Or harbored memories he was not ready to relive yet.
At least beyond the palace walls, the stories were alive and real. Even if they were raw—even if they tore at his compunctions—he could face them.
He could fix them.
And, after a morning spent dealing with countless scrolls and tedious affairs of state, Khalid needed to see results. Something tangible he had done with his time.
Besides fending off an impending war.
Alas, it was possible he’d erred today.
The sun shone bright on the steps of the city’s library.
Too bright.
Painfully so.
As the day wore on, small distortions began to swim across his sight. His headache worsened to a near-debilitating degree. It had always been there, but the morning hours spent staring at tiny script on unending reams of parchment, followed by an afternoon of hefting hot granite down uneven steps, had not helped matters at all.
Khalid paused a moment to pull his cowl lower and wipe the sweat from his brow.
It was not mere happenstance that he had chosen to help repair the city’s oldest library. Though there were many others assisting in this undertaking, he had felt drawn to the crumbling stone structure for several days.
The place where Shahrzad’s father had worked, before her family fled Rey.
A place Shazi had loved, if her affinity for storytelling was any indication.
It was clear the building had fallen into disrepair long before the events of the storm only a week ago. The steps leading to its vaulted doorway were cracked and misaligned, the once-vivid sandstone darkened to a mottling of greys and browns.
The storm had merely brought to fruition the inevitable.
Prodded by its winds, several pillars had collapsed on themselves, falling to ruin under the weight of time and neglect. Now the main entrance to the library was completely barred by their remains.
Khalid had already sent his engineers to the site to brace the sagging rafters. Today he was working alongside several careworn laborers, forming a line to haul away the debris.
The hood of his rida’ kept him safely anonymous. For who would ever suspect the insidious Caliph of Khorasan of hauling stones before the city’s library on a sweltering summer’s day?
Khalid swore under his breath as the sweat on his palms nearly caused him to lose grip on his burden. Indeed, who would ever expect of him such a beneficent act, for it was clear he was quite ill equipped to perform meaningful labor of any sort. What good were all those endless drills with swords—all those endless lessons in supposed strategy—if he couldn’t even transport rocks from a building?
When the stone in his hands fell to the ground with a sudden thud, it missed his foot by a hairsbreadth.
Khalid swore loudly and foully and without a care.
“Watch it, boy!” A near-toothless man edged a rock past him, his sun-worn face in a perpetual snarl. “You’re liable to lose every last toe that way.”
Khalid dipped his head in wordless acknowledgment. Then he stooped to collect the stone.
His right hand was bleeding again, a gash of brilliant red across his palm. He wiped it on his black tikka sash, hoping to stanch the flow.
“You’d better clean that. And wrap it in something, before it worsens.” The toothless man pushed past him again, moving with uncanny efficiency for someone so slight. “There’s usually water in pails at the side of the building.” He nudged his chin toward the shadows.
Khalid adjusted the front of his rida’ so he could address the man without impediment. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I still don’t understand why a boy with leather sandals that fine is troubling himself with work like this.” He regarded Khalid with a critical stare.
“Perhaps I have a strange affinity for old books.”
“Perhaps.” But he looked doubtful. “In any case, clean your wound. If it festers and you perish of a fever, your rich father will not be pleased.”
With a small smile, Khalid bowed, then proceeded to the side of the building to take heed of the man’s advice.
A rabble of children played amongst pails of water. Several boys fought over a rusted tumbler perched above a questionable fount, littered with ash and debris. One enterprising young girl hovered near a large bucket, its contents fastidiously clean. Not a single twig or a smattering of dust could be seen. She glanced up at Khalid, a smile alighting her features as she took in the fine sword hanging from his hip.
“Some water on a hot day, sahib?” The bit of colorful twine around her wrist slid down her skinny arm as she held up a hollowed-out gourd.
Khalid could not help but grin back. “How much for the pail . . . and the gourd?”
“For you, sahib?” Her smile turned mischievous. “Only two dinars.”
Barely able to contain her exulting crow when Khalid handed over the coins, the girl raced into the streets, her day’s work considered done. The other children scurried after her, eager to partake in her winnings.