Desert Jewels & Rising Stars

by Sharon Kendrick

  Amjad pursed his lips as he considered those rationalizations. “I still need to interrogate Berj.”

  Shaheen exhaled. “The one thing saving you from a right hook to that implacable jaw of yours is that I don’t want to put a swollen hand in Johara’s during the marriage ceremony.”

  “I can be your witness with swollen knuckles.” Harres’s feral eyes flashed on a mixture of sheer deviltry and pure danger.

  Amjad whistled in mock admiration. “My, aren’t you two full of fine male aggression. Down boys. I’m going to question him as a legitimate party in the investigation, not as a suspect.”

  Johara intercepted any reaction from Shaheen or Harres, stuck her face in Amjad’s. “You can interrogate me all you like, but don’t you dare go near my father.”

  “We need him to examine the fakes,” Amjad persisted.

  Johara shook her head emphatically. “I’ll do that.”

  “Are you qualified?” She glared at him. He raised his hands in concession. “So you are. Fine. What’s your plan?”

  “I’ll analyze the craftsmanship and come up with a list of possible forgers. There is a limited number of artists in the world capable of producing such almost undetectable duplicates. I’ve studied each extensively and can distinguish their signature styles.”

  After Shaheen and Harres agreed that this was the best plan, Amjad stepped closer, curved his arm at her. She blinked up at him. What was this confounding man up to now?

  “What are you up to now?” Shaheen echoed her suspicion.

  Amjad eyes crinkled at him on what seemed to be an actual smile. “Johara needs to choose the jewels she’ll wear for your wedding. And since you, as her groom, are forbidden to see her from now till then—” Amjad looked at her “—I’m petitioning that she bestow the honor of escorting her to the vaults on me.”

  After a long moment of stunned silence, Harres guffawed. “Wonders will never cease.”

  Shaheen seemed to wrestle with indecision before he nodded to her to accept Amjad’s offer. He still put a protective hand on top of the one she hooked in Amjad’s arm, giving his brother a hard glare. “If you say one more word to upset her …”

  “Don’t worry, Shaheen.” Amjad winked at her. “When I called Johara a lioness, I didn’t know the half of it. She can evidently defend herself, and you, against a whole army.”

  “I heard you wore black for your wedding.” Aliyah laughed at Johara’s comment, turned from sorting through the outfits that had been brought in for Johara to pick from. “My choice of the color of mourning and power in Judar was my way of showing Kamal what I thought of being forced into marriage. His, uh, very favorable reaction was an early sign that we are made for each other.” Aliyah stopped, alarmed. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of copying me!”

  “Oh, no. I just hope you don’t expect me to wear white.” Johara ran palms down her still flat belly. “It would feel funny when everyone knows we’re getting married because I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re getting married because you’re in love.” That was Laylah, already dressed in the outfit she’d attend the ceremony in, a two-piece dream of gleaming satin and ethereal chiffon in gradations of emerald and turquoise, heavily worked in sequins, beads and pearls. “Don’t let the circumstances fool you.”

  Johara conveyed her gratitude with a look. Laylah and Aliyah had been with her all morning, defusing her agitation at the upcoming events. Not that she’d ever visualized her and Shaheen’s wedding, since she’d never thought there would be one, but she’d barely slept all night, dreading the stilted, subdued ceremony that would see them married.

  Now it was only two hours away. And she still couldn’t bring herself to pick a dress. She shook her head at yet another suggestion of Aliyah’s.

  Aliyah sighed as she put the outfit back on the packed rack. “You’re right. None of these are … you.”

  “Maybe you should attend the ceremony wearing only your jewels.” Laylah winked at her. “Who needs clothes when she’s adorned in the priceless pieces of the Pride of Zohayd?”

  Aliyah exchanged a glance with Johara. Laylah hadn’t been told.

  Before more could be said, a knock rapped on the door of Johara’s suite, where she’d insisted on remaining until after the ceremony.

  Aliyah rushed to answer the door.

