My mother told it to me, and the others who fled with her repeated it, and I learned it at their knees. By then, I was old enough to card the wool and spin the thread—I was my mother’s son, so my spinning was to be expected. When you spin, there isn’t much to do besides talk and listen, but at the time I needed to learn more before I could do my share of the talking. As a result, I was a very good listener. The words I heard were woven into my heart, and I wrapped myself up in the details I gleaned from them as I would a blanket: once my mother had been a proud woman, and a wealthy one, and then a spoiled little princess had ended it all.
The Little Rose was born in Kharuf to the king and queen of that land. It had been seven generations since the King Maker had split his country along the mountain seam, bequeathing half to each of his sons to avoid a civil war. In Qamih, prosperity was easy. The soil was fertile and the weather was fine for much of the year. The Maker Kings still ruled there, throne passing from father to son when they died. There was an unnatural blessing upon that land, for even when it should have gone ill for them, it did not. We in Kharuf might have a drought—heather withering on the slopes, while the sheep starved—but their fields were always well watered. We might have too much rain, and lose villages to mudslides, but their crops never faltered.
Even with such a neighbor to compare with, Kharuf was not always unpleasant. I do not recall much of my early years there, but my mother assured me that we were always well kept and cared for by the king. Ruling a smaller kingdom as he did, it was said that King Qasim knew all of his subjects by name. This was of course an exaggeration, but Qasim and his wife, Rasima, did well by their people, and their people loved them for it. The Maker Kings might live in a castle three times the size of theirs, and never fear that the game in their forests would run out, but in Kharuf we had a king who was not afraid to shear his own sheep, and a queen who could tend a flock as well as she could weave a tapestry.
The birth of the Little Rose, called Zahrah by her parents, did not change that, not at first. The Little Rose was a pretty child, my mother told me. She had the same dark skin as her parents, brown eyes, and a mouth that smiled before she had teeth. Her hair was the color of wheat in high summer, which was unusual but not unheard of. It was said that long ago, one of the Little Rose’s ancestresses had married a man who had pale skin and hair the color of rice cooked with saffron. Pale skin was not ever seen in the line again, unless someone fell ill and the color was unnatural, but every now and then, light hair reappeared. It was less a mark of kingship, though, than it was a reminder of where our people had once come from. No, in the Little Rose’s case, her kingship was assured by her parents’ careful stewardship of Kharuf—at least, it was until the day that the Little Rose turned five.
No one ever argued that the birthday party was less than magnificent, even afterward, when talk of the day was confined to hushed whispers of faded hope. At the time, the partygoers were thoroughly charmed. All I remember is that I was in bed with sheep pox and couldn’t attend, but my mother told me that the queen herself had made sure to send me a plate of sweetbreads, and a handkerchief she had embroidered with her own needle in an attempt to make up for it.
In the main gallery, where the castle people gathered to celebrate, it was a much merrier time. The subtle glow of the candles highlighted the gold thread and deep purple silks of the tapestries. The royal harpist played so perfectly in tune that the crystal goblets at every place setting sang with her as she plucked each note. And the food, the food was perfection beyond the sweetbreads I had been given, each succulent morsel resting in finely decorated vessels.
This was why Kharuf loved its king and queen so much. The Maker Kings sat at high tables and did not speak to any but the most important lords and merchants. They had fine glass and inlaid spoons to eat with, but the lower tables had only rough fare. They lorded their creations over each and every one: their roads and their harbors, the bright steel of their soldiers’ helmets. In Kharuf, what the king ate was eaten by all, and the cutlery in the queen’s hand was the same as that in the hand of the lowest scullion.
Qasim and Rasima had, as tradition dictated, invited each of the magical creatures that guarded humanity to the feast. Where a common shepherd might put out purple cloth and a few iron nails if they wished to attract the attention of our protectors, the king and queen had commissioned wrought-iron figures of each creature, paying the smiths quite handsomely, it must be said. They had placed each gift in a purple silk bag that the Little Rose had, with help from my mother, stitched herself.