"Yes, the amir is going away again. They say he is going to Byzantium."
"He is," I told her, "and I am to go with him."
The light went out of her eyes as if snuffed by a cold wind. Misery enveloped her like a robe. "Why must you go?"
"I am sorry, my love," I said, reaching for her. She pulled away.
"Why?"
"It was the price for my friends' freedom," I said, adding, "and for my own."
"And you agreed to this?"
"I would have agreed to anything. Yes, I told him I would go."
"It was wrong of Lord Sadiq to treat you in such a callous manner." She leapt up. "I will go to him at once and make him see that he cannot do this."
"No, Kazimain," I stood, and held out my hand to her. "No. It must be this way. The amir needs me with him in Byzantium, and the need is such that he would have taken me with him anyway. I made the best bargain I could."
"It was wrong to make you choose!" she insisted.
"I have other reasons-" I confessed, "reasons of my own for going."
"Reasons that do not include me," she said accusingly.
"Yes," I replied. "It is difficult, I know. But I am content."
"Well, I am not!" she snapped. Her lower lip quivered, and unshed tears shimmered in her eyes.
I moved closer and put my arms around her; she nestled her head against my shoulder, and we stood for a long moment holding one another. "I am sorry, Kazimain," I whispered, stroking her long hair. "I wish it were otherwise."
"If you are going, then I will go, too." She warmed to the idea instantly. "I will go with you. We can be together and you can show me the city, and-"
"No, my love." It hurt me to dash her quick-kindled hope. "It is too dangerous."
"For me it is too dangerous, but not for you?"
"I would not go at all if need did not compel me," I answered. "If I had my way I would stay here with you forever."
She shrugged my hands from her shoulders and stepped away, looking at me sadly. When she spoke, her voice was soft almost to breaking. "If you go, I know I will never see you again."
"I will come back," I insisted, but the words lacked conviction against her sorrow. "I will."
Dinner that night was meant to be a festive affair with singing, dancing, and music. Lord Sadiq reclined on cushions at the head of the long, low table with his wives, who fed him choice morsels from the various plates and platters and bowls which the kitchen servants conveyed to the banqueting room in an unfaltering stream.
I dined with Faysal and several of the amir's closest friends; across from us sat the women, who, since it was a festive meal, were invited to eat at table with the men, instead of in the women's apartments. The conversation was light and polite, with much laughter all around. Clearly, everyone was enjoying the farewell banquet. For me, however, the feast was more in the nature of an ordeal: sitting opposite Kazimain, knowing how unhappy she was, enduring her silent reproaches, and unable to cheer her or ease the burden of her sadness or even to explain myself.
The food was lavish and luxurious, and had been prepared in such a way as to delight all the senses; still, it might have been ashes in my mouth for all the joy it gave me. The music, playing soft and low through the meal, and becoming more lively once we had finished and lay back to watch the dancers, seemed interminable and grating.
Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed dinner and music, savouring the strange otherness of tastes and sounds, but in my downcast mood I merely grew fretful and uneasy. I wanted to flee the room and spend the last moments with Kazimain, alone. I wanted to hold her, to love her. I wanted to feel the softness of her skin, to feel her warm and yielding flesh in my arms. I wanted to tell her…Alas, there was so much I wanted to tell her, I could not think. My mind spun anxiously; my thoughts whirled like leaves in a tempest, and I could get no peace.
And then, when the meal was finished and the last of the dancers departed, the women rose from the table and disappeared through a door on the far side of the room.
I made to follow, but Faysal laid a hand on my arm. "They go to the harim," he informed me good-naturedly, "where no man is permitted-not even moon-eyed lovers."
"But I must speak to Kazimain," I insisted.
He shrugged. "Tomorrow you will speak to her."
Tomorrow will be too late, I thought, and followed the women out of the room. They crossed a torch-lit courtyard and disappeared behind a high door. The harim guard bowed his head respectfully at my approach, but made no move to step aside. "I wish to speak to Kazimain," I told him.
"You will wait here, please," he said in a soft, almost feminine voice. The guard returned a few moments later to say that Kazimain did not wish to speak to me.
"Did you tell her who asked to see her?" I challenged.
"I told her," replied the guard. "Princess Kazimain expressed her inestimable regret, and wished her future husband a good night."