  After a moment, she swung around with eyes and smile practically tap-dancing in excitement. “Close your eyes, Johara!”

  “What …?” Johara said dazedly, eyes widening instead.

  Laylah rushed behind the couch Johara was sitting on and placed her hands over her eyes.

  “They’re closed,” she called out to Aliyah.

  After moments of hearing the giggles of the two women, Aliyah chirped “Ta-da!” and Laylah removed her hands.

  Johara blinked. Then she gaped. And gaped.

  Held high in Aliyah’s hand was the most incredible outfit she’d ever seen in her life. And in her line of work, she’d seen the best that human creativity and craftsmanship could offer.

  “Now that’s you,” Aliyah announced proudly. “Courtesy of the man who knows you best and values you most, your smitten groom. It has a note attached, too.”

  That ended Johara’s paralysis. She zoomed up and pounced on the truly invaluable part of this gift, the thoughtfulness behind it. Her hands trembled and her eyes surged with tears as she saw Shaheen’s elegant, powerful print, almost heard him whisper the words into her ear, against her cheek, her lips, each inch of her.

  Lan ustatee abaddan ann oteeki ma yoofi jamalek huqqun, fahal turdeen an ta’khothi nafsi kollaha awadan, ya joharet hayati?

  I can never give you what will do your beauty justice, so will you accept taking all of me instead, jewel of my life?

  She was useless for an indeterminate time afterward as Aliyah and Laylah surrounded her, sharing her agitated delight.

  Then Laylah finally pulled back. “If you don’t want to attend your wedding in only jewels, you better hop into that miracle.”

  And miracle was right. One of every gradation of gold and brown that reflected her coloring down to the last hair, amalgamated from finest silk, georgette, chiffon, lace and tulle, flowing into a three-piece outfit that she molded into as if it had been sculpted for her, on her.

  Aliyah and Laylah commented that that was the doing of another miracle. A man who knew every inch of his woman, and who could translate that intimate knowledge into such a precise fit.

  Burning with embarrassment and joy, Johara rushed to the full-length mirror to inspect herself, unable to even guess how Shaheen had managed to get this outfit, and on such short notice, too.

  She’d worn incredible dresses since she’d turned sixteen, but this one wasn’t only her, this was the best her she could be.

  The top was corsetlike, accentuating the nip of her waist and the lushness of her breasts, with tiny sleeves and a deep décolleté that showcased the clarity of her complexion and the wonder of each piece of jewelry she wore on her neck and arms.

  The jacquard lehenga skirt was gathered to one side, hugging her hips in upward sweeps before falling in tight pleats to the floor. The embroidery and cutwork was on a level she’d never seen before, in sequins, silk thread, pearls and gemstones, all Zohaydan traditional motifs built around the first letter of both her name and Shaheen’s in Arabic, boggling her mind more, since it proved this had been made in the past twenty-four hours specifically for her. The finishing touch was a flowing silk and chiffon dupatta with the same motifs scalloping its edge and that hung from the middle of her head, secured there with a tiara that would have been worth a queen’s ransom had it been authentic.

  She stood there as the picture was completed, her pleasure at the beauty of it all dipping then dissipating.

  All this for such a sterile ceremony.

  “It’s time, Johara.”

  She shook off her dejection, rushed to precede Laylah and Aliyah out of the room. No matter what this was, as she’d told
Amjad, it was far more than she’d ever dreamed of.

  She was marrying Shaheen. She was having his baby.

  Those were the true miracles.

  Ten

  Johara’s tiny procession started to pick up followers as soon as they stepped out of the corridor leading from her quarters.

  Each time she looked behind her, more women had joined the queue, and soon there were a few dozen of them, smiling from ear to ear and giggling in her wake.

  Each group of four was dressed in the same outfit, with the colors of each group’s attire a variation in deeper shades of the same cream and beige colors. By the time she looked back before they reached the main palace floor, the formation of the queue and the gradation in colors from lightest right behind her to the deepest at the end of it left her in no doubt.

  They were her bridal procession.

