Chapter 1
Agra
Palace of Amar Singh Rathore
Jahanara stood in the stirrups and gave Azar her lead as they left their own half. The fierce little pony flowed across the turf like the wind. Enjoying the moment, the princess leaned over to strike at the ball. An instant later her mallet sent it spinning across to one of her new guards, Yonca.
“Bad pass,” the princess muttered, seeing she’d sent the ball to where the Turkic warrior woman had been rather than where she was headed.
But Yonca showed great skill as Damla and Roshanara closed on her, coming to a complete stop that would have sent a weaker rider over pommel, mane, and mouth to slap face-first into the turf. Her opponents went by, forced by her sudden stop to move aside or collide with the rump of Yonca’s mount. The talented horsewoman wasn’t done showing her skill, however: she leaned well out of the saddle and clapped her mallet against the ball, sending it in a curving arc that straightened along the boundary line ahead of Jahanara.
Roshanara, the closest rider from the opposite team, snapped her reins against her pony’s flanks and set out in pursuit.
Jahanara lowered her head and again let Azar run. She had the straighter line and the faster horse, but Roshanara was smaller than her sister, and hadn’t been riding her mount all that hard until the last few runs of play.
The other players were out of position, and could only join the shouted encouragement from the gathered women watching from the shade of the gardens. The birthday celebrations for Nadira’s son had gathered nearly every wife, mother, sister, and daughter of Dara’s umara to the gardens of Amar Singh Rathore’s palatial home to participate, most of whom watched the two princesses compete.
The distance between the two players and the ball closed with exhilarating speed, making Jahanara’s lips curve with feral delight.
Then the pair were riding flat out and side by side. The ball had stopped beside the boundary, meaning that Jahanara could only strike at it while riding out of bounds and from the left while Roshanara had it on her right, strong side. Jahanara quickly switched hands and dropped her mallet for the swing.
Roshanara’s quick overhand swing of the mallet clacked against the ball, sending it rocketing back the way they’d come.
Jahanara’s mallet tangled with her sister’s as the momentum of the smaller woman’s swing carried the shafts together. The impact sent a violent shiver up the wood that stung Jahanara’s hands and wrenched her shoulder.
Roshanara was even more affected, as she’d stood in the stirrups and used every bit of strength in her body to make the hit. With her swing stopped so abruptly, Roshanara lost control of her mallet and struck her pony hard on the leg, making it stumble.
She overbalanced and started to topple sideways, away from Jahanara.
Jahanara dropped her mallet and snatched at her sister, hoping to stay her fall. She missed, but Roshanara caught her outstretched arm and used it to lever herself back upright.
As one, they slowed and turned back onto the field.
“My thanks, sister,” Roshanara said, cheeks still flushed from exertion and perhaps, Jahanara reflected, from sudden fear.
Jahanara nodded, feeling the now-familiar surge of shame over the beating she’d given Roshanara the night of Father’s murder. She wanted to apologize, but could not. To do so would be to admit everything that had happened that night, and that would only make her angry once again.
Instead, Jahanara nodded at the far end of the field where Damla and the rest of Roshanara’s team were celebrating the final point and said, “Fine play, sister. You surprised me with that overhand strike, you delivered it so swiftly.”
Roshanara’s cheeks colored more deeply. “It was my only good play for the entirety of the game.”
“Better to properly seize an opportunity once than attempt to seize every chance, however small, and fail.”
Letting their mounts cool, the princesses rode in a slow, silent circle before Roshanara departed for the accolades of the gathered women.
Sadness seized Jahanara as she watched her sister leave. Roshanara had been in virtual hiding since the night Jahanara had attacked her, and only come out for the day’s events at Nadira’s insistence. And if Smidha’s spies and informants were to be believed, Roshanara hadn’t been in contact with anyone outside the harem precincts. Jahanara dismissed as cruel rumor those reports that claimed Roshanara had not cried since that terrible night. Roshanara had never been a favorite sibling, and her younger sister’s part in the events that led to Father’s assassination had sent Jahanara into a killing rage.
Now, though, when her temper had cooled, Jahanara wished desperately for someone to speak to of her concerns, both political and personal.
Atisheh still recovered at Mission House and was not given to easy sentiment or concerted effort to unearth the meaning of life in the first place.
Smidha was an eternal help in most things, but sometimes the elder woman was just that: old-fashioned in her thinking and…she was not inclined to speak of physical passions as anything less than a liability for her princess. And Jahanara had certainly not forgotten the feel of Salim’s muscled flesh under her fingers, the interest in his eyes. The memory—and imagining what might come of his hands exploring her flesh—had kept her awake on more than one occasion in the last weeks.
