Sikkiyn (Blade)

Sikkiyn
(Blade)

         Darkness coiled around them, and humid night air absorbed their hushed whispers, creating the illusion that the two weren’t really there, but perhaps only phantoms of imagination. Yet to Amir, nothing was more real than two dark eyes that searched his expectantly, or the unfaltering murmur of Kahrima’s voice. He knew she must be scared; he could tell by the way her slender, calloused fingers fidgeted with the edges of her carmine kandura, and yet here she was, crouched under the gnarled limbs of a jasmine tree, asking when she could see him again.
         A rustle erupted in a bush somewhere in the yard, and in one fluid movement she hoisted herself up and disappeared among the tree branches. Amir sat with his back against the trunk, and stared idly at his fingers, as though he had been sitting, deep in thought. The silence was filled with the pounding of hot blood rushing through his ears, and he felt a bead of sweat slowly prickle down his back. When he thought it was safe, he held out his hand to help Kahrima down. A flash of her thigh appeared as she hopped to the ground and he couldn’t help noticing the ripple of muscle, reminding him that this girl was not another puppet who expected his assistance for any sort of physical exertion.
         "Perhaps I should go."
         "Wait- " he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "I can meet you, tomorrow, at the south end of the marketplace. I will be wearing a brown robe with a patch on the right shoulder. Follow me and I will lead us somewhere safe."
         "Safe . . . " He heard the longing in her voice, the aching for them to truly be safe, but they both knew that someplace outside of the village would only be "safer." Together, they would always be in danger. "And tomorrow, you will bring some of your poetry?" She smiled, her eyes teasing.
         Amir rolled his eyes; poetry had long been strangled out of him, and it had been a mistake to tell Kahrima he had been writing again since they met. "Yes, I will bring it, but I promise you won’t be impressed." A snapping twig caused them both to flinch. "Go, Ilâ l-liqâ."
         "Good night, my Amir." She turned and soon her dark hair had evaporated into the night. He waited until he thought he heard her clear the garden wall and then stole back to the palace, a criminal in his own courtyard.
*****

         Amir sighed and stifled a yawned as he strode down the length of the long, wooden table, past the chairs that stood adorned and erect, like soldiers awaiting a general. The simultaneous footsteps of he and his brother echoed throughout the large room, and he wondered for the first time if the servants that lined the walls ever tired of this parade. When they reached the end of the table, Nu'mad took his place across from Amir, and they waited behind their chairs.
         "Out late last night, brother?" Nu'mad grumbled under his breath.
         "At least my hair doesn't betray me after a night of carousing," Amir replied as his eyes took in his brother's tousled, unkempt hair. Their eyes met and for a moment they stared into each other's almost identical faces. Amir's face held a look of scorn, almost pity; Nu'mad's, a look of rancor.
         The large doors at the end of the hall were pushed open and Amir averted his eyes from his brother’s gaze to acknowledge his father's entrance. Only when the king had been escorted to the head of the table and was situated in his chair did the brothers take their seats.
         "Saba'a AlKair," mumbled Malik Tared Rasshid. Amir responded first, as was expected, and then his brother muttered a disgruntled "good morning." Somehow Amir could not lift his intricately decorated silver fork to his mouth; the sweet mish-mish fruit glistened with juice, the spicy ejje and baharat tingled his nostrils, but nothing appetized him. Amir watched his father, taking in his sturdy posture, the rings adorning his toughened hands, symbols of the strength, intellect, and conviction of a true leader, as well as the creases in his brow, furrowed in concentration and planning for the coming day. His dark hair, once kissed with age, was now completely gray, and his skin, though the best for a man of his age, still found places to wrinkle slightly. Each crease is a tradition, etched into my father by time, Amir thought, and I could no sooner convince my father to alter this country’s tradition than I could alter his wrinkling skin. He laughed at himself for thinking such foolish thoughts and envisioned Malik Tared’s reaction to such wistful yearnings. He shook his head and started eating. He had long ago learned that such sentiments were not fit for the eldest son of a king. They ate for a while in silence, punctuated by the clinking of silverware on their ornate plates.
         "Amir, negotiations with Jahdiidstan are going well. Soon they will be offering their princess as your bride, and we can decide if we still want her." The king spoke slowly, his voice low and bumpy like an old wagon on a gravel path. Amir nodded, and dropped his fork again. The fork was too heavy; the food was too rich. He could only guess that Kahrima would be lucky for a breakfast that wouldn't be fit for Nu'mad's pet dog. Once he had let himself think of her, once he could see her face and smell the jessamine that lingered in her hair, he knew he had to leave the room. He could not sit still one more time and listen to plans of his future with another woman, two, for that matter. For though his father was working on a bride that would bring about political ties, it was his job as a prince to find and purchase a courtesan. This was supposed to ensure he would have no complaints and remain faithful to his marriage contract. Somehow he had never questioned this tradition, but he knew now that he had to find someway out of it.
         When he had met Kahrima (was it only months ago?), he had promised that he would be only hers, and he had meant it. He knew he would be driven to insanity if she hadn’t immediately vowed the same, but now his problem was to find someway to make this peasant girl his wife. If he announced that he loved her, surely she would be executed, for it was against the law for a commoner to converse with a prince, let alone charm, entertain, or fall in love with one. His thoughts were interrupted as he caught part of what his brother was discussing with the king.
         “And as I am to be marrying in a few weeks I thought it wise to make my selection of a courtesan I found to be . . . satisfactory.” Nu’mad expectorated his final word, and gave his brother a cocksure glance.
         “Ah, have you found a Abhaduram to your liking?” Abhaduram referred to a family name of the most expensive and favored concubines, most commonly chosen by the young princes. Amir knew he should not have been shocked by this, his brother was to be wedded first as his marriage was of less importance than Amir’s, and Malik Tared had found a good match in a small, neighboring country that would look good and win the grace of his subjects. Amir also knew that to Nu’mad, the marriage to such a princess, one who had not been trained to be a queen, was the final seal in his fate to remain a prince forever. It was Amir that would be king, Amir who had been born only ten months earlier, Amir who was slightly smaller and had grown up writing poems and drawing landscapes until it had been trained out of him. Amir had the instinct and business-mind of a good leader; he was confident, and he was tired of his brother’s whining and ready for him to move out of the palace. But something in his brother’s slow drawl, the flash of his eyes, made Amir’s heart race.
         “Meen, who?”
         Nu’mad turned from the king. “I found her in the village. She was not for sale as a concubine, but she was poor and I had it arranged for her to be sold to me. She is indebted to me now.”
         Amir clenched his jaw and his fingernails bore hot slivers of pain into his tightly clenched fists. “Tell us, Nu’mad, who have you found?”
         “Glad you are so interested, brother. She will be delivered to me soon, so that I may know her on the eve of my wedding. Abul is her family name. Kahrima Abul.”