  She heard Laylah groaning. “Oh, man. I feel like a peacock!”

  Aliyah looked down at her dress of deep reds and oranges. “And I feel like a fire breathing dragon. Someone should have told us what the color scheme was going to be.”

  “By someone,” Laylah put in, in case Johara missed it, which in her condition, she had, “we mean your groom, who’s going to pay big-time for deciding your bridal procession outfits based on the dress he picked for you, and leaving us in the dark. Or I should say, in Technicolor.”

  “Years from now,” Aliyah groaned, “your children are going to look at your wedding album and ask you why their aunties were perched on your sides looking like parrots.”

  “You’re actually the splash of color bringing all this to life.” They both gave her yeah, sure, looks and she insisted, “I could never carry off those colors, and Shaheen knew it. But your brand of vivid beauty should never be subjected to anything less fiery and vital. And that is my professional opinion. I would never pick anything but bold, vibrant colors for either of you. And I can’t wait to design you some outfits that only you can do justice!”

  “I always thought I’d like you if I got to know you. I was wrong.” Laylah hugged her exuberantly. “I’m going to love you.”

  Aliyah hugged her on the other side. “I already do. It’s enough to feel how much you love Shaheen.”

  Johara met Aliyah’s eyes and realized that was why Aliyah had decided she was innocent of stealing the jewels. As a woman in love herself, Aliyah had recognized that Johara would rather die than cause Shaheen heartache or harm.

  Feeling her tears welling, she distracted herself by focusing on her surroundings. She wasn’t going to Shaheen with red eyes and streaked makeup.

  Soon, the splendor she was rushing through occupied her focus for real—the palace she’d considered home, where she’d lived for most of her childhood, the best part of her life.

  It was growing up here that had fanned the flames of the artistic tendencies she’d inherited from her parents. Moving from the plain practicality of New Jersey to this wonderland of embellishments and exoticness and grandeur blended from Persian, Ottoman and Mughal influences had fired her imagination from her first day here.

  The palace had taken thousands of artisans and craftsmen three decades to finish in the mid-seventeenth century, and it had always felt to her as if the accumulation of history resonated in its halls, inhabited it walls. As much as the ancient bloodlines with all their trials and triumphs coursed through Shaheen’s and his family’s veins and stamped their bearing and characters, each inch of this place had been maintained as a testament to Zohayd’s greatness and the prosperity of its ruling house.

  But all that would be for nothing if the jewels were not found. If she couldn’t figure out who’d forged them …

  “We’re here!”

  “Here” was before the doors to the ceremony hall where the bridal parade had been held for Shaheen. Though it had been agony to be there that night, she’d still felt the wonder of being there again.

  As a child she hadn’t been allowed to attend royal functions held there. But when all was quiet, Shaheen had taken her there as frequently as she wished, to stay as long as she wanted, having the place all to herself to draw each corner of it, each inlay detail, each pierce work, each calligraphy panel.

  The octagonal hall had always felt as if all the greatness, purpose and philosophy of the palace’s design converged there. It was the palace hub, gracefully enclosed by its central marble one-hundred-foot wide and high dome, its walls spread with intricate, geometric shapes, its eight soaring arches defining its space at ground level, each crowned by a second arch midway up the wall with the upper arches forming balconies. It was from those that she’d learned her best lessons of drawing perspective.

  A few dozen feet from the hall’s soaring double doors, which were heavily worked in embossed bronze, gold and silver Zohaydan motifs, the music became louder. The quartertone-dominated Zohaydan music with its Indian, Turkish and Arabian influences and exotic instrumental arrangement and rhythm swept through the air, riding the fumes and scents of incense.

  Then four footmen in black outfits embroidered with gold thread pulled back the massive doors by their circular knobs.

  She stumbled to a stop, everything falling away.

  She’d thought the ceremony would be a damage-control affair that would boil down to two purposes—the king’s to publicize their so-called secret marriage, and theirs, to get her hands on the fake jewels. But this … this …

  She hadn’t, couldn’t have expected this.