None should be so well equipped to understand as her sister, and Jahanara was left wishing they had been closer as children so she might unburden herself without fear of betrayal…
Knowing wishes would not reverse the established courses of their lives, she directed her pony to the waiting eunuch. And, as such melancholy thoughts would hardly serve in front of the collected ladies of the court, she sought distraction from her personal fears. As always, politics proved the easiest distraction to turn to; all she need do was think of the many challenges facing Dara’s rule. Their brothers, the umara, the various religious and cultural factions, even the inertia of old policies and imperial precedent—each posed difficulties for her brother, whose health was also in question, the resultant pain of his injuries still affecting his moods and clarity of thought. That last was something she and the inner circle of Dara’s court dare not speak of openly, even in the most private of circumstances. That Dara was often confused was something his enemies would trade upon mercilessly.
That Dara himself had used his infirmity to argue against taking another wife had been a surprise. A surprise that, upon reflection, made horrible sense: the betrothal ceremony alone could prove enough of an ordeal to force him to reveal his weakness before the court. Such would certainly prove disastrous for their cause, exactly the opposite of the purpose of marriage alliances.
No, they were wiser to wait in that regard.
She dismounted and handed over Azar’s reins, who nuzzled her in search of sweets. Smiling, she patted the mare’s neck and entered the enclosure set up to allow the players to bathe and change clothes before returning to the festivities.
“Begum Sahib,” Smidha said, waving a bevy of servants forward to help Jahanara remove her riding clothes.
“Smidha,” Jahanara acknowledged.
“You played well, Begum Sahib.”
She shook her head. “Not well enough to beat Damla! That woman was born on a horse.”
“She is no Atisheh, though.”
Jahanara sighed. “No, she is not.”
“Skanda’s praises, but Atisheh was also born ahorse with a blade in her hand!”
“True enough,” Jahanara answered, preferring not to think too much about the day Atisheh had proven herself so proficient with a sword.
Stripped, she stepped into the waiting bath.
“Oil or water, Begum Sahib?”
“Oil. My hair will never dry, otherwise.”
Smidha set to work cleaning and untangling her hair with a comb and oils as her body slaves washed the dust and horse from their mistress.
“Are my sister’s guests content?”
“It seems they are. They very much enjoyed the poetry, music, and of course, the pulu match. The betting was heavy, and some lost more than they should have bet.”
Sensing a reproving note, Jahanara asked, “So, how much did you lose?”
“Nothing, Begum Sahib.”
“You did not bet?”
“No, I bet on Damla and Roshanara to win. I earned quite a few rupees…Though you gave me quite a scare at the end. I thought that I was going to owe our hostess, Paramjit, all my incomes for a week.”
Jahanara snorted. “Never has my failure to win pleased me so. Are you done?”
A gentle tug at her hair. “Almost.”
Jahanara sat through a few more minutes of being tended to before Smidha judged her presentable. She left the enclosure, Smidha following, and found Damla waiting outside, having eschewed the baths in favor of a skin of some drink. Truly, the woman was a slimmer version of her cousin, Atisheh. But lately come to service, Damla was young for her position as Atisheh’s second-in-command, but had her kinswoman’s full approval, at least until Atisheh could ride and fight again.
“Begum Sahib.”
“Congratulations, Damla. You were magnificent on the field.”
A shrug of armored shoulders. “I but tried to honor my uncle’s teaching.”
“My sister and I, unarmored, and on the finest ponies money can buy, were still outmaneuvered by you and your sisters as often as not.”
Another shrug. “We have had more time to play than you, and do not have your…refinement in other arenas.”
“Refinement?” Jahanara asked. She set out toward the dining area set up for the feast, intending to make a few final checks of the arrangements.
“I can swing a sword, shoot a bow, and ride, but my mother and aunts all despaired of ever teaching me proper calligraphy. My memory is also very bad. My father was certain I will never be married, as I could never recall the Prophet’s words pertaining to the conduct of a proper wife.”
“And Atisheh?”
A snort. “Hers was an even more difficult circumstance…but that is her story to tell.”
Jahanara attempted to imagine what Atisheh’s life must have been like as a child and found she could not. Then she tried to imagine the man the warrior woman might marry but could not think of one who would not be intimidated by her superior skill and proven strength.
“The lack of a husband certainly does not seem to cause you any distress,” Smidha said.
“True.” Another shrug of armored shoulders. “I do not feel the lack. God granted me my skills and set me this path. I serve. It is enough.”