*****

         Amir let out a shriek of rage as he overturned the bureau in his room, and he didn’t even flinch and shards of mirror spilled across the room, dancing in the flickering torch light. He had been too careless, and somehow his brother had learned of his secret. He cursed Nu’mad and the hate his brother had always borne him. They had never loved one another, this Amir had realized, but never had he imagined how deeply ingrained was his brother’s hate. His cruelty had no purpose; this would not bring Nu’mad any closer to the throne, yet he still lashed out to hurt Amir. How had he found out? I am a prisoner of a glass cage, Amir thought; if I do not guard my actions, soon all I have been working for will come shattering down around me.
         There was a soft knock on the door. Amir quickly sat on his bed, oblivious to the broken glass that winked at him from the cold floor. He was quick to hide his emotions; a king must always be in control. But there was a waver of anger in his voice as he announced, “Come in.”
         Nu’mad’s thick hand snaked around the door and slowly pushed it open. “Father and I were concerned, you left breakfast in such a hurry.” His voice overflowed with mock innocence. “He thought I should see if you were ok. Is anything the matter, dear brother?” He smiled maliciously and turned to go. Amir leapt up shut the door in one agile movement, grabbing his brother by the shoulders.
         “I am not the fool here, you are.” Amir stared into his brother’s eyes, his passion causing his voice to tremble. The pain that tremored through his veins seemed to beg him to tear his brother down, and watch him writhe in anguish. “I won’t do anything, do you understand? She will. She will kill herself before she will be yours.”
         “She cannot kill herself without a weapon, she cannot hurt herself within a cage. And you, brother, may do nothing except feel her pain. For certainly she is not the only one who has sworn her love. Or did I only imagine you cared for more than her looks? She is a beauty, is she not?” He winked, wrenched himself free of his brother’s grasp, and strode unapprehended out the door.
         Amir sank to the bed, his head clasped in his hands. He thought of all his years of discipline and schooling, of all he had hoped to be for his country . . .  And it came up short. Nothing surpassed his desire to rescue Kahrima, to have her for his own until they both grew old and their children had children. The country did not need Amir, he knew he would feel complete without the hundreds of servants and fancy dinners, without the hours spent signing documents put together by his staff, without the suits and the formal addresses. It seemed so simple; he would take Kahrima, and they would leave. The thoughts seemed to flick through his head in fast motion, he was throwing clothes in a bag as he saw her running with him through back alleys, hitchhiking across the desert mountains and plains; he knew she would go with him. But he must get to her soon; Kahrima was not a girl to sit around and wait to be rescued. As he had spoken to his brother, he had realized how true his statement had been; Kahrima would  kill herself before becoming someone’s property.
         Amir froze. He could not save Kahrima and still save face, so he was willing to run away with her. But that left Nu’mad. Nu’mad would inherit the throne.
         Amir tried not to care, he tried to keep planning his escape from the country, but he could not leave his country to his brother. Nu’mad would sign every paper any council threw at him, as long as he profited in some way. Peasants would be taxed if Nu’mad wanted to throw a party, children would be killed to teach their parents to work harder if the farms did not produce efficiently. Amir could not suppress his love for his country, which he felt a sort of fathership towards. He could run but he could not hide from the fate of his people, and he was instilled with a desire for their well-fare.
         He thought of his cousin, Matik, who was next in succession should he and Nu’mad have been unfit to rule. Amir knew Matik would rule with all the justice in his power, and he would take the council seriously and elect its members for merit and not popularity. Matik could be trusted, and unlike Nu’mad, Matik would not have Amir chased down, for while conceiving his plan, Amir had been subconsciously aware that the biggest obstacle would be to get around Nu’mad. His brother, once in power, would want to have the last laugh, and would surely want Kahrima. Even if he did manage to get her out from under Nu’mad’s watch, which had undoubtedly already been established, they would have to evade him for the rest of their lives, always fearing his reprisals for escaping.
         It was two days until the wedding; one day until Kahrima’s first night as Nu’mad’s courtesan.
         Amir knew what he had to do, and began to carefully sweep up the splinters of mirror that lay scattered on the floor.

