Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,165

Mount Damavand.

“It is not luck.”

A few days later, Mirza Salman contacted Pari’s vakil and asked to see her letter about the mill. When it arrived, he had an expert at court verify her handwriting and declared the letter sound. I didn’t know what form of persuasion he used to wrest the mill away from Khalil Khan, but I suspected he was compelled to demand it as a personal favor. It didn’t take long before Mirza Salman sent a messenger to me with the deed. Once I had it in hand, I immediately sent a message to Fereshteh telling her of our success.

Kind lady, know that the tears shed by your loving eyes

Have transformed into oceans that rival the skies.

Because of your sacrifices and your pain

Those oceans rematerialized as sweet summer rain.

That rain fell upon my desert of woe

Your waterfall of kindness made things grow.

Allow me to thank you for the gift of your tears

With a shower of good news: Our liberation nears!

That afternoon, Balamani informed me that Mohammad Shah had commanded me to present myself before him the next day. I was surprised, having thought Mirza Salman would arrange my dismissal and save the Shah the trouble of seeing me. Now I would have to prepare for any eventuality. Would the Shah chastise me for being Pari’s servant? Worse yet, would he accuse me of disloyalty or of murder? I hastily penned a letter to Pari’s vakil instructing him that my sister, Jalileh, was to inherit the mill in the event of my death. Then I gave a copy of the letter to Balamani for safekeeping. After reading it, he tucked it into his robe.

“May God protect you from harm,” he said, and insisted on spending every moment of that evening in my company, as if afraid it would be my last.

The morning of my meeting, I dressed in the dark blue head-to-toe that Pari had given me, hoping that some of her royal farr would protect me, and into my sash I tucked one of her handkerchiefs embroidered with the lady reading her book. Mohammad Shah was too blind to be able to see my attire, of course, but I imagined it would impress his wife. I arrived and waited in the guest room where I had gone with Pari so many times to petition Isma‘il. Nothing had changed; the paintings and furniture were the same, only the occupants were new.

When I was shown in, I was surprised to see no sign of Mohammad Shah. Khayr al-Nisa Beygom sat on a gold-embroidered cushion, where the Shah would normally sit, and was surrounded by her ladies and her eunuchs. She was wearing such a bright red robe that it made her skin look as white as a ghost’s; her lips were red like a gash.

Now that she was queen, I greeted her as Mahd-e-Olya, the Cradle of the Greats, which was fitting since she had given birth to four royal sons.

“Thank you for the opportunity to bask in the royal radiance,” I continued in Farsi, her native language, knowing my fluency would please her.

“You are welcome,” she said regally. “It is time for me to decide what to do with you. Before I do, tell me why you are so valuable to the court.”

I realized right away that she was making good on her promise to take control. The word around the palace was that her husband was shah in name only.

“I can write a letter in three languages, procure sensitive information, and give sound advice on strategy. No wall stops me.”

“I have heard much about your talents. The only question is where you should serve.”

I was taken aback. I had expected her to question me and get rid of me.

“Thank you. I thought you should know that Mirza Salman advised me that leaving palace service would be for the best,” I said euphemistically. “He said he would speak with you about it.”

“He did, but my decision is the only one that matters.” She stared at me as if waiting to be challenged.

“My eyes are yours to be stepped on.”

“Good. Let us return to the problem of where you should serve.”

Sensing a trap, I struggled to get what I wanted. “Kind lady, I apologize for burdening you with my problems. A grave concern demands my presence away from court, if you are kind enough to grant it.”

“What problem?”

“It is my sister, Jalileh. The family members who have been caring for her are old and ailing,” I improvised quickly. “I fear