Gold Dust drowned herself in books of history that talked of ancient feuds and of families who were torn apart because of some hidden secrets. She pored over the lives of heroes whose tainted blood had destroyed them. She leafed through her own childhood memories, wondering if Raven’s temperament was inherited from the lineage of the Shah or from her own. Bitter memories resided in a clouded past. She was three. She had caught her mother dancing. Silver chains dangled on her. She drifted in and out of flames. Her eyes were sad, her dancing merry.

There was a spectator.

A man. He had mad eyes. Like Raven.

Moon Face’s words resonated in her mind: “One thing is certain. Children inherit the madness of their fathers.”

The next time Rebekah came to the harem, Gold Dust called her into her bedchamber. “Tell me about the man with the smell of iron.”

Rebekah clutched at her chest; a flush tinged her forehead. She snatched the herb from behind her ear and slapped it against her cheek. “He was a demon who came into our lives, then disappeared, leaving his stink behind! Forget him!”

Gold Dust took Rebekah’s hands in her own. “Was he my father?”

“Child!” Rebekah cried. “He was my husband and your father and neither of these. Go on with your life. The past is quicksand. Don’t linger in it. You’ve got a future ahead of you. Bear the Shah a son.”

Gold Dust squeezed at her temples to crush memories that were impossible to unravel. Was her daughter mischievous, rebellious, or evil? Would she follow the path of the late shah, who had ended his life by drinking bull’s blood that coagulated in his throat? No. Never.

She could only think of one way to save herself from repeating the mistakes of the past and giving birth to offspring who inherited madness.

In the privacy of her chambers, she inserted into herself a lining made of the delicate white membrane from under the rind of a pomegranate to protect her from the Shah’s seed.

22

The harem convened in the fields. Clad in his most magnificent cape, trimmed with ropes of gold, and carrying his bejeweled staff, the Shah faced his daughter and announced: “We will present you with your first untamed mare.”

Sons normally chose horses from the royal stud, but daughters received white donkeys from Muscat—and only if they were favorites. Raven was five. Gold Dust wondered if her daughter had the wisdom to tame the mount.

Narcissus stood in a corner with a stack of mirrors in his arms. He seethed with resentment. The princess had demanded he carry these mirrors, and the king had consented. He did not appreciate standing there in the capacity of porter.

A stable boy led a mare toward Raven. The sultanas gasped in disbelief. Hazel-Boy could not resist stroking her rump. She was the most regal mare he had ever seen. The color of shiny tar, with a flowing, silver mane, eyes the shade of sunflowers, neck swaying and hooves drumming, she was oblivious to the crowd. The delicate princess could never tame such a strong horse.