*****

         Kahrima stared out the window at the moon, straining to see through the rusting metal bars. The chains dug at her wrists and ankles, and the links were speckled with blood from her struggle. She shut her eyes tightly and two tears slivered down her cheeks as she remembered the men who had roughly yanked her from her home in the village and informed her that she was property of the prince. How angry she had been, how mad at Amir; he had promised she would be his equal, and his solution had been to buy her? But her bitterness had been replaced with horror when Nu’mad has entered, and tenderly clamped the corroding manacles on her wrists. She had fought, only to be thrown into this cage. Then there had been the young servant, ordered to search her for weapons or drugs, no doubt for Nu’mad to confiscate and use for his pleasure. The boy must have been new; he was unsure and had been embarrassed to search too thoroughly.
         Kahrima took a deep breath and reached with her hands into the folds of her kandura, withdrawing her one item of protection; a dull, knife, whose blade matched the length of her hand, from her wrist to her fingertips. “Nu’mad should learn to do his dirty work himself,” she muttered to the still, night air. She was not sure where Amir was, or if he even knew where she was, but she pushed away the doubts that circled in her mind like vultures, waiting for a moment of weakness. She shook her head, as if to literally drive the thoughts away. “He loves me,” she whispered. “He loves me.” She gripped the blade firmly in her hand and stood, facing the door.
         “I’m waiting,” she taunted the night.

*****

         The jolt of the door being unbolted awakened her. Her head swam and for a second reality seemed to have a hard time settling in her mind. Her heart began to pound as she perceived the world around her, the moonlight streaming in, the metal securing clenched in her right hand. Her breathing came faster as the door creaked open, and she knew immediately that his was no guard sent to search her down; it was Nu’mad.

         He would be strong, no doubt, and she knew that if she ever wanted to see Amir again she had to do it before he had unchained her, when she could catch him by surprise. She could not breathe for one horror-stricken second as the thought seized her mind; what if he doesn’t unchain me? But clinking of the small keys and a glint of silver that caught the moonlight reassured her. She walked slowly to the bars, and turned her back to him. She bent her knees slighty, and held her hands out behind her back for him to unlock them through the bars.

         She closed her eyes, and thought of Amir. She listened for his breathing, and when she could feel it on the back of her neck, she thrust the blade back into flesh and stood all the way up, dragging the blade as she went. She turned to grab the keys through the bars before he fell, and the light streaming in through the window illuminated Amir’s face, frozen in surprise.
         
         Kahrima screamed and knelt beside the fallen figure. His voice was broken and gurgled as she slipped her chained hands under her legs and reached for him, through the metal bars. Her fingers barely glanced his cheek, and he struggled to pull her into focus. “I love...”
         Salty tears pooled on her lips and wavered on her jaw, before spilling down onto her outstretched hands. The chains groaned against the bars as she reached for the keys, still clasped in Amir’s hand. She became frantic, and pounded the cage with her enchained wrists, until sobs wrenched her body and she could only gasp for air. She shuddered with calming sighs and her eyes rested on the blade that lay in a splatter of blood. She turned to the bars and reached for the keys one last time, but Amir’s lifeless hand was frozen and he could not help her. Her arms were long enough, she knew it, but the chains that bound them would not allow her to attain her freedom.
         She looked once more upon his face, and vowed that no chain installed by man could keep her from him. With manacle-clad hands, she leaned forward, and grasped the knife.