Shahrzad let out an unamused chuff. “Thank you for the lovely story, old man.”
He coughed a low chortle. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“Forgive me for not seeing it as such.”
“Where I come from, we are raised to see things in a never-ending cycle. I saw that cycle in the life of the banyan tree. It grows big and tall and wide while providing shelter to those who seek it. Over time, it can grow too big for itself, destroying everything around it. But I’ve also watched it slowly feed its way to new life. Provide roots for the new trees. Seeds for the new flowers. You are a banyan tree because in you I see this story. The beginning and the end of all things. The hope for something to grow, even in shadow.”
Shahrzad’s pulse started to rise.
The old man’s voice had begun to deepen as he spoke. Had begun to lose some of its raspiness. Had begun to roll like distant thunder.
“Be the beginning and the end, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.” A flare of light burst to life across the way. “Be stronger than everything around you.”
The face of the Rajput shone bright in the flickering flame.
“Make all our many sacrifices worth it.”
THE HEAD OF A FLYING SERPENT
THE ARMY THAT MADE ITS WAY TO THE GATES OF Amardha was an unusual one.
The like of which had not been seen in an age.
At its head rode a boy-king beneath a banner of two crossed swords. His cuirass was of silver and gold, and his rida’ was of unrelieved black. By his side were his uncle and his cousin. One wore a cloak with a griffin stitched upon its surface, and the other wore a medallion signifying his status as the captain of the Royal Guard.
At the young king’s flank rode a boy in white, flying the banner of a falcon. A boy who had been his enemy mere days ago.
At this boy’s shoulder rode a host of the finest horsemen this side of the Sea of Sand. Horsemen who had not ridden to war for a generation.
Above them flew a young man with a bald head glistening in the afternoon sun. A young man with a gold ring through each ear. A young man on a flying serpent with scales of darkest night, rippling with each beat of its leathery wings.
A serpent that screamed through the heat with a sound like nails across stone.
The host moved in concert, led by this boy-king and the head of a flying serpent.
Again, it was a rather strange sight. But nevertheless a fearsome one to behold. A sight fueled by a tumult of emotions.
But oddly not by fury.
For the boy-king at its vanguard had mastered his rage even before he had begun the march from Rey to Amardha. Had leashed his control.
And his was a control even more deadly in such a state. A fury at its worst in such a case. When it could be shrewdly unleashed at a moment’s notice.
Much like the head of a serpent.
The sight of Amardha’s grey gates before him made the boy-king’s eyes flash. Once.
No. He was not here to wreak revenge.
For revenge was trifling and hollow.
No. He was not here to retrieve his wife.
For his wife was not a thing to be retrieved.
No. He was not here to negotiate a truce.
For a truce suggested he wished to compromise.
The boy-king spurred his black al-Khamsa forward, its hooves kicking up a storm of dust and debris.
He was here to burn something to the ground.
OUTMATCHED
THE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF CLANKING METAL AND whickering horses filled the desert air with an odd sort of anticipation. Though Irsa had not yet decided if it was the good kind. Nevertheless, she paced on the outskirts of the newly formed camp, trying to remain lighthearted.
“This is exciting, isn’t it?” she began, glancing at Rahim sidelong.
He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. “Exciting is perhaps not the right word.”
Her expression fell. At that, Rahim reached for her hand. Irsa wrapped her fingers around his as though they were made for this, and only this.
They strolled through the bustling encampment. Members of the Royal Guard had already completed the work on Khalid’s tent and had now turned to their own. Badawi soldiers were busy raising Omar’s patchwork structure.
Their hands still entwined, Rahim and Irsa watched the men work in silent concert.
“Are you frightened?” Irsa asked.
He did not answer right away. “A bit. In most of the battles we’ve fought, we’ve had the advantage of surprise. And there is little chance for surprise when you march to the gates of a city and promptly set up camp.” Rahim laughed softly. “But the caliph seems to be a sound strategist. And he doesn’t seem prone to wasting life unnecessarily.”
“You like him.” Irsa grinned. “Don’t you?”
“Not really.” Rahim snorted.