The Stone Lions Read online

  The Stone Lions

  By Gwen Dandridge

  Copyright © 2013 by Gwen Dandridge

  Hickory Tree Publishing

  HickoryTreeBooks.blogspot.com

  Smashwords Edition

  NSF grant 9552462

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing by the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The illustrations have been modified for the black and white issue of this novel. The original color ones may be found at my Web site at www.gwendandridge.com

  Book Design by

  Cover Design by Carol Heyer

  Back cover and spine by Sherrie Petersen

  Illustrations by Carin Coulon

  First Hickory Tree Publishing

  Acknowledgements

  Certainly this book would never have been thought of, much less created, without the generosity and inspiration of Dr. Dorothy Wallace at Dartmouth. The National Science Foundation’s support was much appreciated.

  Anne Lowenkopf was the person who made this book happen. She believed in both me and the story, and kept me writing the many times I would have given up. My greatest wish is that she were alive to see it published.

  Many thanks to Dr. Sarah Tolbert for explaining band symmetry to me over and over until I understood it and even began to love it. And to her and Dr. Ben Schwartz for all the walks we took discussing plot and math.

  Josh Schimel, my husband and love, who has stood by my side the whole time, ever willing to listen, critique or support.

  Judith and Michael Thompson, who patiently read revision after revision. Heather Latham and Robert Hill, who took photos of every illustration from the Owen Jones book on the Alhambra. Carin Coulon for her work creating the illustrations. Rebecca Finley for her massive support.

  Antonio Orihuela Uzal, for his help and his book, Casas y palacios nazaríes, about the Alhambra during the late 1300’s.

  My writing group with Val Hobbs, Sherrie Peterson, Kim Hernandez and Lori Walker who pushed me to rework The Stone Lions one last time.

  Sonia Connolly, Bob Orser, Teri Davis, Claire Beorn Norman, Pippa Drew, the Medieval ListServer, Yuki Yoshino and so many others who have been important to this book’s birth.

  And a special thank you to GJ Berger and Kevin Berry for additional editing to make The Stone Lions even better.

  The original fountain from the Court of the Lions is depicted on the cover. It was stolen in the 1500’s and replaced with the lower fountain that now resides there.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Appendices

  Glossary of Terms

  Glossary of Names

  Symmetry Summary

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Granada, Spain – Early 1400’s, Alhambra Palace

  Ara pulled her brown cloak tightly around her head as she risked peering out between the sun-dappled leaves. She had chosen this spot carefully for its thick shrubbery and its great view of the Justice Gate at the south entrance to the palace. There was barely enough space to hide a slender twelve-year-old girl—and it even let Ara see part of the road leading to the Alhambra, the Red Palace. Any moment the mathemagician might appear, and now Ara would be among the first to see her arrive.

  Ara gnawed at her ragged thumbnail, thinking again of Suleiman’s reaction if he were to find her not only outside the safety of the harem, but outside the palace as well. It was hard having a tutor who watched your every breath.

  The Sufi mathemagician, Tahirah, though a woman, was one of the most important scholars in all Islam—the same Sufi who had instructed her mother in mathemagics and symmetry when she was Ara’s age. And Tahirah was arriving now. Oh, to see her arrive, not just to hear others tell, but to see the procession herself. She knew Suleiman would fault her for being too curious yet again.

  Ara rechecked her position—she must stay totally still while the procession came through.

  Not far off, a trumpet blared. Ara jumped. Still as a mouse, she reproached herself. Again the trumpet sounded. Booming drums announced the approach of the mathemagician. Horses whinnied and tossed their heads, jingling the silver bells on their reins. As the procession crested the road, Ara watched in amazement. First came palace guards in blue, gold and white uniforms, their faces fierce as they marched four-by-four at the head of the procession. Two men with thick arms carried a red and gold banner embossed with the symbol of their tribe. Next, garbed in their billowing, white Bedouin caftans, came the honor guard astride their legendary desert horses. From her shelter, Ara strained for a sight of the mathemagician.

  Where was she?

  The parade continued, dust swirling around the horses’ hooves. Ara’s nose twitched. She fought a sneeze. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, she brought her hand up to cover her nose. Too late.

  “Achoo.” She froze, panicked. If she were found outside the palace walls far beyond the safe haven of the harem—and not just any girl, as her tutor kept telling her, but the sultan’s daughter, alone and unprotected—she would be in trouble.

  A palace guard turned but never looked deep within the bushes where she sat, still as night, robed in brown and green. One more searching glance, and he turned back to the procession. Ara shivered in relief.

  She felt her eyebrows rise as elaborately dressed slaves bearing the litter of the Sufi mathemagician approached. The Sufi’s companions, concealed beneath the muted indigo hijabs of the mathemagician’s clan, walked alongside. Behind them followed more veiled women in sand-colored robes, their hands clasped and heads bowed, honoring Allah. The horsed guards came next, followed by three more litters. Trailing these, dozens of Sufis from the whole of Granada followed in hope of seeing the visiting scholar.

