Not the king Khalid wished to be.
Salim wanted an excuse to attack Khalid in cold blood. To kill him in this courtyard, before a string of witnesses. To massacre Khalid in defense of himself.
For it was the best way to ensure a legitimate ascension to the throne. One that did not have the stink of treachery to it.
So Khalid remained still, the fury boiling in his blood, searing fast in his throat.
He did nothing. Said nothing. Made to turn away from the provocation. To stride back into the desert, with plans to rail at the skies later, when he was alone.
Khalid would make the Sultan of Parthia pay for what he had done.
There were a hundred ways to make him pay. A thousand.
But not now. Not in this moment.
Alas, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad did not know the things Khalid did.
So when the boy drew his sword and charged the Sultan of Parthia, Khalid knew what would transpire before anyone else did.
A legion of soldiers materialized from the shadows of the courtyard, ready to defend their sultan. Ready to strike down anyone who dared to assault their king.
Khalid ripped his shamshir from its scabbard without a second thought.
“Get back!” he yelled at Tariq, grabbing the boy by the shoulder.
Khalid swung his sword to defend the boy from the first blow. Tariq managed to deflect the next attack with an able parry of his own. He stood at Khalid’s back as a swarm of soldiers surrounded them, wielding flashes of menacing silver. Soon, the sound of swords being torn from their sheaths emanated on all sides.
Though the blood raged through his body, Khalid felt his heart plunge like a stone in his stomach. This was not a battle they could win. They were grossly outnumbered. Outmatched, in all ways.
Nevertheless, Khalid separated his shamshir into two as a pair of soldiers charged his way. As all chaos broke loose. He glanced to his right, expecting to see Jalal there. As he always had been. Ever since Khalid was a small boy. Ever since Hassan died. But when Khalid looked to either side of him, he realized he fought alone. His cousin battled several soldiers far across the way.
Jalal did not even pause to look for Khalid. Just as he’d stated that afternoon before the steps of Rey’s library, Jalal would no longer keep watch over Khalid’s shadow. Would no longer worry unduly over his cousin.
Over the king who’d betrayed his confidences.
Khalid gripped the hilts of his swords tighter.
The soldiers were closing in on them. Khalid saw one of his men fall beneath the wicked slice of a blade. He knew they had to make it to the higher ground surrounding the sunken courtyard if they were ever going to have a chance to reach the gates.
“Jalal!” Khalid called out, trying to convey his intentions in a glance.
But his cousin could not hear him above the fray. Khalid whipped around one of Salim’s soldiers, then slashed across his face and chest with both swords. Streams of crimson followed in his wake, staining the sandstone at his feet.
“Jalal!” At that, both his cousin and Artan Temujin, who was fighting to make his way through the crush of bodies toward Salim, turned in his direction.
Khalid saw his cousin’s eyes go wide in the same instant Artan shouted a warning. For Khalid did not see the soldier from behind him until it was too late. He spun in an attempt to deflect the blow—
Then from his right, a figure emerged to repel the onslaught.
To save him.
It was the boy Khalid had fought that night in the desert.
Rahim.
Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s friend. Irsa al-Khayzuran’s love.
Khalid saw in a crushing moment, as two more soldiers converged in their direction, as Khalid’s swords swung to disarm the sentry before him . . .
That Rahim would not succeed in fending off the next wave.
A sword pierced through Rahim’s stomach from behind.
Khalid cut at his attacker and kicked him away. Then slashed to defend Rahim. He pulled him close, yelling for help. No one could hear Khalid through the clanging of metal and the shouts of wounded men.
Then everything around Khalid came to a sudden halt.
At Salim’s request.
For when Khalid looked up, he saw Artan Temujin a stone’s throw from the Sultan of Parthia, the magus’s palms wide by his shoulders—
And a halo of fire spinning about Salim Ali el-Sharif’s head.
Salim stood motionless, his eyes bulging with fear.
“You will let us go,” Artan said loudly. “You will not follow us.” He began to back away, his hands widening as the halo of fire grew about the sultan’s head. “And, in the future, you will seriously take to heart the meaning of civil discourse.”
Shahrzad said nothing as Vikram lifted both hands to the metal grate of her cell. He breathed onto the iron in a slow exhalation of air, and the metal began to glow red.