Threads of Gold

One | ایک

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The whisper of smoke rose and curled around her.

Long raven locks hung along the marble edge, the smoulder of sandalwood sighing against the ends. The heat of the burner against her spine was routine. Behind her, she felt Nusrat gather her hair then glide a ruby-encrusted comb through the dark-as-night waves that breathed whiffs of spice into the air.

She sensed the bumbling of shoulders and twitching of hands before Nusrat even voiced her hesitation, "Are you sure this is the best course of action, especially so soon?"

Her hands were skimming the surface of the milk she was submerged in and she sunk in thought, too, of how to best approach the situation without appearing cold. Her people couldn't bear the notion that maybe now she was in control. The world seemed awfully scared of women in power. She softly scoffed and nodded, "It is for the better. I know it may come across as frigid and hasty but if Allah has instructed us not to mourn too long, who am I to do the opposite?"

Nusrat's hand paused mid-stroke, "Beshak but he was your Abu Jaan, Shehzadi."

"He was also the Badshah of Sherqul, and as his daughter, it falls to me to see that this kingdom doesn't crumble and a new monarch is appointed immediately." After a pointed look from Nusrat, she pacified, "And I do miss him dearly." The latter was debatable but she didn't need Nusrat pestering her with her worrying and questioning her conscience, more than she already did. She knew she struck sense as soon as she saw her handmaiden sigh and finish detangling her hair.

With that, the shehzadi of Sherqul stood from her bath and signalled Nusrat to call in her other handmaids. It was time to get ready.

✸ ✸ ✸

Donned in a blend of cotton and silk, the beaded bodice of her kurta was made-to-measure her waist. The sharara wrapped her in shades of mulberry and wine, her secondary preferences when it came to colours since she surmised that wearing her first would, in all likelihood, send the wrong message to the public she was soon to address.

How frowned upon it would be to wear red three days after one's father died. She couldn't say she cared much about what others thought of her as long as she obtained what her heart desired but she knew that her cards had to be played right if she was to get what she wanted. And what she wanted wasn't bizarre either because to her, it was natural to yearn for the crown, the throne. The takht o taaj, and all the power that would come with it.

Her thoughts faded away when she felt Huma, one of her maids, rub her lips against a succulent pomegranate seed to redden the mouth. A clunk sounded from her sides as another took her wrists, perfumed the insides with drops of jasmine-scented oil and slid on a pair of gold kangans. Then, a richly coloured peacock feather brushed gold dust along her cheekbones, bronze skin shimmering under the incandescence of the candles.

She held up a hand and every soul in the room paused, then stepped away for they all knew that their shehzadi would never let another finish her beauty regime. She coated her lashes in kohl, darkening the edges. The kajal lining her eyes made them appear a shade warmer than the innate unflinching black. Her last addition was the diamond maang tikka resting on her forehead.

She looked at herself in the mirror she was seated in front of, and surveyed her straight spine and raised chin, the glitter of embellishments and lustre of her hair. Her mouth tilted up to the right as she remembered how good it felt to stare at her reflection. It had always made her passionate and she couldn't imagine what else was of utmost importance for what she was intending to do, if not passion.

A knock sounded at the entrance and upon her instruction, Huma opened the door to present the royal advisor, Labib, briskly making his way towards the princess. With a swift hand to the heart, tense shoulders and bend of his head, he greeted her, "Salaam, Shehzadi."

She gave a satisfied nod at his show of respect and murmured back the response. Rising from the plush vanity stool of velvet, she faced him and asked, "Is court ready?"
"Yes, and an audience has gathered as well."
Upon hearing that she would be addressing multitudes, she turned and jauntily sauntered towards the door, leaving spinning whirls of chartreuse silk in her wake and hints of jasmine in the air.

Labib knew he had to express the concerns of the court and it was in her best interest that he tell her now. He began, "Shehzadi?"

She paused under the sandstone arch of her doorway. It was indication enough for him to continue, "Some of the elders were thinking that it might be best for someone other than yourself to brief the public on the new order of things. At least the first time they hear from the mehal after your abu's passing."

Stiff backed and stone-faced, still turned away from her advisor, she asked in a cutting voice, "So you suggest that I don't show my face to my own people. Do you want them to think I am abandoning them?" Abandoning my birthright? She wanted to vocalize her afterthought but it would have further provided those who wished to see her fail with more ammunition against her. It was vital that it appeared as though she was doing this solely for the civilians and not her own benefit. She never understood how anyone could expect kindness and care from others if they couldn't be kind to themselves first. She promised that she would put herself before others in a world where many did not.

Labib floundered for words and quickly said, "Of course not, Shehzadi, but I do think it would be best if you were with Hashim or me."

With that, she spun the upper half of her body around to face him and smiled a smile so achingly sweet that it was alarming. She broke the hush that had fallen over all the maids in the room with, "Who said anything about me going alone? Hashim will be present. As will you."

Hashim Iqbal. Skilled in combat and flawed in flattery, the commander of Sherqul's army and a general official in her court. He seemed taken by the shehzadi and she couldn't blame him. Hashim wasn't atrocious to look at and had a peaceful heart despite what his job required of him. Consequently, she lost interest. His sweet words and shy glances were a letdown, they weren't enough. But then again, she believed that nothing and no one could ever be truly enough for her.

She supposed she would have to take on the world as a solitary storm.

Labib was exhaling his relief and about to voice his gratitude to her for taking the sidelines when she continued, "Needless to say that you both will be standing behind me in the background. Something about moral support helping the message translate better."

She slightly shook her head, as if she couldn't help but rid herself of the ridiculous notion. Retrieving her dupatta from the wooden armoire, she placed it over her head to veil her ebony strands under the flash of intricate beadwork that caught the light, making Zartasha Fahim; Shehzadi of Sherqul and keeper of her arduous city, Gulzaan, glint under the weight of her intentions and from the fire fueling her passions.

Looking over her shoulder, she arched a groomed, dark brow and chimed out a question for the aged man, "Well, are you coming or was that just a momentary lapse in your judgment to waste my time?"

She didn't suppress her grin at the sound of shuffling feet behind her speeding up in efforts to catch up with her as she breezed towards the courtyard through the soft grandeur of the mehal.

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How was it? I'd love to hear your thoughts!!

I enjoyed writing this chapter so I'm just going to go with the flow and try to get a chapter out as frequently as I can. When I decide on a schedule that works best for me, I'll let you all know.

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