THE WHITE SHELL

THEY RODE FROM THE CITY IN A RUSH. A CLATTER OF hooves. A stream of wind. A trickle of sweat.

But not a single word.

This small band of battered men.

Khalid did not let his guilt for all that had transpired overtake him. Refused to let his regret deter him from his course. They had to flee the city. Far from the reach of Salim’s injured pride.

So they soldiered on. Faster and faster through the alleys and streets and thoroughfares. A fruit stand was knocked to the wayside in their haste. Angry oaths were hurled at their retreating backs. Women pulled their children from Khalid’s path, screaming and scurrying all at once.

Again, the guilt crept into his heart. Clawed at his insides.

It did not matter. How he felt in this moment did not matter.

He did not matter.

There were far more important things at hand.

Khalid kept Rahim on the saddle with him. In moments of weakness, Khalid glanced down to see the boy’s blood spill onto his palms. Onto his saddle. Onto his reins.

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.

“Irsa-jan,” Aisha said quietly, resting her hand upon Omar’s chest to cover his heart. “Will you come with me?”

Irsa stood, her knees wobbling. Her sister. “What—what is it?”

“No.” Omar took a steadying breath. He placed a gnarled palm over Aisha’s hand. “I shall take her.”

Irsa took a step forward. “Has something happened?” Her body did not feel like her own. Her voice sounded as though it were coming from beyond her—a muted echo from across the water.

Omar walked to her side. His eyes fell shut as he inhaled deeply. He clasped both her hands in his.

“Yes, dear one. Something has happened.”

“Is—Shahrzad . . .” Irsa could not even finish the thought.

He shook his head. “No. A fight occurred at the palace.” Again, Omar paused to steel himself. “And Rahim was killed.”

Rahim? The ground beneath Irsa began to sway. “No.” She shook her head, her voice sounding so strange. As though she were truly lost at sea. “That’s not possible.”

“I’m so sorry, Irsa-jan.”

She did not believe it. Refused to believe it.

Rahim was not dead. The men had gone to speak under a flag of truce. Aisha had said so herself. Nothing bad was supposed to happen.

This could not be true.

“Where is he?” Irsa asked, her voice suddenly all too loud.

Omar’s features folded into a grimace. “I don’t think—”

“No. I want to see him.”

“Take her, Omar,” Aisha said in a grim tone. “She is not a child.”

The Badawi sheikh sighed, then wrapped an arm about Irsa’s shoulders. Irsa concentrated on blinking, on putting one foot before the other as they exited the tent into a beautiful desert sunset. The sky was awash in oranges and pinks. Brilliant colors that should have warmed her. Should have brought a smile to her face.

She’d always loved dusk. It was as though a hand in the sky had pulled the sun from its berth . . . only to have the sun fight back, resisting, leaving a trace of itself to fade amongst the stars.

Irsa stared at the desert sky as she walked. The sight before her blurred, and she ran a palm across her eyes.

No. She would not believe it.

Only this morning, Irsa had walked with him here. Held his hand here.

Watched him smile here.

Guards stood outside Khalid’s tent. When they saw the sheikh, they moved to let Irsa pass.

Irsa strode inside, and immediately those within took to their feet.

The captain of the guard stepped before her. “I don’t think it’s wise—”

“Leave her be,” Khalid said quietly.

The captain of the guard gazed down at her for a moment. He put a hand on her arm. Squeezed. Then moved aside.

Irsa stopped at the sight before her. Her heart lurched into her throat.

Tariq and Khalid stood around a raised bed pallet. Tariq’s silver breastplate was dull, his expression lost. His face was covered with sweat and dirt. Khalid’s hands were stained, his silver-and-gold cuirass marred by dark smears. Both their cloaks were bloody. Red over white. Crimson over black. Colors that could not be ignored.

Irsa knew then that this was not a lie. For blood did not lie.

But still she walked toward them as if in a trance, the warmth stealing from her very blood.

Rahim was lying on the bed pallet. So very still. If Irsa did not look closely, he could have been sleeping.

She halted an arm’s length away.

“How—” Irsa cleared her throat. She would not be a mouse. She was no longer a mouse. Because of Rahim. Her chin rose. “How did this happen?”

“It was my fault,” Tariq replied, his voice awash in misery. In undeniable self-loathing.

“No,” Khalid said. “If it was anyone’s fault, it was everyone’s fault. And mine most of all.” He moved toward her. “But he saved my life, Irsa-jan. And he thought of you, at the last.”

Irsa nodded, her eyes wide and unblinking. “Rahim is like that. He always thinks of others first.”

At that, the captain of the guard tore from the tent, a choked sound emitting from his lips.

“Do you want us to leave you with him?” Khalid asked, his eyes locked upon her face.

Irsa peered up at him. Only a few days ago, he had frightened her so when he looked at her that way. As though he could see through to her very soul. Now all Irsa saw was a searching look. A look that simply wished to understand.

To help.

“Yes, please,” she whispered.

Khalid looked to the others. They quickly cleared the tent, save for he and Tariq.

Tariq came to stand before her, tall and wrapped in white stained with red. He pulled her against him in a gentle embrace.

“I’m so sorry, Cricket,” Tariq said into her hair.

He did not seem quite so . . . much now. Before, Irsa had always thought of him as larger than life. So full of vim and vigor. So full of everything Irsa wished she could embody. So incapable of losing to anything or anyone.

Now he seemed like a boy who’d lost his best friend.

A boy who could lose.

Irsa could not reply with words, so instead she merely nodded.

Once they had left, Irsa sat beside the raised bed pallet. Strangely, she did not feel any pain. Again, it was as though she had moved beyond herself. Rahim still looked as though he might be sleeping. Someone had tried to clean him, but they’d missed a line of blood at his neck. But for that, Irsa could almost believe she might jostle him awake with nothing but her touch.

Instead she studied the line of blood in silence for a time.

Then Irsa reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out the white shell with the flower etched on its surface. “I wanted to give you this.”

She waited. As though she expected a response.

“Oh.” It was a quiet sob. Something tore behind her heart. Though Irsa wanted to fight back the sudden burn, she let it wash through her. She would not be weak. This was not a time to be weak. And fighting herself—fighting how she felt in this moment—would be weak.

Would be denying who she truly was.

“I—” Irsa took a careful breath to steady her words. “I have felt alone for most of my life. Until you.” She placed the shell on his chest. “But I promise I won’t feel alone anymore. I will never forget.” She stood on shaky feet. “I will always remember.”

“I love you, Rahim al-Din Walad. Thank you for loving me in return.”

With that, Irsa turned and walked through the entrance of the tent, her head high, though her body had begun to tremble.

Khalid and the young magus from the Fire Temple were waiting outside, just beyond a pair of torches. The magus eyed her, his face softening. She started to walk by them. Then stopped.

The magus took a deep breath. He sent a sad smile her way while placing a reassuring hand on Khalid’s shoulder. Then, without a word, he left.

“Did he . . .” Irsa bit her lip, tears building upon the burn, threatening to converge at any second. “Did Rahim suffer?”

“Not long.”

“I’m glad.”

“As am I.” Khalid studied her face. Studied the twist of emotions passing across her features. “Irsa—”

“How could you let this happen?” she asked, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you protect him? Why didn’t you—”

The Caliph of Khorasan pulled her in to his chest.

And Irsa cried until every last trace of the sun’s warmth sank beneath the horizon.