  She moved again, propelled by the momentum of her companions across a threshold that felt as if it opened into another realm. Into a scene lifted right out of the most lavish of One Thousand and One Nights.

  From every arch hung rows of incense burners and flaming torches, against every wall rested miraculous arrangements of white and golden roses among backgrounds of lush foliage. Each pillar was wrapped in bronze satin that rained silver tassels and was worked heavily in gold patterns. Sparkling gold dust covered the marble floor. Everything shimmered under the ambient light like Midas’s vault, among the swirling sweetness of ood, musk and amber fumes.

  And studding the scene were far more than the two thousand people who’d populated the first and only ceremony she’d attended here. A mind-boggling assortment, from those dressed in the latest exclusive fashions to those who did look as if they’d just stepped out of Arabian Nights.

  Her feverish eyes made erratic stops as she recognized faces. King Atef and King Kamal, sitting on a platform to one side on thronelike seats. Dozens of highest-order international political figures and celebrities. Queen Sondoss and Shaheen’s half brothers, Haidar and Jalal, among probably every other adult Aal Shalaan and their relatives.

  The only one she couldn’t see was Shaheen.

  Shaheen … he’d done all this. For her. But when? How? Where was he? She couldn’t be here, face all this, without him …

  “Johara! Breathe!”

  She gulped a breath at Laylah’s prodding. Then another.

  “Stop. You’ve hyperventilating,” Aliyah exclaimed.

  She forced herself to regulate her breathing. She could just see the headlines if she fainted.

  Pregnant Aal Shalaan Bride Passes Out At Wedding Ceremony.

  Her vision had cleared and her steps had firmed when the openly gawking crowd parted to stand on two sides as she and her procession made their way through. She felt she was treading the insubstantial ground of a dream as the thunder of clapping rose and the music, which she realized issued from an extensive live ensemble, began the distinctive percussive melody of the most popular Zohaydan wedding song, the one that called everyone to come wonder at the bride’s splendor and her groom’s phenomenal luck. By the time Aliyah and Laylah were singing along, she was floating on auto.

  Then she saw her father.

  He was mounting three gold-satin covered steps to a gold-satin-covered platform at the epicenter of the hall. She’d chosen him to act as her proxy, the one who would put his hand in Shaheen’s during the rit
ual. She’d thought they’d all sit down and it would be over in minutes. Now it seemed his role included taking her to her groom with all the ceremony of this carefully choreographed piece.

  She’d seen him for minutes last night with Shaheen and the king and only to tell him of the situation. To say he’d been shocked would be the understatement of the century.

  He now waited for her, the litheness of his figure accentuated in a tight-fitting bronze silk tunic and pants, his chest heavy with the shining and colorful medals of honor and distinction he’d received throughout his service, his broad shoulders bearing the tags of the highest rank he’d quit. She felt Aliyah and Laylah fall behind as she climbed the steps, each diverging on one side of the platform to lead a portion of her procession to form a circle around it. As she reached the top, her father took her hands in his, his earlier shock replaced by lingering bewilderment tinged by guarded joy.

  But it was the apology that lurked in the depths of his black eyes that made her pull him to her in a fierce hug.

  He let out a ragged breath as his arms trembled around her. “I’m sorry I was so absorbed in my own problems I didn’t notice what was going on with you. Is that why you felt you couldn’t tell me? You thought I couldn’t be there for you?”

  Mortification rose inside her. She wasn’t letting him in on more than he could think. She hugged him tighter. “No. If it concerns only me, I will always let you in, Daddy.”

  “But it concerned Shaheen, too, and you were protecting him.” She nodded into his shoulder. He sighed, pulled back to look at her, his eyes level with hers. “You love him?” She nodded again, knew she didn’t have to say how much or for how long. It was there in her eyes. “Then this is the best thing that ever happened to me, to see you marry the man you love. I can’t think of a better man for you, or a better man, period. I do think Shaheen is the best of all the princes. And you know how highly I think of them all.”