defenses. A white rook, displaced by the
queen, falls to the side and stops in midair, as if held by an
invisible hand. Rocking for a second in this off-balance,
impossible position, the rook drifts into the air and lands in the
princess’s palm. The princess frowns.
“In how many moves were you supposed to win
this game, Hasan?”
“In twelve, princess.”
The princess raises her head and meets his
indifferent gaze. Since the day Hasan appeared before her for the
first time, she has never again seen even a glimpse of the look
they exchanged. As if she had merely dreamed the incredible pain
and wisdom going back into the unknown depths of countless
centuries and millennia. As if he really is similar to all other
palace slaves in everything but his magical abilities. The princess
feels an unbearable longing to see once more at least a part of
this gaze, but Hasan’s gray eyes look at her with polite
indifference, as if closed off from the whole world by tiny iron
shutters.
The princess shakes off her thoughts and
takes another look at the chessboard.
“Twelve moves?” she says thoughtfully,
frowning in calculation. Suddenly her face lights up. “You lost,
Hasan!” she exclaims. “You just made your twelfth move, didn’t you?
But to take my king you will need to make another, thirteenth,
move!”
Hasan glances at her, and in his eyes the
princess for a moment sees something human, a merry surprise
similar to that of a child caught at his favorite game. But Hasan’s
eyes quickly become impenetrable again.
Sighing, the princess looks around the room.
Nannies Zeinab and Fatima are embroidering near the window, talking
to each other in low voices and, from time to time, throwing
suspicious glances at Hasan. Everyone in the palace is afraid of
the djinn, and although nobody argues the princess’s right to spend
time with her new slave, she is strictly forbidden to be alone with
him. She is also forbidden to use his magic for anything but small
tricks. Being an obedient daughter, the princess doesn’t dare to
order Hasan anything more complicated than, for instance, moving
the chess pieces with his gaze.
The princess lets out another sigh. What is
the use of owning a djinn if she cannot order him to do anything
interesting? What is the use of the constant presence of this
wizard and mage if he closes himself off from her, and from the
rest of the world, with iron shutters? Who knows, for that matter,
what is really on his mind? Perhaps even now, sitting across from
her with the indifferent face, he is thinking up something evil.
Perhaps he really hates her and wishes something bad for her, just
as her mother and Nimeth say. But no! She couldn’t have dreamt that
look that passed between them! The look, which she saw for a brief
moment in the depths of his eyes, couldn’t go along with evil! It
is just that the pain of his soul is so great that he has no choice
but to close his mind to the outside world and look at it with
indifference.
“Princess! Princess!”
Airagad, panting, runs into the room and
stops, trying to catch her breath. Her round, childish face is
flushed; loose strands of hair are scattered over her face and
neck. She straightens out her shawl, trying to catch enough breath
to talk.
The princess jumps to her feet.
“What happened, nanny?”
“There—” Airagad takes several deep breaths.
“The sultan of Veridue sent your father a stallion—I never thought
there could be such a beautiful horse. It’s all black like a raven,
but its forehead is white like a star, bright as fire. Let’s go
look!”
“Come, Hasan!” the princess shouts, rushing
to the door. It is not every day that a beautiful Veriduan stallion
arrives at the palace! And, judging by Nanny Airagad’s excitement,
this stallion is more beautiful than any other horse of the royal
stable, which the princess often admires from a balcony as they are
exercised in their morning rides.
“Is my father already there?” the
queen, falls to the side and stops in midair, as if held by an
invisible hand. Rocking for a second in this off-balance,
impossible position, the rook drifts into the air and lands in the
princess’s palm. The princess frowns.
“In how many moves were you supposed to win
this game, Hasan?”
“In twelve, princess.”
The princess raises her head and meets his
indifferent gaze. Since the day Hasan appeared before her for the
first time, she has never again seen even a glimpse of the look
they exchanged. As if she had merely dreamed the incredible pain
and wisdom going back into the unknown depths of countless
centuries and millennia. As if he really is similar to all other
palace slaves in everything but his magical abilities. The princess
feels an unbearable longing to see once more at least a part of
this gaze, but Hasan’s gray eyes look at her with polite
indifference, as if closed off from the whole world by tiny iron
shutters.
The princess shakes off her thoughts and
takes another look at the chessboard.
“Twelve moves?” she says thoughtfully,
frowning in calculation. Suddenly her face lights up. “You lost,
Hasan!” she exclaims. “You just made your twelfth move, didn’t you?
But to take my king you will need to make another, thirteenth,
move!”
Hasan glances at her, and in his eyes the
princess for a moment sees something human, a merry surprise
similar to that of a child caught at his favorite game. But Hasan’s
eyes quickly become impenetrable again.
Sighing, the princess looks around the room.
Nannies Zeinab and Fatima are embroidering near the window, talking
to each other in low voices and, from time to time, throwing
suspicious glances at Hasan. Everyone in the palace is afraid of
the djinn, and although nobody argues the princess’s right to spend
time with her new slave, she is strictly forbidden to be alone with
him. She is also forbidden to use his magic for anything but small
tricks. Being an obedient daughter, the princess doesn’t dare to
order Hasan anything more complicated than, for instance, moving
the chess pieces with his gaze.
The princess lets out another sigh. What is
the use of owning a djinn if she cannot order him to do anything
interesting? What is the use of the constant presence of this
wizard and mage if he closes himself off from her, and from the
rest of the world, with iron shutters? Who knows, for that matter,
what is really on his mind? Perhaps even now, sitting across from
her with the indifferent face, he is thinking up something evil.
Perhaps he really hates her and wishes something bad for her, just
as her mother and Nimeth say. But no! She couldn’t have dreamt that
look that passed between them! The look, which she saw for a brief
moment in the depths of his eyes, couldn’t go along with evil! It
is just that the pain of his soul is so great that he has no choice
but to close his mind to the outside world and look at it with
indifference.
“Princess! Princess!”
Airagad, panting, runs into the room and
stops, trying to catch her breath. Her round, childish face is
flushed; loose strands of hair are scattered over her face and
neck. She straightens out her shawl, trying to catch enough breath
to talk.
The princess jumps to her feet.
“What happened, nanny?”
“There—” Airagad takes several deep breaths.
“The sultan of Veridue sent your father a stallion—I never thought
there could be such a beautiful horse. It’s all black like a raven,
but its forehead is white like a star, bright as fire. Let’s go
look!”
“Come, Hasan!” the princess shouts, rushing
to the door. It is not every day that a beautiful Veriduan stallion
arrives at the palace! And, judging by Nanny Airagad’s excitement,
this stallion is more beautiful than any other horse of the royal
stable, which the princess often admires from a balcony as they are
exercised in their morning rides.
“Is my father already there?” the
Similar Books
