The Prince
“Did the guards retrieve the Southern prisoners?” I asked.
“They went to the dungeons as you ordered and are gathering them now.”
I nodded to show I was listening as Zeki continued to fill me in, but my mind was clouded, unable to decipher the numbers written before me, the pages upon pages filled with the blood money owed to the Northern families who had lost their children in order for us to win the war.
I pushed them aside, reaching for a blank parchment.
My quill hovered over it as I wished to put to page the torment ravaging within.
To release the pain in sketches of the dead haunting my mind.
Because perhaps if I gave those I’d killed a chance to live again, even if it was only in a portrait, the burden of slaying them would weigh a little less.
“What did the shah say? Dayyan?”
At the sound of my name, I looked up. Zeki was leaning over the desk of the work chamber, his features somber and questioning.
“What I should have expected.”
“That is why you asked about the prisoners?”
“He wishes me to paint the wedding in red,” I said in a low tone, returning to the parchment.
My quill dragged in slow precise strokes, forming the harsh sketch of a face.
Zeki was silent, but I could feel his worried stare.
He didn’t bother to persist in questioning me.
There was no use. He sat in the chair across from the desk, his shoulders slumping forward.
It was moments like these that brought me the closest to peace.
Two haunted souls sitting across from each other, drinking chai, Zeki’s green with mint, mine dark and powerful.
Years of memories hung on each glass. As I sketched, I drifted off to the past.
I trembled on the stone steps, horror filling me as my father’s order tugged me to go farther, to delve deeper into the dungeon that witnessed my sins.
When my boots touched the final stair, I glimpsed the shine of torches ahead.
The echo of my steps rang in my ears as I approached.
Shah Jihangir’s features came into view, half of his face alight in the flickering torchlight and the other cast in shadow.
Soldiers stood behind him, hands on hilts, ready for their shah’s word.
“Dayyan,” Jihangir said, “slay our enemies.”
He motioned toward the cell before us. I looked through the bars to where men of varying ages shivered in the cold of the dungeon.
They were beaten, and several cradled broken limbs while hate spewed from their eyes.
I could not blame them. I deserved their contempt for what I had done.
If only they could’ve seen how I cast up the meals I ate at dinner, how I could no longer dine with the rest of my siblings or mother because I loathed myself.
I didn’t deserve to sit among the innocent anymore.
Shah Jihangir opened the cell door and placed a curved dagger into my fist. “Do what you must.”
I stepped into the cell, my arms numb. I could do this.
Just like all the previous times. I shoved my emotions away and began cutting across their necks in the swiftest way I could, praying my speed limited their suffering and allowed their souls a quick exit.
Their angered shouts diminished as their forms slumped to the ground.
I halted when my gaze connected with that of the last one.
He was different. There was no fury in his eyes, only sadness and acceptance.
He was too young, even younger than me. Twelve years at the most. He’d barely tasted life for him to be deprived of it now. He deserved to live, unlike me.
“Show me your worth, Shahzadeh,” my father barked behind me.
I became aware then of the blood covering my clothes, dripping from my hands and face, coating every inch of me.
I lifted the dagger. Aimed it at the boy.
His eyes closed, and his lips moved as he recited his prayer rites.
But I lowered the blade and turned to my father.
Shah Jihangir looked down at me with lowered brows.
“I wish for a reward for slaying these men.”
“And you may have it,” he answered, just as I’d hoped he would.
“I want this boy as my servant.”
My father’s face darkened, and his lips thinned. He would have never allowed a Southerner to roam in our palace, let alone be so close to royal blood. But the soldiers had witnessed him grant me my wish. He could not go back on his word now.
“You may,” he said, both words edged with flames.
I returned the bloodied dagger to the shah and unshackled the boy. I half expected him to attack me, but there was only dullness in his gaze.
“What would you have me do, Shahzadeh?” he croaked, a lack of water making his words emerge jagged.
“You would obey him so readily?” Shah Jihangir asked.
The boy turned to him. “You wanted me dead, and you were my enemy. The South also wanted me dead, and they were my people. I have no home now.”
Shah Jihangir laughed. “Zeki. You are a clever boy.”
And that was the boy’s name from then on.
The quill snapped. I focused on the page, my heart stuttering at the face staring up at me. Large eyes and full lips settled beneath a slightly hooked nose. A chin jutting out with the fury of all the South. Shahdokht Farani, my brother’s bride.
Drumming emerged through the closed door. The wedding had begun.
“It is time to join the festivities,” Zeki remarked.
I folded the parchment and tucked it into the drawer as I stood.
“It is time,” I repeated.