Soon, he slumped forward.
“Hurry!” Khalid yelled over his shoulder. He spurred Ardeshir even faster, the stallion’s muscles slicking over with sweat.
As soon as they passed the city gates to break for the desert, Khalid yanked Ardeshir to a halt and dismounted from his saddle.
Tariq pulled Rahim onto the ground.
Even from a distance—even with only a cursory understanding of such things—Khalid could see there was little that could be done. The wound was too deep. The blood lost simply too much. Nevertheless, he looked back at Artan. When Khalid was a small boy, he recalled Musa Zaragoza using magic to tend to his injuries.
But those had been the scrapes of youth. Not the wounds of war.
Artan stooped above the boy. He tugged at an earring, then lifted his hands above the bleeding wound. A light flickered twice before fading out. With a glance and a grave expression, Artan confirmed what Khalid already suspected. Tariq Imran al-Ziyad ran a hand through his hair, slicking his forehead with his friend’s blood. A line of crimson began to trickle from a corner of Rahim’s mouth. He coughed and the blood spurted forth.
Nasir al-Ziyad’s son bowed over him, clasping a bloodied hand in one of his own. “Rahim—”
Rahim shook his head once. “Me too.” He had little voice left, so the words were more a whisper than anything else. Almost a broken sigh.
Khalid knelt at his side. Then placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Rahim,” Khalid said, meeting his dark blue eyes in a steady, unflinching gaze.
Rahim swallowed. His head moved in a feeble nod. A bow. “Sayyidi.”
Khalid’s throat constricted. “Is there anything you need of me?”
Rahim’s eyes misted, then cleared. “Irsa.”
“Yes?”
“Make sure”—he coughed and the lines of blood at his lips widened—“she never feels lonely. That she always feels loved.”
The knot in Khalid’s throat grew. “I promise.”
“Tariq?” Rahim clutched their joined hands tight.
“Yes.” It was a strangled sound.
“Sometimes,” he gasped, “the family you choose . . . is stronger than blood.”
His chest rose and fell twice more.
Khalid looked away while the silent tears streamed down Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s face.
He did not move until they stopped.
No one did.
Irsa had been waiting in the tent with Aisha all afternoon. Every so often, Omar would leave to see if Tariq and the others had returned. The last time he’d left, Irsa had wanted to accompany him, but she’d decided it was wiser to stay in the tent.
Wiser to avoid causing any trouble.
After all, she’d been the cause of enough concern. What with all the searching the day Shazi had disappeared. And then with the march toward Amardha.
Toward possible war.
While Irsa had first thought this all to be rather thrilling, she was already tired of it. She longed to be back in one place. To know what tomorrow would bring.
To have those she loved back at her side. Safe.
For a time, Irsa had wondered if she should worry about what was taking place in the city today. After all, the men had been gone quite a while, but Aisha had reassured her that they’d left under a flag of truce. These sorts of negotiations were normal. A show of words that might lead to meaningful action.
Regardless, Irsa hoped they would return soon.
While riding through the desert the other day, Irsa had come across a white shell with a flower etched upon it. It had reminded her of the story she’d told—admittedly poorly—to Rahim that night she’d found her way to his tent.
The story of the little fish with his white petal wings.
In truth, Irsa believed that to be the night she’d begun to fall in love with Rahim.
So, when she’d come across the white shell, Irsa felt it only fitting that she place it within the folds of her cloak. She knew it was silly, but she thought to give it to him later. Perhaps when all these things had come to pass. For the shell was a ridiculously fragile thing. Apt to break at the slightest error. But at the very least she could show it to him. Perhaps make him smile.
She did so like his smile.
As Irsa found herself lost in its memory—in the way his smile made Rahim’s eyes crinkle at the corners—the tent entrance opened, and a rush of dusky desert air washed back at her.
“Aisha.”
Irsa turned at the name, though Omar had not spoken to her.
His face was ashen.
The sight of it sent her blood on a strange course through her body. As though it were traveling rather fast, though the world around her seemed to have ground to a halt.
Shahrzad. Something had happened to her sister.
Irsa struggled to breathe. Struggled to think.
Aisha moved toward Omar, swift and certain.
Still, he said nothing beyond Aisha’s name. Yet she seemed to understand. They’d always been connected in such a way. Omar’s eyes wandered to Irsa, then back to his wife, speaking without words.