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Her throaty laughter, her scent and her desire enthralled him. She wound her limbs around him and tugged his face to hers. She proved more intoxicating than her perfumes.
    Much later, he collapsed on her body, but her legs tightened around his waist. Loosening her possessive hold, he rolled on his side. “Leave off, Baraka.”
    She stroked a curved nail across his back. “Rest, master, for you have pleasured me well. You need to regain your strength. I shall stay with you until you do.”
    She was impudent, but he was too tired to chastise her. Eyelids heavy, his head sank on the pillow. Before sleep claimed him, he managed a weak protest. “I don’t want you here.”
    “Yes, master, you’ll always want Baraka.”
    He closed his eyes, as the powerful lure of sleep claimed him.
    The dreams came unbidden, as they always did. Violent, vivid images ripped from the depths of his buried past, a child’s worst nightmare.
    His father slumped over the low dining table. Viscous blood pooled under his face, stained the golden silk tablecloth and ran red trails to the cedar floor. Mother cradled the body in her arms. His father’s head lolled against her shoulder and fell backwards. The gaping gash at his neck seeped blood from a red, jagged line torn ear to ear.
    Mother closed his sightless, gray eyes and kissed the dark brown hair, matted against his skull. Then she removed his bloodless khanjar, the jeweled hilt of the dagger gleaming in the torchlight. She plunged the weapon into her chest. Only a brief spasm betrayed her pain. She never screamed, no – his cries were the ones to fill the room, as they did now.
    Shuddering, bathed in perspiration, Faraj opened his eyes. Despite his fears about Baraka or anyone else seeing him in such a vulnerable state, the jarya snored beside him. Pale moonlight filtered through the lattice windows. It traipsed across the thick woven rugs covering the olive wood floor. The light illuminated the recesses of a carved niche where a fountain and basin held water for morning ablutions.
    Cloying, fragrant, jasmine permeated the thick, curled locks of the woman who lay beside him. Her palearm encircled his chest. Even now, with her rounded, full breast pressed against him andher leg draped possessively over his, her allurements and charms were a temptation. He wanted to wake her and take his pleasure upon her willing body. As if in doing so, he might chase the nightmares away forever.
    Disgusted, he shrugged off her arm before extracting himself from her embrace. Naked, he stood at the window and peered through the lattice to the south, in the direction of the place he had once called home. His head bowed, he whispered into the darkness, “Father, protect me. Mother, forgive me.”
     

Chapter 3
    The Prophecy
     
    Princess Fatima
     
    Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram 664 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1265)
     
    In silence, Fatima followed Aisha. They crossed a darkened hallway with shuttered windows near the ceiling. Fatima glanced at the man who fell into step beside her.
    He said, “Princess, I am your uncle Abdallah, brother of Aisha.”
    She eyed him, from the collar of his jubba, a wave of azure silk, to its hem skirting the floor. She was no longer leery of the scars on his cheeks. “Why haven’t I seen you in Gharnatah before?”
    He halted and showed even, white teeth in a smile. “Your mother was just as direct in our childhood.”
    She waited for an answer.
    He replied, “I visited several years ago, in the days after your birth. I held you and proclaimed you were a child of my sister’s spirit. You remind me of her.”
    “I look like my father.”
    “You resemble him, but you have your mother’s dignity and strength.” At her puzzled frown, he continued. “When you are older, you shall understand my meaning.”
    When he walked on, she followed him. “You never came back to Gharnatah after that visit?”
    He stopped again and rubbed the back of his neck, looking away