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on the walls fired into the melee.
    The Marinid forces scattered in disarray. Half their formations pursued the Ashqilula, vainglory or suicide their possible motives. Many of them died as Abdallah’s crossbowmen protected the riders at the forefront. The other Marinid troops ran headlong toward the breach near Tarif’s gate. They risked death under the mounts of more Castillan knights emerging from behind the walls. Doñ Alonso’s archers also found easy targets. Volley after volley flew from Tarif’s ramparts, piercing armor and flesh, man and beast. Screams echoed across the shoreline. Gharnatah’s troops, caught up in the uncertainty, looked to their commanders for clear direction and found none.
    Faraj said, “Those who believe and submit to the Will of God accept their destiny. Qadar , as Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, has written for every soul, speaks of all that has happened and all that shall happen.” He turned and looked at Khalid. “Today, we make our own destiny. Come, we return to Malaka. Then, on to Gharnatah.”
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    Sacrifices
     
    Princess Fatima
     
    Malaka, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
     
     
    Waves washed ashore at Malaka on an otherwise quiet late morning. Fatima’s gray Andalusi mare shied away whenever the tide surged. As sea spray billowed, the horse snorted loudly. With a steady hand, Fatima held the mare’s reins and soothed her mount.
    Her peripheral gaze lingered on the sinewy young man who sat his black stallion with comfortable ease. Whenever she looked at her eldest child, Ismail, she saw her father. After fifteen years, a wiry frame had replaced her son’s tendency toward plumpness.
    The autumn wind picked up along the shore, rippling through strands of his once-auburn hair, now the dark, russet-tipped color of her father’s own. His keen eyes and placid, intelligent expression evoked her father’s image. The same hawkish nose sniffed at the sea. A smile and drawn-out sigh eased the composure of his angular features.
    “Whenever you stare at me, Ummi , especially when you think I do not notice, I often wonder whether you are seeing me or someone else.”
    Ismail’s lowered tone, more a man’s than that of a boy, startled her. Her mare shifted on the sand. She tugged the reins and calmed the horse. When her gaze returned to Ismail, he offered her a sly grin.
    He possessed the same innate understanding and curiosity she had shown as a child. However, she suspected the pride and instincts that ruled his father dominated him, too. He held himself ramrod straight in the saddle, pride emanating in his elegant, though rigid bearing.
    He always observed in silent prudence like her, studying people and situations, perceiving their nature with his keen glance. Yet, he reminded her of the men in their family, with his predatory instincts, always cutting to the heart of a matter and finding the underlying vulnerabilities. She did not doubt he would become a formidable governor of Malaka someday. Yet, she hoped that would not occur for many years to come.
    She swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat, thwarting speech for a moment. “Who else would I see except my fine son?”
    He flashed a knowing smile. “Your father, perhaps. Certainly not mine.”
    His gaze tracked the course of the undulating coastline and her stare followed his. Even at a vast distance, the rocky promontory at Jabal Tarik dominated the southwestern view. Beyond it, the craggy landscape of Tarif rose. Her husband camped along its shore, ready to bring death to her father’s Castillan enemies. Did he yet live?
    When she clutched at her chest at the painful thought, Ismail’s stare flitted back to hers with hawk-eyed precision. She rubbed at some imaginary ache above her breast with two fingers. Beneath her, the mare danced on the sand again, signaling the return of the tide.
    “Does he live, Ummi ?”
    She nodded. “I would feel it if he