The Serpent's Veil

Prayer

One hundred and eighty leagues away, a caravan prepared to stop in the shade of a looming cliff. A contingent of soldiers led the pack, dressed in light weight armour that blended with the landscape well. Their horses were the biggest and the most resilient of the bunch – towering Akhal-Tekes with shiny, glistening coats of chestnut and bay. Far behind them were the supply carts carrying food, water, clothes, tents, and weapons. Then came the dignitaries and nobles – either officers of the court, or wealthy merchants and businessmen sitting in palanquins carried by massive barrel-chested men, forming a wall which separated the nobles from the common pilgrims.

Hidden among horses and carts and a swarm of people an unadorned palanquin was set on the ground. The first man who emerged from it was broad shouldered and of a towering stature. It was a miracle he could fit in the little palanquin at all. He wore a faded orange turban, his favourite, and had his mouth turned down at the corners. His skin was patchy and stained by the sun's unrelenting rays, making him look all the more menacing. His robes were a dull brown; economical, unadorned.

The second man was smaller, but much more imposing. He had an immaculately groomed moustache which curled slightly at the ends, and a warm smile on his face. His attire was dyed jet black.

"Don't look so grim, Khalid. More than half the toil is done." The shorter man's smile widened as he patted his friend's back. The servants who had been holding the palanquin were now assembled shoulder to shoulder in front of the two men, their heads bowed in respect.

"Rise. Go replenish yourselves."

The men rose and dispersed as if they had practised it a hundred times. When the two men turned to walk, a woman appeared out of thin air with two goblets of cool water and dried fruits on a silver tray. The men took the refreshments without so much as a glance to the girl, and continued on their way. All around them men dismounted their horses and began pulling out supplies from the saddles – fruits and bread, flasks with water and juice, fresh clothes and veils for the women, sweets for the children. It was time to rest. Soon enough the tents would be set up for the night.

"The men are too lax. Just because last year's Hajj was blessed with safe passage does not mean this one will be the same," Khalid said, his eye keenly seeking out someone in the crowd as he spoke.

"The men have more faith than you, Khalid," his companion said jokingly. Khalid raised his eyebrows, shocked to have his faith questioned, but the man simply chuckled. "Relax, my friend. For now, at least, when we are not on the move."

Khalid sighed, but the grim lines of his face remained unchanged. "I hope our sons are not frolicking. Yahya is beginning to pick up the Prince's bad habits." Khalid quickly caught himself. "Meaning no offence to you, Sayyidi al-Mansur." He bowed his head in reverence.

The Caliph of Arabia simply grinned. "Mecca will tame him, I'm sure."

Ж

The sun beat down on Khaya's back with all the ferocity of an open flame. Her sweat-soaked qamis clung to her skin, and her face blazed beneath the hood covering her head. Her arms were bound with a thin, coarse rope that bit into her wrists. With a little effort she probably could have snapped it, but seeing as she had no plan for what to do after her hands were free and her hood was removed, she didn't bother.

The Bedouin had thrown her on the back of his best horse like a sack of grain, and tied her to it, along with his own luggage. At first she had struggled against him, but it didn't take long for her to realise it was a fight she could never hope to win. And so she let him drag her through the sand, his deed shadowed by the safe cover of the night. The cool night air had been pleasant, and the ride had been more or less smooth, but now, as the sun reached its peak in the sky, Khaya felt like she was melting in an inferno. She hadn't eaten since the previous evening.