She’d watched Khalid out of the corner of her eye. She’d waited for him to betray her—to shed his snakeskin and strike. Like a wounded animal, she’d warily taken food and drink, never dropping her guard, not even for a moment.
She was smart, and she loved her brother with a fierceness Khalid almost envied.
He’d appreciated her quiet honesty the most. And he’d wanted to do more for their family. So much more than clear their tiny home of destruction and leave behind a pittance in a leather pouch. But he’d known nothing would ever be enough.
Because nothing could ever replace what they’d lost.
Khalid opened his eyes.
With his back to the sun, he began his drill.
The shamshir cut through the sky in swooping arcs. In flashes of silver and streaks of white light. It whistled around him as he tried to quiet the clamor of his thoughts.
But it wasn’t enough.
He put both hands on the hilt and twisted it in two.
The blades were forged of damascene steel, tempered in the Bluefires of Warharan. He’d commissioned them himself. None were their equal.
A sword in either hand, Khalid continued moving across the sand.
Now, the sound of dully shrieking metal rasped about his head with the fury of a desert sirocco.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
A trickle of blood slid down his arm.
He felt nothing. He only saw it.
Because nothing hurt like missing her.
He suspected nothing ever would.
“Has it come to this?”
Khalid did not turn around.
“Have Khorasan’s coffers been so depleted?” Jalal continued to jest, though his tone sounded oddly forced.
His back to his cousin, Khalid wiped his bloodied palms on the ends of his crimson tikka sash.
“Please tell me the Caliph of Khorasan—the King of Kings—can still afford to procure a set of gauntlets or, at the very least, a single glove.” Jalal sauntered into view, a dark eyebrow crooked high into his forehead.
Khalid returned his shamshir to its sheath and glanced at the captain of his Royal Guard. “If you need a glove, I can procure one for you. But only one. I am not made of gold, Captain al-Khoury.”
Laughing, Jalal propped his hands on the hilt of his scimitar, his grip tight. “Procure one for yourself, sayyidi. It appears you are sorely in need of it. What happened?” He nodded at Khalid’s bloodstained palms.
Khalid tugged his linen qamis back over his head.
“Does it have anything to do with you disappearing yet again yesterday?” Jalal pressed, his agitation becoming all the more evident.
When Khalid failed to respond a second time, Jalal stepped before him.
“Khalid.” All pretense at lightheartedness was gone. “The palace is in shambles. The city is a disaster. You cannot continue disappearing for hours on end, especially without a detachment of bodyguards. Father cannot continue lying to everyone about where you are, and I . . . cannot continue lying to him.” Jalal ran his fingers through his wavy mop of hair, further setting it into disarray.
Khalid paused to study his cousin.
And was alarmed by what he saw.
Jalal’s usual veneer of smug self-satisfaction was absent. A scraggly beard shadowed his jawline. His ordinarily pristine cloak was wrinkled and smudged, and his hands seemed on an unending quest for something to grasp—a sword hilt, a sash knot, a collar loop . . . anything.
In all his eighteen years, Khalid had never known Jalal to fidget.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Jalal guffawed loudly. Too loudly. It rang so patently false that it only succeeded in disturbing Khalid further.
“Are you in earnest or in jest?” Jalal crossed his arms.
“In earnest.” Khalid took a cautious breath. “For now.”
“You want me to confide in you? I must confess, I’m galled by the irony.”
“I don’t want you to confide in me. I want you to tell me what’s wrong and stop wasting my time. If you need someone to hold your hand, seek out one of the many young women who pine outside your chamber door.”
“Ah, there it is.” A bleak expression settled on Jalal’s face. “Even you.”
At that, Khalid’s irritation reached a breaking point. “Take a bath, Jalal. A long one.” He began striding away.
“I’m going to be a father, Khalid-jan.”
Khalid stopped short. He turned in place, his heel forming a deep divot in the sand.
Jalal shrugged. A rueful smile tugged at one corner of his lips.
“You . . . unconscionable imbecile,” Khalid said.
“That’s kind.”
“Are you seeking permission to marry her?”
“She won’t have me.” He tugged his fingers through his hair again. “It appears you aren’t the only one to have noticed the harem of women outside my chamber door.”
“I like her already. At the very least, she’s wont to learn from her mistakes.” Khalid leaned into the shadows against the stone wall and shot a daggered glance at his cousin.
“That’s also kind.”
“Kindness is not among my celebrated virtues.”
“No.” Jalal laughed drily. “It’s not. Especially not of late.” His laughter gave way to a sobering pause. “Khalid-jan, you do believe me when I say my only thought was to keep Shazi safe when I told that boy—”