hues from the crystal lanterns hanging along the windows. The fresh scent of jallab and sweet meats filled Rehan's nostrils. It had been a long time since he'd leisurely dined with his mother without interruption on some court business or an urgent summons from his father.

The Calipha was busy pouring tea, a job more suited to a servant than a queen. She tilted her head up at Rehan's footsteps.

"Ah, just in time!" She rose to her full height, plump cheeks a rosy pink, and opened her arms to embrace her son. They sat opposite each other on low chairs draped with rich pashminas. Tendrils of steam rose from a platter of thinly sliced venison, accompanied by fattoush and saffron rice. Roasted eggplant, cool mint yoghurt, honey-glazed koftas, and fried sweet potatoes — each dish beckoned to Rehan's senses.

"Mama, I love you," he said with a grin, and began heaping spoonfuls of everything into his plate.

Arwi rolled her eyes, waiting for him to finish serving himself before she followed suit. "How was your diplomatic meeting? I heard—"

"No, no discussing politics," he said through a mouthful of food, nearly choking. "Anything but that."

The Calipha's cheeks ached from holding in her laugh. "Okay, okay..." she swished her cup of jallab, sending the ice clinking against the silver. Her kohl lined eyes took on a teasing gleam. "How is everything with your new woman?"