Tahirah felt the palace shudder. Someone was practicing black mathemagics. Symmetry was being pulled from the Alhambra’s walls, and the palace seemed closer to its breaking point with each change. Every day she saw subtle hints of evil as she walked through the gardens: tiles twisted, garden pathways slightly offset—but most of all, an unsettled feeling within the walls.
She had kept to herself these few weeks, hoping to discover who was creating this havoc without appearing to pry. Through prayers and fasting, she gained a murky glimpse of the wrongdoer, but never a clear image. The palace’s protection was its magic, hidden in the symmetries and inscriptions that covered wall after wall. If many more symmetries were destroyed, the Alhambra would fall. And if the Alhambra fell, Granada would fall, and Islamic Spain with it. Tahirah recoiled at the images of war and bloodshed that washed over her, and she uttered a silent prayer. She must uncover the culprit. The evil must be contained.
The building writhed in pain as it twisted and turned in on itself. Again and again, Tahirah came upon an unexpected asymmetry. A corner would whisper of crooked lines as she passed, a ceiling would murmur of warped beams. The stone lions must know, but they were silent. They stood as guardians of the Alhambra—fierce, incorruptible and steadfast. There was no sign of one standing by the sultan. How could he govern without a lion by his side?
She called to them, and their silence was more ominous than any roar of rage.
Meditation and prayer had told her the key to repairing the damage was tied to one born in the Alhambra. But who?
She recalled the hidden presence she had sensed before, a girl teetering on the edge of womanhood. Was she one whom the Alhambra would trust? Could she be entangled in this? Perhaps she should take an interest in the girl. Would that put her at risk to the evil? So difficult a problem.
Tahirah sighed—she must put this aside for the present. The sultan had asked her to join him and his household for a reading, and she must not delay. The sultan seemed pleased with her request to meet in the Court of the Lions. For all its beauty, she had another reason for going there. If the stone lions would but speak with her, she might be able to resolve the danger quickly.
Four palace guards arrived outside her chamber. As soon as she had covered her hair, her handmaidens ushered them in. She took her place among them and walked toward the Palace of the Lions. She planned to read some of Rumi’s poetry and, perhaps, one piece of her own. A small discussion about the wonders of symmetry and geometry would round out the afternoon.
The sultan and his court joined her at the entrance. His wives and many children were waiting for her, but none of these stood out as the key that would unlock the Alhambra’s mistrust. He dropped back to speak with the wazir and two other advisers. More of the harem’s eunuch guards came to take their places along the walls, vigilant as always. A troop of servants followed, carrying trays of pomegranates, olives, artichokes, roasted goat and lamb. Rugs and cushions had been placed about for the comfort of all. Blind musicians played in the background.
The Court of the Lions was lovely in any light. In the early morning, it was the color of lavender honey. Now, with the stars glittering in the sky above and torches lighting the side walls, it was bathed in orange and gold. In the Hall of the Two Sisters, it was written, “The stars themselves long to spend their time in the Court of the Lions,” and well could she believe it. Though the room was muted by the evening sky, she could see the lions standing frozen around the center fountain. The waxing moon’s glow danced on the splashing water. She moved closer to read part of the inscription around the fountain: “He who beholds the lions in menacing attitude, knows that only respect for the Emir contains their fury.” So, she thought, they are ready.
She stepped around the fountain, passing a portly slave; Suleiman, she recalled.
All of a sudden, a woman gasped, startling Tahirah out of her thoughts. “Blood,” a woman screamed. “Blood on the lions’ chests.” Another took up the alarm, crying. “Evil has come down on us.”
What were the women shouting about? No blood had been shed here. She would know instantly. The eunuch guards leapt to attention and milled about in search of an enemy. Mothers gathered their children and stared in horror at the fountain. The sultan stood his ground.
“What’s this?” the sultan inquired, frowning slightly, as he stepped over to the fountain to peer into the red-streaked water. Tahirah stuck her finger in the water, rubbed it against a dark red line of grout before placing it to her mouth. She smiled. “Beet juice, it seems. Not blood.”
“Beet juice?” repeated Suleiman, his clothes indicating status of some importance. As she watched, his hat teetered on the verge of falling off.
At the edge of the group, a girl with big, gentle eyes clapped her hands over her mouth. Layla, wasn’t that her name? Suleiman pulled Layla to the side, mouthing the words “Where’s Ara?” to the girl. Whatever she replied had him turn and abruptly depart.
“This is merely a mistake,” the sultan soothed. “Not blood, just dye. There is nothing to fear.”
Tahirah watched the rest of the people. The wazir had moved away from the crowd and now paced anxiously around the room. Now, he walked up to one of the other advisors, and after a brief conversation, he also left the room. The women grew calmer—some even laughed.
The sultan turned to Tahirah. “Please excuse this disturbance. Someone must have accidentally spilt dye in our water upstream.” He glanced toward Layla and frowned. “It would be carried through to here. No harm has been done.
“Perhaps you would tell us a story, a simple story, from Scheherazade’s The Book of the Thousand and One Nights. I think no one could fully appreciate poetry or geometry just now.” He smiled and almost casually strode over to Layla, engaging her in a conversation.
Tahirah sat on a cushion. The black-enshrouded women and brightly clothed children gathered about her. The sultan, his men and servants stood beyond that circle. “Sire,” she began, “there was once upon a time a fisherman.…”