“And we thank God and you, humbly, for the service you give us,” Jahanara said, heart suddenly so full she had to stop herself reaching out and taking the woman’s gauntlet in her hands. Such would not be seemly, if for no other reason than Damla was a recent addition to the harem guards, brought on from this very house to serve the imperial harem. A moment’s reflection allowed Jahanara to recognize the source of this sudden surge of feeling for Damla. The woman who looked, even sounded like, Atisheh. Atisheh, to whom Jahanara owed everything.
I must visit her soon, and to hell with the proprieties.
Her thoughts were, by necessity, silenced as their small group joined the other ladies attending the party. Moments after she was seated Nadira ordered the food be brought out. The feast was outstanding, and the company of the women exceptional, and lasted well into the evening. Varicolored lanterns were brought out as the first troupe of dancers entered and began to perform for the enjoyment of all.
After the remains of the repast were removed and the dancers finished their routines, Nadira led a reading of poetry written by the very pinnacle of the ladies of the court. In preparation for the celebration, Nadira had asked each lady to compose a few verses with a woman’s lot in life as the theme.
Jahanara’s verses were well received, though she avoided speaking directly to the issue that drove Nadira’s choice of themes. Instead, her poem focused on the search for wisdom in uncertain times.
At its end, Nadira launched into her own verses, which the accomplished poet had completed only last week. As she had heard her sister-in-law’s poem already, Jahanara half-listened while considering Nadira’s intent for the evening.
The celebration of her son’s birthday had been planned, in part, to give Nadira an opportunity to silence a few rumors that had begun circulating about Jahanara. It seemed that Jahanara’s management of Dara’s harem had caused some resentment. The rumors complained that it had been one thing for Jahanara to manage Father’s well-established harem of many wives and even more concubines, but quite another to do it for Dara, a young emperor with only the one wife and therefore very few close ties with his senior courtiers.
For her part, Jahanara could understand the ill will that fostered such rumors: if you, your parents, and your husband had spent a great deal of time and effort inveigling a position at court beside Nadira, it was understandable that resentment would follow upon discovery that Nadira was not the sole arbiter of who and what service was worthy of reward. No, the blackest rumors to reach her ears made her a power-hungry creature who refused to step down, only persisting in her position in order to exert undue control over her brother.
As her voice raised in protest would only serve to confirm the rumors to the minds of her detractors, it had been decided that Nadira would take the lead.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Nadira finished her reading and the ladies applauded enthusiastically.
Smiling, Nadira led a spirited discussion choosing which were the best couplets of the night. Jahanara participated, but less actively than she might have in order to allow Nadira all the attention she deserved. Instead, she sat quietly admiring her sister-in-law’s ability to guide the conversation to her objectives.
Seizing on the couplet of one of her senior ladies, Nadira expounded a few moments on the quality of the verse before focusing on the matching of it to her chosen theme.
“In reading the verse, I love that it leads the reader down a certain path of thought to a crossroads. On the one hand, the joys of a life in service to another. On the other, the desire to be beholden and responsible only to oneself and to God.
“Now that I am a mother and feel the ever-present ache of love and duty toward my son, I want to devote all of my time to being the best mother I can be.”
The other mothers among those gathered for the party expressed wholehearted agreement with the empress as she paused to drink her julabmost. While her courtiers nodded and spoke among themselves, the wife of the emperor met Jahanara’s gaze over the rim of her goblet…and winked.
Jahanara covered a smile.
Lowering her drink, Nadira resumed speaking. “Even at the cost of managing my husband’s harem and its affairs. I told my beloved husband as much, and he agreed that while affairs of state occupy his mind and weigh upon his spirit, I should concentrate my efforts upon rearing our son.
“This in mind, my beloved husband asked Jahanara Begum”—she raised her goblet again, this time in salute to Jahanara—“to take up many responsibilities on our behalf. As a dutiful sister to both myself and my beloved husband, Jahanara Begum has resumed those duties that she discharged so well for Shah Jahan. I wish to thank her for this kindness, and for the many other kindnesses she has bestowed upon me since we became sisters.”
The gathered ladies of the court joined their hostess in saluting the emperor’s sister. For the rest of the night, the ladies were far warmer in their regard for Jahanara than they had been in the weeks since Dara had assumed the throne.
Over the next few days she saw a general increase in ladies asking for her advice, suggestions, and opinions on a wide variety of subjects. Soon after that there came an increase in petitioners and requests for intercession in certain matters that required the attention of the foremost lady of the court.
Nadira’s message, it seemed, had been fully delivered.
Now it only remained to be seen how long the lesson would remain.