The Bodyguard
I lived for the sole purpose of dying. We all do, in a way.
Our bodies weaken until we become broken editions of our former selves.
We crumble into the earth then, merging with the sand, and our soul rises, drifting far above.
We remain as memories until only the rich soil beneath our feet remembers us.
Though I was not waiting for the cruel hands of time to claim me, but rather for the drop of poison added to my cousin’s meal or the sharp blade slicing for her neck.
Nothing mattered more than giving my life to save hers.
But when she put her safety at risk at every opportunity, it proved hazardous for me.
I tucked my chadar around my face, the scarf soft against my nose as it settled beneath my eyes.
It was dyed in the deepest shade of brown, like the rest of my apparel, reminding me of dried blood.
The women behind me dressed in rapid movements.
Their uniforms matched mine: Loose dresses that split at the legs, drifting over flared pants that cuffed around the ankles.
Metal glinted at their backs. Knives were sheathed there—five, to be exact.
I ran my fingers over the hilts protruding from mine.
If the day turned for the worse, we would need them.
The women placed their chadars over their plaited hair and covered their faces.
Almost in unison, their gazes shifted to me, dark stares peering at me through the gaps in their scarves.
I grasped the golden wristband on the low table and slipped it over my hand.
Such a small thing, and yet it was what differentiated me from the others.
I led the way out of the chamber. Our sandaled feet pattered across the carpeted stone floor.
We passed several toshaks covered with hastily thrown blankets as we drifted like wraiths away from our sleeping quarters into a more luxurious hall.
Lamps hung from the walls, and their flickering flames danced before us, marking our path forward.
I trekked in soft yet precise steps, the way I’d been trained.
The orange glow of the flames highlighted three golden roots jutting up from the polished stone and across the walls in a design too intricate for words.
The rarest of all desert roots, taken from their source long ago and planted deep.
The palace had been built over them, and through the hands of experienced nurturers’ prayer and care, they’d sprung from beneath the palace grounds.
One of the roots was far shorter than the other two, severed by my father’s quick hands all those years back.
When the healers told him nothing could save my mother, he’d grown desperate, but his imprisonment and subsequent banishment had made him late for my mother’s birthing.
Though he’d managed to bring the root, it had been too late.
I often wondered how different things would be if he’d arrived just a little sooner.
What I would give to have even one memory of my mother.
I brushed my fingers over the severed root.
If only it were accessible to all who needed it.
But no. The roots’ location of origin was unknown to most. They were worth more than gold and were the reason we were at war.
I continued forward, with the four silent shadows behind me.
We coursed through the palace, the remaining guards allowing us passage without remark, until we stepped into the soulless dusk.
I looked up out of habit, my lips tugging into a smile against the fabric of my chadar.
Sitarey koochaki mahn, my little star. I could almost hear my father’s voice as I scanned the night sky.
“Farmandeh Yildiz?”
The sound of my name and command title returned me to the ground, to my mission.
Chariva’s head tilted, her gaze questioning.
I gestured to the stables. Despite possessing the most coveted roots in the desert, we were short of everything else—weapons, soldiers, horses.
We had many castles but no one to fill them.
My uncle, our sultan, and his commanders and generals never left the battlefield.
What remained behind was led by his wife, Malikeh Adalya, who played regent in his absence.
Chariva led my horse from the stables, and I held out my hand.
Barakat nuzzled my palm and huffed a greeting.
I ran my fingers along her coat. She was one of the last royal mounts, an altizar.
One of the rarest breeds of horses in the Khatatian Desert.
My uncle had tried to bond Barakat with Farani, but despite his relentless attempts, Barakat would not be swayed.
I had snuck out in the dead of night all those moons ago and fed her a shakar, a cube of sugar, from my palm.
Barakat had stuck by me since, much to my uncle’s dismay.
I was suitably punished, as was my father for my interference, but my uncle allowed me to keep the horse.
I had raised her like she was my child, pampered her with endearments and treats and the sap from the golden roots.
Without the sap, altizar horses did not live long, which was why they were going extinct.
“Dokhtarim,” I whispered. My girl.
She shook her head at the attention, her silvery mane catching the light of the stars.
Her large wings unfurled as I mounted her bare back and clutched the thick locks of her mane. My legs slid into place, and her wings closed over them, her glossy feathers brushing over my trousers. I nudged her forward, hearing the others clicking their tongues behind me.
We rode like the wind, and my scarf pressed more tightly to my face the faster we went.
Barakat’s hooves slapped against the cobblestone marking the gate at the palace entrance before sending up a shower of sand over the sentries on guard.
The other women struggled to keep up. Though their mares were valuable steeds, they were nowhere near as swift as an altizar—and that was without Barakat’s wings included in the equation.
