Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kahina ground up the millets and dates together into a fine powder. Sitting cross-legged in such a tiny space was cumbersome, especially since she was also boiling milk in one corner. But she had no choice. She was already late. What would the Lalla think? That the trusted servant of the chief’s family had grown old and lazy? Oh, the shame! The embarrassment.

How she wished she were younger.

But more than that, she wished this anxiety, this excitement, had come to them under different circumstances.

The passing of Amastan had created all sorts of problems for them. While his wife still lived, she was a pious and simple woman—incapable of leading or organizing the people.

The burden had fallen upon the shoulders of the 17-year-old daughter, the would-be chieftainess.

And Kahina was terrified. Not just because Dassin was young and fatherless, but also for what she intended to do later in the afternoon.

For over a hundred years, their people had not followed their own ways properly. They had taken on the way of the Northerners; the light-skinned ones who came from the land beyond the sea. And their way was strict, still unfamiliar, and even a little alien to this desert.

But despite all of this, they were faithful, believing, and devout.

Dassin wanted to bring back the old ways as well.

What would the men say? What would the elders say?

Kahina remained worried all morning as she poured the cooling date porridge into giant pitchers for the ceremony that would be held later in the day.

At the other end of the camp, the young would-be chieftainess was being bathed in lavender oil and bluebell water. An old attendant held her hair back and applied henna to the tips. Meanwhile, two younger attendants scrubbed her heels with pumice and charcoal.

On a settee next to the bathing vat, a seamstress added a final stitch to her royal blue robe.

“Are you sure this should be so form fitting?” she bit her lip. “The elders may not like it.”

Dassin, who had her eyes closed, sighed.

“Do I look like I care what the elders think?” she further reclined into her little pool and raised her left foot out from the other end.

“Look at those petals stuck to my toes. They are our ways. Our history. We have trampled upon them and yet, they stay fragrant, vibrant… humble enough to stay at our feet, hopeful that we will acknowledge them again someday.” She opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at the seamstress. “Today is that day.”

Over the next hour, Dassin’s eyes were lined with kohl and her brow was decorated with an intricate motif in indigo. Her ankles were painted with henna, as were the tips of her fingers, and the base of her throat.

When she walked out of her tent, everyone outside dropped whatever they were doing to kneel before her. They took in her silver and lapis lazuli jewelry and the large pyramid ring on her hand that signified her royal birth.

“Please take your place at the coveted rock, Lalla Dassin,” Jabbar, her father’s oldest aide and servant invited her to take her place. His leathery skin hung on his face like waxy parchment. But his toothless grin made up for his appearance.

“In the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful,” she began with the traditional words that were now her people’s spiritual cornerstone.

“Ameen,” the people responded.

“In the memory of Lemta, the mother of our mothers.” A few gasps were heard but most people dutifully kept their heads bowed and said ‘Ameen.’

“In the name of this sand that births us, sustains us, and keeps us safe until the final day,” Dassin’s voice boomed across the settlement. More people came out and gathered around to listen.

“I hereby take on the mantle of your chieftainess, your queen, and your guardian. You are sovereign in me. You are fulfilled in me. You are of our people in me.”

“To our new chieftainess,” Anqa, the shepherd, shouted out in jubilation. “To her health. And to our prosperity.”

Kahina brought out the cool date porridge and served out a small, ceremonial helping to everyone in the square.

The large gold bowl was offered to Dassin.

“Choose your first consort, Lalla.”

Dassin looked at the crowd. Her eyes searched for who she wanted as her first consort. She would have her oldest heir from him.

But the man of her imaginings was not among them. Where she saw a glimpse of his beard, the chin was wrong. Where the chin seemed to be his, the eyes told another story.

A pang of disappointment hit her.

Who was she searching for? There was no one from her daydreams that would be real here.

Nerves steeled once again, she rested her gaze upon the tall, slim form of Anqa.

“You,” she declared. “You will be the father of my firstborn.”