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The shahrban sighed, his shoulders bunching. “Forgive me, sayyid i . I did not mean to make light of the situation.”
“I know.”
A moment passed in awkward silence. The shahrban made a motion as though to extend a hand, then stopped himself, his fingers curling through empty air. Without another word, he stepped aside to allow Khalid passage.
Khalid steeled himself before moving into the alabaster corridor beyond his chambers. “Where is Jalal?”
“The captain of the guard is already assembled in the throne room, sayyidi .”
Almost absentmindedly, Khalid nodded.
It never ceased to give him pause. How they returned to their posts with such stilted ease. The ease of many unsaid thoughts. A king and his general.
They were soon flanked by Khalid’s normal retinue of bodyguards. The soldiers marched in unison, four at each side. Grim-faced. Determined. The Rajput stood close by, ever vigilant. For all of these men knew it was impossible to be too careful, not with the steady rise in threats levied at Khorasan’s young caliph.
Khorasan’s murderous boy-king.
As though he could sense Khalid’s thoughts, the Rajput’s hand fell upon the hilt of his talwar , his gaze roving every which way. Danger often lurked in the same shadows Khalid had feared as a boy. Lived in the dark he’d always avoided.
The dark where Khalid was now most comfortable.
For a time, the only sounds around him were the shuffling of leather sandals against polished stone. The occasional clank of a sword.
Khalid took to studying the rays of sun shifting through the carved screens. The way the light danced and folded on itself.
“What is her name?” he finally asked his uncle.
“Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”
Khalid committed the name to memory. Another life lost. Another family shattered.
The seventy-second one.
His uncle seemed to waver a moment. To hesitate, as though he meant to say or do something more. It did not escape Khalid’s notice.
He looked to his uncle. Pointedly.
This time, the shahrban ’s sigh was one of exasperation. “The captain of the guard wished for me to tell you. Though I advised against it.”
“Tell me what?”
“This girl—this Shahrzad al-Khayzuran—” His uncle faltered once more. “She ... volunteered.”
Khalid stopped in his tracks. The swords around him jangled in a chorus of scraping metal, the soldiers poised to strike at his word.
Why would this young girl volunteer to die?
Just as quickly as the question rose in his throat, Khalid forced it down. Tamped down his curiosity. His interest. It was impossible for him to fathom the girl’s reasons. And he would not do her the dishonor of speculating. The dishonor of presumption.
Despite the low thrum of his thoughts.
He resumed his steps, his mind a tangle of knots. The questions continued bouncing back and forth in a ceaseless flurry. No matter how hard he tried, Khalid’s attempts to silence them were in vain.