"It was wrong to make you choose!" she insisted.

"I have other reasons-" I confessed, "reasons of my own for going."

"Reasons that do not include me," she said accusingly.

"Yes," I replied. "It is difficult, I know. But I am content."

"Well, I am not!" she snapped. Her lower lip quivered, and unshed tears shimmered in her eyes.

I moved closer and put my arms around her; she nestled her head against my shoulder, and we stood for a long moment holding one another. "I am sorry, Kazimain," I whispered, stroking her long hair. "I wish it were otherwise."

"If you are going, then I will go, too." She warmed to the idea instantly. "I will go with you. We can be together and you can show me the city, and-"

"No, my love." It hurt me to dash her quick-kindled hope. "It is too dangerous."

"For me it is too dangerous, but not for you?"

"I would not go at all if need did not compel me," I answered. "If I had my way I would stay here with you forever."

She shrugged my hands from her shoulders and stepped away, looking at me sadly. When she spoke, her voice was soft almost to breaking. "If you go, I know I will never see you again."

"I will come back," I insisted, but the words lacked conviction against her sorrow. "I will."

Dinner that night was meant to be a festive affair with singing, dancing, and music. Lord Sadiq reclined on cushions at the head of the long, low table with his wives, who fed him choice morsels from the various plates and platters and bowls which the kitchen servants conveyed to the banqueting room in an unfaltering stream.

I dined with Faysal and several of the amir's closest friends; across from us sat the women, who, since it was a festive meal, were invited to eat at table with the men, instead of in the women's apartments. The conversation was light and polite, with much laughter all around. Clearly, everyone was enjoying the farewell banquet. For me, however, the feast was more in the nature of an ordeal: sitting opposite Kazimain, knowing how unhappy she was, enduring her silent reproaches, and unable to cheer her or ease the burden of her sadness or even to explain myself.

The food was lavish and luxurious, and had been prepared in such a way as to delight all the senses; still, it might have been ashes in my mouth for all the joy it gave me. The music, playing soft and low through the meal, and becoming more lively once we had finished and lay back to watch the dancers, seemed interminable and grating.

Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed dinner and music, savouring the strange otherness of tastes and sounds, but in my downcast mood I merely grew fretful and uneasy. I wanted to flee the room and spend the last moments with Kazimain, alone. I wanted to hold her, to love her. I wanted to feel the softness of her skin, to feel her warm and yielding flesh in my arms. I wanted to tell her…Alas, there was so much I wanted to tell her, I could not think. My mind spun anxiously; my thoughts whirled like leaves in a tempest, and I could get no peace.

And then, when the meal was finished and the last of the dancers departed, the women rose from the table and disappeared through a door on the far side of the room.

I made to follow, but Faysal laid a hand on my arm. "They go to the harim," he informed me good-naturedly, "where no man is permitted-not even moon-eyed lovers."

"But I must speak to Kazimain," I insisted.

He shrugged. "Tomorrow you will speak to her."

Tomorrow will be too late, I thought, and followed the women out of the room. They crossed a torch-lit courtyard and disappeared behind a high door. The harim guard bowed his head respectfully at my approach, but made no move to step aside. "I wish to speak to Kazimain," I told him.

"You will wait here, please," he said in a soft, almost feminine voice. The guard returned a few moments later to say that Kazimain did not wish to speak to me.

"Did you tell her who asked to see her?" I challenged.

"I told her," replied the guard. "Princess Kazimain expressed her inestimable regret, and wished her future husband a good night."

"But I-" I began, and then realized I did not know what I could say to her anyway. I returned to the banquet hall and slumped heavily in my seat.

"Take my advice and eat something," urged Faysal. "The journey will be hard and we will not find food like this on the way. Eat! Enjoy yourself."

But I could eat nothing more, and sat watching the surrounding revelry in a misery of agitation and regret. When at last the amir retired to his private quarters, and we were free to stay or go as we would, I left the continuing celebration and went to my room where I spent a restless, wakeful night.

The thin dawn light found me ill-rested and on edge. At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, I rose at once, and realized that I had been listening all night for that sound. But it was not Kazimain who entered my room-an unknown servant appeared and placed the familiar tray on the wooden stand. The servant asked if there was anything else I required, then departed. Ignoring the food, I dressed instead, and then stood staring out the windhole, watching Ja'fariya come to life beneath the sun's watery rays. I thought of going to find Kazimain, and though I would not be allowed to enter the harim, I thought I might at least send a message for her to meet me in the courtyard.

I had just decided on this plan when I once again heard footsteps in the corridor. Thinking that Kazimain had come after all, I turned expectantly. A young serving boy appeared, and my heart fell. "Please, master," said the boy, his bow quick, all but indiscernible, "I am to say the horses are ready."

I thanked the boy and, taking a last look around my little cell of a room, I picked up my parchment scroll and tucked it carefully into an inner fold of my robe. I then proceeded along the corridor, and down the stairs, through the hall, and out into the courtyard where the horses were saddled and waiting.

For the sake of speed, the amir had decided that we should travel with no more than ten of the rafiq; the amir, Faysal, and myself, brought the number to thirteen. The same number as that of the monks who had begun the ill-fated pilgrimage, I thought ruefully, and it seemed an unfortunate coincidence to me. I might have prayed that this pilgrimage met with better success than the last one, but God, I knew, would heed not a word anyway. So, I saved my breath for breathing.

The amir had ordered the handsome grey saddled for me, and I walked to where a groom stood holding the reins, and spoke to the horse as Sadiq had done. Yaqin tossed her head and nuzzled my neck, giving every sign that she remembered me.

"She likes you."

I turned quickly. "Kazimain! I hoped I would see you before we left. I feared-"

"What? That I would let my almost-husband go away without wishing him farewell?" She stepped nearer, and I could see that she had put off her sorrow and was now reconciled to the necessity of my leaving. Indeed, she seemed cheerful and resolute-as if she was determined to make the best of my absence.

"I would give anything to stay with you," I told her.

"I know." She smiled. "I will miss you while we are apart, but it will only make our joy the greater when we meet again."

"And I will miss you, Kazimain." I ached to take her in my arms and kiss her, but such a thing was not done; it would have brought her into disrepute among her people. I was constrained to satisfy myself with merely gazing at her, and engraving her face upon my memory.

She grew uncomfortable beneath my gaze and lowered her eyes to her hands where she held a small silk-wrapped bundle. "A gift for you," she said. I thanked her and asked what it was, preparing to open it. "No," she said, laying a warm hand upon mine. "Do not open it now. Later, when you are far from here-then open it and think of me."