The Serpent's Veil

Dreams of Colour

________

In the bright firelight the Prince looked fearsome, his black and red kaftan billowing around him like a suit of armour, chest bare and broad, sword brandished, poised as if to strike Khaya down. She did it for him, knees buckling as she fell to the ground, fatigue suddenly twisting around her limbs.

"Prince Rehan!" someone called out.

Khaya looked up and made to stand, but a hand closed on the back of her neck and held her down. A pair of arms seized each of her wrists, pulling them back with such force she let out a shrill cry. Panic rose in her like a desert wind picking up speed, and she shot the Prince a wide-eyed, pleading look. She was certain their eyes met for an instant, but he pretended not to look, instead turning to where the dead snake lay in the sand. The jewelled hilt of his dagger glittered even in the dim light. He bent down and pulled it out, inspected it closely, and wiped away the blood with his kaftan. He looked at Khaya again, and sauntered towards her. A group of observers was slowly forming around the clearing, and whispers filled Khaya's ears, softer than before, but ever present.

The Prince waved a hand at the guards restraining Khaya, beckoning them to follow him into a small red tent. They yanked her up by the scruff of her collar, catching her hair painfully in their grip, and dragged her across the sand. At first she struggled, but they only tightened their fingers around her, stopping the blood in her veins completely. As soon as the tent flaps closed around them they threw her to the ground, her body thudding against the thin carpet. Other than a few chairs and a table with some papers splayed on it the tent was bare. The Prince was sitting on a high backed chair, legs splayed out, elbows resting on the armrests. His kaftan framed his body beautifully, as if draped on an elegant statue. In candlelight his features were drawn too severely – cheeks too hollow, eyes too stern. The muscles of his torso were taut, even as he sucked in a deep breath.

"Bring the Vizier," he said, voice low and heavy with fatigue. Or was it disinterest? Khaya could not tell.

All three of the guards left, leaving Khaya alone with the Prince of Arabia in a tent no bigger than her bedroom back in Jorash.

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

"Now," he leaned forward, "what have we here?"

Khaya wanted to pull a veil over her face, hide the fear painted on it so clearly. The Prince's mouth pulled into a smile, softening his features. He was looking right at her, right into her. She lowered her eyes, focussing on his left collar bone.

"Stop your cowering and tell me your name." He barely raised his voice, but it was enough to send shivers down Khaya's spine.

She swallowed before answering, "Al-Khayzuran." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Al-Khayzuran?" The Prince opened his mouth wide as he said it, feeling each letter on his tongue. "I am Rehan al-Mahdi."

Prince of Arabia, he forgot to add.

"Al-Khayzuran, You have done me a great service by saving my life," he said, leaning back into his chair. "However..."

He brandished a knife from nowhere Khaya could see, its blade glinting with malice.

"If you do not tell me what demonic power you used to kill those snakes, I'm afraid you will not be leaving this tent."

She couldn't move, couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Demonic power?

"I... I didn't... I wasn't thinking, I just–"

He let out a breathy laugh. "You expect me to believe it was instinct? Even a fool could see you knew where each of those filthy black things were hiding."