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“Hush, old woman,” Raheem replied, although his tone was gentle. “If her head is injured, the last thing she needs is your special ‘medicine.’ She’ll be drunk after two sips and then her head will hurt even more.”
“Ah, but it eases the aches and pains in this old body,” Shiraza protested. “Surely a measure of it in her tea will do her good. I always gave you a rag dipped in my medicine to suck on when you were teething,” she added, turning to Bree. “You slept like…” Her voice trailed off.
“If you’re going to say ‘slept like the dead,’ it’s as well you didn’t finish,” Bree replied tartly. “I think I’ve slept like the dead long enough for one day.”
Raheem chuckled.Apparently I speak this language fluently as well as understanding it.
“By your leave, Your Highness,” he murmured, scooping Bree up in his arms. He rose effortlessly and headed down the path, followed by Shiraza, who was still spouting orders.
Nice hallucination. This is like one of those past-life regressions I’ve always been scornful about. Isn’t it strange that no one ever remembers a life where they were begging on the street or scrubbing chamber pots?
From her new vantage point, Bree could see much more of her surroundings. Raheem headed for a long stone building bordering one side of the huge garden. The whitewashed walls would have been blinding in sunlight, but they were shaded by a portico stretching the length of the building, with curtained doorways evenly spaced all along the way. Purple bougainvillea twined around carved columns holding up the tile roof. Square stone pavers in warm shades of apricot and honey covered the floor.
Raheem stepped onto the terrace. Bree was amazed at how much cooler it felt in the shade of the portico. Out of the relentless glare of the sun, she could finally open her eyes without pain spearing her head.
She studied the man carrying her. He looked to be middle-aged, but he was strong as an ox. He strode along, breathing easily, as though she weighed no more than an infant. They stopped before one of the doorways, and Shiraza scurried ahead to pull aside the floor-length curtains.
Raheem carried her into a large square room with a high ceiling. The walls on three sides were made of stone the color of rich cream, adorned with frescoes of green fields parted by a winding river that emptied into an enormous deep blue lake. Herons and egrets balanced on impossibly thin legs in the shallows, while a herd of what looked like antelope grazed nearby. Palm trees and delicate flowers dotted the shoreline.
Behind her, a row of fabric-draped arches opened onto the terrace. From outside, the long white curtains blocked the view into the room. But from the inside, they were nearly transparent, allowing the occupants to enjoy the magnificent garden while shielding them from the eyes of those outside. She’d never seen a fabric like it.
The floor was made of blocks of mellow pink stone, polished until they gleamed. In one corner, a large statue stood on a raised stone platform. A female deity, she decided. The statue was surrounded by floral bouquets. Metal bowls gleamed like gold at the statue’s feet, overflowing with exotic fruit and huge chunks of what she recognized as the rarest frankincense, a pale-amber hue that was nearly translucent.
Carved wooden chairs, stools, and small round tables were grouped here and there. Raheem deposited Bree gently on a piece of furniture shaped like a Victorian fainting couch. The frame was carved from dark wood and the seat upholstered in a woven fabric that reminded her of the Oriental rugs sold in the marketplaces.
But the workmanship far surpassed the simple rugs turned out by armies of children slaving away in Middle Eastern rug factories. An intricate design of colorful flowers and birds on the turquoise-blue center was bordered by a pattern of geometric shapes in a soft thick weave. Bree sank back, grateful for the comfort after hours lying on the hard ground.
Shiraza had drawn Raheem into a corner of the room. She was whispering to him, darting nervous looks at Bree every few words. Raheem nodded. He came to her, bent down on one knee, and bowed his head before silently leaving the room.
“Raheem will send a servant with your tea. Then he’ll stand guard outside the door to make certain no one else enters.” Shiraza looked worried, but Bree could see she was trying hard to hide her concern by jabbering away. “My lady must rest. I will prepare your attire for the ceremony myself. When you are ready, your attendants can enter to apply the henna and kohl. These old hands shake too much to draw the elaborate designs required tonight.”
Shiraza fell to her knees alongside Bree, giving way to tears. “Oh, my precious babe, my lady, my queen! I pray that your soul will be returned to your body soon. You have a long journey ahead of you and an important task to fulfill. Your people depend on you.” She laid her head in Bree’s lap, sobbing.
Queen? Whoever Shiraza thought Bree was, the person was very dear to her heart. She found herself stroking the old woman’s back, reassuring her.
“I’ll be fine, Shiraza. Do not fear. But you need to help me remember. Who am I? And where am I going on this long journey?”
The old lady began wailing again. Bree was sorry she’d spoken. “Hush, Shiraza. Everyone will hear you and want to know why you’re making such a racket.”
The warning stilled Shiraza’s outburst. She stopped crying and wiped her eyes on the trailing sleeve of her robe. “You are right, my lady. This old servant has given way to foolish behavior. We must maintain the illusion that all is well. I will tell your attendants I was overcome with sadness. You are going away for so long, on such a perilous journey. Alas, I cannot accompany you. I must remain here, my lady, to watch over your kingdom. Raheem and I and your devoted royal guards will protect the throne and see that your cousin Qatif does not become full of himself and attempt to usurp your power.”
Shiraza stopped. A look of cunning came into her eyes. “Do you think it was Qatif who went to the evil djinn and bribed him to steal your soul? We can see that he disappears when next the moon is dark in the sky. I never trusted that man – or the Nabatean whore your cousin brought home who gave birth to him.” Shiraza spat again. Bree decided there must be a team of servants assigned to follow Shiraza around, judging from the otherwise immaculate condition of the stone floor.
“My soul has not been stolen, Shiraza. Only my memory from the bump on my head, and that I am sure is temporary. But I need your help. Will you pretend I am a stranger who has just arrived here? Surely you told me stories as a child. Tell me a story now…a story of this queen you say I am.”
Shiraza nodded eagerly. “Yes, my lady. I can give you back your memories. The evil djinn leftmymind unharmed. I will weave a tale to bind your head together until your soul is restored.”
One of the long curtains was pulled aside, and Raheem strode into the room, followed by two young women barely out of their teens. They were dressed in short white tunics cinched at the waist with delicate beaded belts. Each girl wore her shiny dark hair in a simple braid that hung halfway down her back.
Moving silently in their flat leather sandals, they walked with bowed heads and downcast eyes, each carrying a silver tray. One held an ornate metal pot and two small cups without handles. The other was piled with covered clay dishes. The servants bowed then deposited the trays on a low wooden table near her seat.
Shiraza waved them away and started uncovering the dishes. Despite her throbbing head, the enticing odors roused Bree’s appetite. She suddenly realized she hadn’t eaten since she choked down that dry sandwich for lunch. Was it only yesterday? It felt like she’d been in this strange world for weeks.
Whatever her mental state, the hunger and thirst were real. When Shiraza held out a single red grape, cooing to her, Bree opened her mouth and allowed the nursemaid to feed her like a baby. The burst of juicy sweetness was a balm to her parched throat.
Shiraza nodded happily. “Try a morsel of this, my lady. It was always your favorite as a child – unborn lamb gently roasted, stuffed with figs and nuts from your garden and rice brought here by the caravans.”
The old woman fed Bree, tasting a bite from each dish before offering it from her fingers. Occasionally she frowned and pushed a plate aside, declaring it to be too spicy or undercooked. Finally, she stopped and poured a cup of the fragrant mint tea.
