“Sayyidi, I must implore you. No matter how repugnant, stay the prior course. This option . . . will not end well.”
“Your counsel is noted. And appreciated,” Khalid said in a low tone.
The faqir nodded.
Khalid bowed his head. The faqir raised both his palms to Khalid’s temples, leaving just enough space for silk to pass, then closed his eyes. The air in the antechamber stilled. The flames in the lamps grew tall and lean. When the faqir’s eyes opened once more, they glowed with the light of a full moon. Between his hands, a warm red-orange fireburst spread up and around the entirety of Khalid’s brow. The circle pulsed yellow, then white, spiraling upward all the while, before it retracted back into the faqir’s clawed hands.
Once the magic had faded back to the realm of its origins, the faqir dropped his hands.
Khalid raised his head. The pounding was less profound, if still present, and his eyelids were not as heavy as before. “Thank you.”
“Soon there will come a time when I will not deserve such words, sayyidi.”
“You will always deserve such words, no matter what happens.”
The faqir’s frustration further marred his features. “Would that all of Khorasan could see the king I see, sayyidi.”
“They would not be much impressed. For I did bring all of this upon myself, did I not? And, as a consequence, they have had to endure the unthinkable.”
The faqir bowed with his fingertips to his brow, then floated to the door.
Before exiting, he turned. “How long should a man pay for his mistakes, sayyidi?”
Khalid did not hesitate.
“Until all debts are forgiven.”
THE HONOR OF BETRAYAL
WHEN SHAHRZAD AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, sunlight streamed through the opened screens leading to the terrace. A fresh arrangement of citrus blossoms lay on a small stool next to the raised platform.
At the sight of the white flowers by her bed, her first thought was of Khalid. She stretched her arms, trying her best to ignore the pang of guilt that ensued.
“Do you like them?” Despina asked. “I thought you might.”
Shahrzad raised her head from the pillow. “What?”
“You have a rather strange preoccupation with flowers, so I asked them to bring some to your room.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Despina snorted. “You don’t sound grateful. You sound disappointed.”
Shahrzad rolled over. She rose from the bed and slipped into her shamla.
I hate that she notices everything. Almost as much as I hate her for being right.
As Shahrzad stepped from the platform, Despina removed the lid from the tureen of soup.
And Shahrzad heard her stifle a gasp in the process.
“What’s wrong?” Shahrzad took a seat on the cushions before the low table.
“Nothing,” Despina squeaked.
Shahrzad gazed at her handmaiden, and her heart lurched.
Despina’s brow was beaded with sweat. Her usually flawless coloring of delicate ivory and blushing coral was decidedly green and sallow. Tension darkened every crease. Her graceful fingers trembled next to her beautifully draped dress of lilac linen.
She looked exactly as she had the day Shahrzad’s tea had been poisoned.
“Where is the servant who tastes my food?” Shahrzad’s voice wavered at the end of her question.
“She just left.” It was a terse response, pushed forth from unwilling lips.
Shahrzad nodded. “Fine. I’ll ask you once more, Despina. What’s wrong?”
Despina shook her head, backing away from the table.
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, Shahrzad.”
Shahrzad stood up, jangling the edge of the tray. “Don’t make me do this!”
“Do what?”
“Why do you look scared?”
“I’m not scared!”
“Come here.”
Despina hesitated before striding back to the table. As she stood alongside Shahrzad, her trembling worsened, and she pressed her mouth into a single, bright pink line.
Shahrzad’s heartbreak began anew. “Sit down.”
“What?” The word passed through clenched teeth.
“Sit down, Despina!”
“I—no.”
“No?”
“I—can’t, Shahrzad!” She shuffled away from the table, raising a hand to her lips.
“How could you?” Shahrzad whispered.
“What?” Despina gasped.
“Stop lying to me!” She seized Despina by the wrist and dragged her closer. “Why?”
The flat of Despina’s hand remained clamped over her mouth as she glanced at the tray of food below.
“Answer me!” Shahrzad wailed. “How could you do this?”
Despina shook her head, the beads of sweat dripping from her brow.
“Despina!”
Then, with a retching sound, Despina snatched the lid of the soup tureen and began vomiting into it.
Shahrzad stood there in shock, her eyes huge as she watched her handmaiden sink to the floor in a miserable heap, clutching the silver lid in both hands.
Once Despina’s suffering had lessened to dry heaving, she peered up at Shahrzad through tear-stained lashes.
“You—are a miserable brat, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran,” she choked.
At first, Shahrzad could think of no way to string together a coherent response. “I—you’re—Despina, are you . . .” Shahrzad trailed off. Then she cleared her throat. “Well, are you?”