I leaned back, communicating with her through my weight, and she slowed at once.
I kept a lesser pace until the others caught up.
The raging desert wind blew into my eyes; my breath tangled with the fabric of my scarf.
We continued riding for hours. All the while, a prayer rested on my lips. If something happened to Farani . . .
I didn’t want to linger on the thought.
I spied the glint of metal ahead. The lingering darkness was warded off by thousands of torches woven throughout the battlefield.
I pulled Barakat to a halt on the cliff overlooking the entangled armies, squinting to make out the scene below me.
Two groups entwined in a battle that had begun hundreds of years before my birth.
My breath hitched. Our soldiers, garbed in red and gold, were retreating, being pushed farther and farther back by the army of silver and turquoise.
Chariva halted her horse beside Barakat, whispering a prayer as she took in the sight.
We exchanged worried glances before I tugged my legs against Barakat’s sides, circling back and riding low to avoid being spotted by enemy forces.
I didn’t stop until I entered the sandy grounds littered with tents marked with our flag.
The red-and-gold fabric was emblazoned with a rearing altizar in the center between the two colors.
Chaos was too small a word to describe the view.
Wounded and bleeding soldiers stumbled back from the attack lines, with fresh warriors taking their place.
Cries for help echoed as soldiers held up dismembered limbs and cradled broken arms, while some rested unmoving beneath distraught healers.
I dismounted outside the pavilion and rushed up the steps.
There was no guard for me to address. I swept the canvas flap aside, leaving the other women behind as I entered the dimly lit interior.
A weary figure stood hunched over a large table laden with battle plans.
At my entrance, he looked up, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot.
His beard was longer than I had ever seen it.
I ducked my head in respect, and he dismissed the commander beside him, then gave me his full attention.
“Yildiz?” My uncle’s voice betrayed any strong front he could have put up, raspy and rough from shouting orders. Defeated. He walked around the table and gripped my shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
The question startled me. If Farani were here, he wouldn’t be asking me that.
His face hardened. “Where is she?”
“She left me a note saying you summoned her for the agreement. I thought she was here.”
“No, I didn’t do so yet.”
We stared at each other for an imperceptible moment.
What had she done? Dread curdled in the pit of my stomach.
The tent flap opened, and a messenger ducked inside, his turban askew and his clothes coated in dust. He bent his head and extended a folded parchment toward the sultan.
My uncle accepted it in a wary grasp. He scanned the words, his eyes widening.
The paper slipped from his hand and drifted to the carpet. I leaned over, retrieving it.
Pederim,
Forgive me. I love you to the depths of the desert, but it isn’t enough to sacrifice my life for our people.
I cannot marry our enemy, not in a thousand years.
I wish things could have been different.
I wish we could’ve parted on good terms. Give my farewell and my endless gratitude to Yildiz.
She protected me and received harm intended for me.
Do not hurt her for my desertion. I deceived her and am the sole one to blame.
Do not fret. I will be happy. Happy with the one who fills me with joy.
Your daughter,
Farani
My lips parted as I read the words and an ache filled my chest. How could she have done this?
How could she have abandoned the one place she’d called home?
Deserted the army who depended on her for survival?
I knew how much she detested the expectations placed upon her, but I thought our bond was greater than this.
She hadn’t shared a word of her intention to flee, hadn’t even deemed me worthy of a proper farewell. I swallowed, burying my hurt.
My uncle’s vicious muttering drew my attention from the letter. He was focused on me, those tired eyes now furious.
“Farani is gone, and our time is short.”
I nodded. Without Farani, we were doomed if we lost this battle. She had been the last remnant of hope.
“You must take her place.”
The words stunned me, rooting me to the carpet.
“What?”
“Fill her position. You are of the same height and build. You know her mannerisms. Take her place.”
“I . . . We look nothing alike.”
“The shahzadeh never saw her face.”
The mention of the prince sent a stronger shiver through me than it ever had before. I pictured the boy I’d seen in the palace long ago. Even so young, his gaze had been cunning and vicious. And there were the rumors of his anger.
“It’s not only that . . . I’m not . . .” The sentence trailed off as I refused to continue. The Northerners’ so-called examination may be a ruse, but if it wasn’t, it would be my doom when they realized their bride wasn’t the untouched virgin they’d expected.
“I cannot choose one of the others. They aren’t as skilled or prepared as you are. You will marry the shahzadeh and ensure peace is upheld.”
“And if they choose to continue their conquest?” I was afraid to hear the answer.
“A prince of Northern blood will not rule the South. You will kill him, Yildiz.” He leveled a serious gaze at me. “You failed to protect my daughter. You must not fail your duty to the desert.”