  Ara held her breath, knowing the price she might pay for her curiosity if she were caught. But if even half the wonders whispered about the mathemagician were true, the wise woman would have the power to transform Ara’s life. The curtains within the gold litter slid aside. It seemed to Ara that violet eyes met her brown ones, laying bare all her secrets. No one can see me, she reassured herself, no one, certainly not through the silk curtains of the litter. The litter passed, and the parade moved toward the grand steps of the palace, but for Ara the moment of
connection with those eyes remained.

  At the top of the steps, Ara’s father, splendid in his robes of state and flanked by his principal advisors, waited to welcome his guest. Three of his wives stood behind him, veiled in black hijabs. Only their eyes showed, as was fitting in so public a place.

  Abd al-Rahmid, the wazir, stood off to the left, his mouth pulled down in its usual scowl. His eyes scanned the peacefully assembled crowd. He always looks grumpy when there is no one to bully, thought Ara.

  The curtains of the litter were pushed aside, and a woman stepped out, her hair wreathed by a white shawl. Her handmaidens quickly moved to assist her.

  Why, she’s tiny, Ara thought, almost as small as my cousin, Layla. Again, Ara felt violet eyes watching her—although Tahirah never turned in her direction but walked with poise to Ara’s father.

  He smiled and bowed. “Welcome, kinswoman. You grace us with your presence. We hope your stay will be long and enjoyable, inshallah—if Allah wills.” When he spoke everyone quieted, and his words carried far over the crowd.

  The tiny woman bowed in return. “Allah is gracious in allowing me to visit your fair city, alhamdulillah—praise be to Allah.” She tilted her head slightly, her shawl moving with the gesture, her voice as strong as the Sultan's. “It is long since I last saw the countless beauties of the Alhambra Palace and enjoyed the hospitality of the Nazrids.” Her hand gestured toward the mountains. “Word comes even from the far reaches of the world that you continue the enlightened rule of your father and his father before him. The honor is mine.” The Sufi bowed her head with the grace of a queen.

  Ara heard her father reply, “I am proud to call you kinswoman, however distant.” He gestured to the hijab-covered women. “My wives have requested the privilege of escorting you to your rooms in the Palace of the Partal. I could not refuse them so great an honor.” Concern crept into his voice. “But you are weary from your travel. Rest—and when you feel renewed, I hope you will give a small talk on symmetry or a reading of poetry.”

  Tahirah nodded, her eyes meeting his. “I would be delighted to do so. But you are right. It has been a trying time.”

  One of her father’s wives—Zoriah, Ara guessed, noting the erect posture—spoke quietly to the Sufi. Zoriah turned back to her sisters-in-marriage.

  If only my mother still lived, Ara thought, she also would be standing there.

  The women conferred softly before quickly taking the traveler to her lodging.

  Ara watched the crowd dissolve through the Gate of Justice into the walled palace, going their separate ways to baths, servants’ quarters, and stables. The wazir stayed until all were gone. Ara glared, willing him to go. What was he waiting for? The longer he stayed, she was more likely to be missed. She shivered. The image of her petite, graceful cousin drifted before her, disapproval and alarm radiating from gentle brown eyes as she’d listened to Ara’s plan.

  Ara closed her eyes and pleaded to the heavens. As Allah is kind, don’t let Suleiman ask Layla where I am.

  The wazir remained, pinning her to her hiding place. Abd al-Rahmid glanced around, as if making sure he was alone. Searching the folds of his caftan, he retrieved a shiny metal rectangle. He scanned the plaza again.

  Why the secrecy? Sunlight flashed against the metal, a ray of light glinted on its edge. The wazir snatched a small frog from beneath a bush. The light seemed to disappear, and then two frogs dangled by their legs from his hand. He turned the metal over twice and rotated it once in a circle, all the while chanting. Darkness gathered where he stood. Ara jumped as she heard a slight pop and one frog vanished. Blood dripped from the wazir’s hand, and a foul stench drifted across the courtyard on a small gray cloud.

  Ara’s stomach churned. The wazir looked around again. He tossed the remaining frog into the bushes before wiping the gore from his hand. A thin smile reached his lips. He pocketed the piece of metal within his sleeves and strode through the palace gate.

  Ara frowned as she crouched in her hiding space. What had he been doing? Near where he stood, a small portion of wall seemed to twist.

  She considered this. Was this something she should tell her father? She nibbled at one finger. She’d have to confess she had been where she was forbidden to go. Besides, what would she say? That she didn’t like the way he smiled? That the wazir killed a frog? Maybe he didn’t like frogs. A lot of people didn’t, she recollected, thinking of her aunt.

  Still, she considered, staring at the spot where the frogs had appeared, blood darkened the floor. It felt very wrong. And it looked like magic.

  Chapter 2

  Ara waited, counting her breaths until she reached fifty, to make sure it was safe to emerge from her hiding place. She crept out.

