Listening to his people was a dour affair, but it was one Nasir did without complaint. It meant Sarasin was slowly but gradually beginning to trust him in the three months since he’d been crowned caliph, the prince who had killed so many of their own. Freeing the children of the camel races and giving them an abode in the palace had helped, too, but Nasir hadn’t done it for the people.
His wazir, a stern-faced man named Yasar, straightened every last missive they’d received from dawn until noon and handed it to him, signifying that it was time for another unbearably hot afternoon in his chambers, writing and stamping and poring over caliphate affairs.
“Oi, give him a break, old man,” Altair intoned. He had come for a visit and was sprawled on the dais at the foot of the throne, going through missives of his own.
Yasar was miffed. “If you have a problem with how I manage my caliph, Maliki, I suggest you return to your palace.”
It was only a quarter day’s ride between Sultan’s Keep and Sarasin, and the new king was known for his spontaneous visits, dragging Kifah along with him. The only one missing from the zumra meetings was Zafira.
“I hear Qismah’s coronation as Calipha of Demenhur is one moon from now,” Kifah said.
“It is,” Nasir replied, and it was the only letter he’d happily opened, for the silver parchment sealed in navy, the colors of Demenhur, reminded him of her.
Not once had he doubted her. He could see the ice in her gaze, the ferocity in her bearing as she conquered the hearts of
the thousand men who stood between Qismah and her throne.
The last merchant finally shuffled from the room, and as the guards closed the doors for the day, a ruckus rose from the hall. Altair sat up. Nasir paused, craning to see, nudging the young scribe out of the way so he could step off the dais.
“What is the meaning of this?” Yasar snapped when the doors flew open again. The guards drew their spears as a hooded figure stepped inside, moving with gazelle-like grace and snatching the air from Nasir’s throat.
“The caliph is no longer holding court,” one of the officials barked.
“Protect the king,” a gold-cloaked guard commanded. “Drop your hood,” another one snapped.
The children paused in their chores to stare.
The newcomer lowered the fine hood of their cloak, exposing the delicate features that had plagued his nights and days and his every waking moment.
Nasir’s heart saw it fit to pause here. To stop and chronicle this instant in time.
And then he was running, stumbling, racing toward her, missives scattering behind him to Yasar’s disappointment and Altair’s laughter. His hands skimmed her shoulders, her neck, cupped her face.
“Zafira,” he whispered as papyrus drifted around them. “Nasir,” she replied, as if she had never left. As if he hadn’t
forgotten how to breathe.
His lips molded to hers. His life began afresh. Twin sighs escaped them, as if they had both been starving and salvation was finally theirs. The men murmured among themselves, and at the sound of Kifah’s ululation, Zafira pulled away.
“I hear Sarasin is in need of a calipha.”
