One Thousand Desires | ON HOLD

5 | WORTH OF THE STARS

       AFTER BATHING IN a sweet-smelling mixture of milk, honey and lavender, which left her skin feeling refreshed and softer than ever, Zeinab was doused in rose water. A pleasant redolence lingered on her skin and in her hair, making her smell of the aromatic roses in the palace garden.

Two servant girls then entered the bedroom with clothing, jewels and an ivory comb. Before she even knew what was happening, her hair was wound into a polished obsidian plait that fell over her left shoulder. They dressed her in a shamla that shimmered emerald green and finished bejewelling her neck and wrists, unable to keep their wonderment at bay. They were in absolute awe with Zeinab and seemed to be surveying her with suspicion, attempting to figure out what was so special about her.

What she had that the other wives hadn't.

At last, one of the girls held out a rose to her; the stem had been removed, and along with it, all of the thorns. The petals of deep red were all that was left—they interlaced with one another, forming what looked like a whirlpool of blood, frozen in time.

"I was permitted to pick this from the garden for your hair, my lady," she explained bashfully, weaving the rose into Zeinab's braid. "You look beautiful. I hope you survive many more nights."

She couldn't explain why, but she felt a sudden, transient wave of sympathy for the servant girl.

If not for the fear of making one wrong move—accidentally letting her real name slip, revealing that she had been coercing the Caliph of Khorashtar, or simply saying the wrong thing and angering Kadar al-Din Rumi—Zeinab would've rather enjoyed the pampering. Since her family was far from wealthy, she'd spent her entire life working long hours in the fields, tending to the crops in the hot sun.

Being treated as a queen seemed like a break from all of it.

What surprised her was walking out of her room with Sabirah, only to find herself in the presence of half a dozen guards waiting to escort her. They didn't speak; they simply bowed to her and pressed their fingertips to their brow to show their respect for her. Zeinab surveyed them suspiciously.

"What is this? I get protection?"

"It would appear so, my lady. I don't know. As I said, I've never done this before. I've never seen one of his wives live to be escorted somewhere. You are royalty now, you should be basking in all of this," Sabirah pointed out. "Besides, there are always some people—unstable in the head, mind you—that try to assassinate the caliph or calipha. We wouldn't want that for you, especially since you've... already survived the greatest threat."

The bangles on Zeinab's wrists jingled as she began to walk beside her handmaid and the guards. The bodies of each of the six men were clad in heavy armour and they had scimitars—curved swords that broadened towards the point—at their sides. The weapons made her think of King Kadar and of just how much danger she was in.

Zeinab nervously smoothed down her shamla. Seeking something to hold onto, she fidgeted with the amethyst pendant at the base of her throat. She couldn't act like this in front of him. In order to remain alive, she had to truly believe she would.

Only then would her coercion truly work, for who could convince another of something if the person in question didn't truly believe it themselves?

They strode past statues, sculptures and various other works of art. Once in a while, Zeinab's eyes trailed towards the stone pillars and granite floors, which were rose-coloured and flecked with grey. She forced her gaze forwards, directly in front of her, and attempted her very hardest to not look astonished by the ornate embellishments and sheer beauty of the palace.