  “Harrumph.”

  Ara whirled and stared at the large, corpulent figure, vibrating with anger, now peering over the hedge.

  “A worse charge I never had,” Suleiman hissed, his nose flushing red. “A disobedient, thoughtless, willful girl-child who frightens all who care about her with her foolish curiosity.” The tip of his tall hat bobbed with each word. “I’m grateful that your mother, Allah’s prayer and peace be upon her, isn’t here to see you brashly standing outside the palace gates with no protector and”—he looked at her more closely—“covered with dirt and debris.” Suleiman pointed a finger. “What if you were taken, Allah forbid, by an evil Christian?” He glanced over his shoulder as though one might leap out from behind a tree.

  Ara wrinkled her nose. “Christians don’t come to Sufi processions. And they probably don’t have any use for Muslim girls,” she added as an afterthought.

  “You say this, knowing the People of the Book are sniffing at our borders!” Suleiman gasped. “The sultan has warned that our lands are desired by the Castilians. Look at you, beyond the safety not only of the harem, but also of the palace. Some in the harem are already so worried by your wildness they push to find you a husband.” He raised his voice as if uncomfortable with this possibility.

  “Let us go now and show the sultan how his seventh-born obeys. He will not be pleased that one of his household disobeys his directives.” Suleiman’s hat slipped forward slightly, and he pushed it back into place.

  Ara winced. Marriage? She needed time to explore and learn and question. Soon enough she would be an adult and tied to the harem, but not yet. How could she explain her need to see the Sufi arrive? “Suleiman, I’m sorry you worried. I just had to see her. I had to,” she whispered. All too vividly, she envisioned her father’s disappointment and anger were he to find out. She bowed her head in shame and beseeched, “No one saw me. Please, don’t tell Father.” Suleiman hesitated, studying his young charge. “Please,” she whispered again.

  Suleiman didn’t answer but stood gazing down at her. He seemed to grow even taller in the awful silence. Then his voice boomed out, “Translate one hundred pages of the Koran into Spanish, and I may—just may, depending on how good the translation—be too busy reading to go to your father with this latest misdeed.”

  Ara flinched. A hundred pages! That would take days. But at least her father would not be told. She bowed her head. “Thank you, Suleiman.” .

  “But remember,” Suleiman warned, “one more transgression...”

  “Oh, no, Suleiman. I will be very good, truly I will.” But even as she spoke, Ara knew she would keep trying to discover a way to reach the mathemagician. It couldn’t be wrong to wish to sit at the feet of the heroine of the old tales, one of the great minds of the century. Ara glanced up. Suleiman stared at her intently, and she looked back as demurely as she could.

  He seemed to stare at her harder, but the tip of his hat bobbed again—though with less force than before. “The girl child shows some thought, however little, about the feelings of others. Perhaps there is hope of your learning to listen and obey.” His nose's color slowly returned to normal. “The women are asking for you to play for them, while your cousin Layla huddles by the fountain looking like a kitten cornered by a b
adger.” He sighed as he led her toward the palace entrance. “Quickly, we must get you inside and tidied up before further damage is done.”

  Chapter 3

  The mathemagician walked in a daze. Led by the four wives of the harem and followed at a discreet distance by her guards and handmaidens, she reached out with her senses to explore the palace walls. Danger! She could feel it in the core of her being: the magic of the Alhambra was being defiled.

  “We’re so pleased to have you visit,” one woman said.

  “You are too kind, alhamdulillah.” Tahirah tried to keep part of her mind on her hosts. Dark emotions whirled around her, buffeting her with fear and pain.

  “This time of year is lovely with the scent of orange blossoms in the air,” another put in, pointing toward the heavily perfumed trees.

  Tahirah nodded, trying to appear interested. “The Alhambra gardens are what legends are made of.”

  She found it difficult to maintain a conversation while also probing the destruction of mathemagical symmetries within the walls. Someone or something had tampered with the Alhambra’s protections. She brushed her hand over one embossed tile and felt the agony seep into her body. Sweat broke out on her forehead as the pain flowed through her.

  “Are you ill?” someone asked as Tahirah sagged, weakly wiping the sheen of perspiration from her forehead.

  She must not voice this, not until she understood it further. Tahirah gathered herself before speaking. “It has been a long day and, while I am grateful for your company, I am no longer young. I need to bid you good day, so that I might rest from my journey.”

  “Of course. How thoughtless of us.” Zoriah clapped her hands twice and the litter-bearers rushed to her side. “Please take the scholar to her rooms in the Palace of the Partal. See that she has whatever comforts the Alhambra provides.”

  The women clustered together, watching their guest borne away.

  Inside her small litter, Tahirah leaned back in exhaustion and contemplated the danger. The Alhambra’s magic was still holding together, but it was being pried apart layer by layer. Soon, if nothing was done, the bands of magic would stretch too tightly—then snap.