The Bodyguard
My breath stalled, and my blood turned to ice at the sight of the bruised and chained women. Their tattered clothes and bare feet were coated with traces of blood. Worry for them consumed me.
“Well done,” the shah said, addressing Shahzadeh Dayyan. “You have made the North proud with your latest conquest. You may take your pick of the spoils.”
I swallowed the revulsion coating my mouth.
They were Southerners. How could the shah be so ruthless to present such a scene during a ceremony they called a wedding?
Shahzadeh Dayyan crossed the line of women, his face expressionless, as usual.
Unlike the rest of his family, he was dressed in black.
Long robes over thick black trousers tucked into polished boots.
His turban was black as well, with glittering golden thread sparkling throughout.
Tufts of wavy dark hair stuck free, brushing against the short beard hugging his jaw.
The somber colors suited him. The North’s executioner, the prince of death and horror.
“Take your pick of the spoils,” the shah repeated.
Shahzadeh Dayyan glanced over at the women, taking his time examining each one before waving his hand at three of them.
The younger ones, I noted. They cried out, begging in desperation.
One fell to her knees with tears of despair running down her cheeks.
My vision was distorted as wetness pooled in my own eyes.
“Take them to Shahzadeh Dayyan’s chambers. He will do with them what he sees fit,” the shah announced. I could hear the humor in his tone, and it nauseated me to no end.
Guards came forth and dragged the crying young women away. The rest of the women were awarded to other soldiers and commanders. Distaste curdled in my stomach, and a scream lodged in my throat. Those were my people. My people. And yet I could do nothing but remain silent.
Chains rattled as another group of prisoners entered the chamber. All men this time. Their heads were bowed as well as their backs, as if they couldn’t bear the weight of losing to the North.
“Gift Shahzadeh Bahir with the blood of our enemies on this blessed day.”
At the shah’s order, Shahzadeh Dayyan hesitated.
His eyes flitted to me, and I pleaded with him wordlessly.
Then his gaze slid past me. He nodded at his sister, and Shahdokht Bazmara grabbed the hands of the little ones, escorting her young siblings from the chamber.
As soon as the heavy doors thudded closed, Shahzadeh Dayyan pivoted toward the prisoners.
He unsheathed a dagger and strode forward.
I squeezed my eyes closed as steel flashed toward the first prisoner.
But blocking my vision didn’t spare me from the noises.
The squelch of the throats being severed.
The pleading for mercy. The thumping of bodies hitting the stone.
The gurgling of blood. Bahir’s hand squeezed my hip, and I flinched, feeling his body shaking beside mine.
I opened my eyes and turned to look at him.
He was laughing. Laughing. His cold azure gaze was alight with joy at the sight of the murders.
He removed his hand from my hip and clapped, applauding his older brother’s heartless display.
I swallowed my bile as the rest of the room took up the applause.
Shahzadeh Dayyan turned to us, his face blank, unflinching, wholly unperturbed by the violence he’d committed.
The motionless forms of the prisoners sprawled across the ground behind him, tangled in a mess of chains and blood.
Any hope that Shahzadeh Dayyan contained a shred of humanity faded.
He was a monster. Perhaps worse than them all.
How else could he kill with such a vacant violence?
As though not a shred of conscience existed within him?
I choked back sobs, realized my nails had dug bloody grooves into my palms. I would avenge them.
I will do as my uncle ordered and slay the princes, no matter what it takes.
Shahzadeh Dayyan took his place beside his mother, and I noted that though his robes were drenched in blood, the dark fabric concealed the stains. The shah’s executioner wore black to mask the blood he spilled.
The dead forms of the prisoners were dragged from the room, bloody trails left behind them.
Then a sudden banging filled the throne room.
An old hunched woman entered. Two masked figures drifted in behind her, revealing themselves as the source of the noise as they beat their drums. A gray shawl hid most of the old woman’s features.
Only her twisted and wrinkled mouth was left on display as she began chanting.
A jadugar. Southerners believed them to be evil spirits.
A practice of darkness that was never allowed.
But it seemed the Northerners accepted their magic as truth.
Heads lowered in reverence, but I kept mine raised, watching the jadugar pause over the blood of the fallen prisoners.
She spun, her bare feet smearing the crimson drops.
Her arms rose above her, and her croaky voice spewed words in a foreign tongue.
Bahir clutched the back of my neck, squeezing as he forced my head down.
The drumming drew nearer, and my breath grew shallower.
Mangled feet coated in blood came into view.
My lashes lifted upward as my gaze traveled over the stained gray robes and bony form.
Through the shadows of her scarf, my eyes connected with amber ones.
The jadugar scrambled back with a screech.
The onlookers froze as she tripped, then scurried on her hands and knees to get as far from me as she could. My heart dropped.
“She—she—she will be our ruin,” the jadugar hissed, glancing around her. “That woman will bring our destruction.”
Gasps rang about her. Bahir gripped my neck in a vise hold. The jadugar pointed at me with a quivering finger.
“What is the meaning of this?” Shah Jihangir shouted, glaring at me.
“She is soiled and worthless,” the jadugar seethed.
I gasped at the venom in her voice. Shahzadeh Bahir sprung to his feet, yanking me up and hauling me toward the jadugar. The old woman retreated farther, holding her hands out to ward me off. Shahzadeh Bahir cursed and shoved me. My palms met the floor and the force of the impact stole my breath.
“The South thought they could deceive us?” Shahzadeh Bahir trembled with rage.
The veil was ripped from my face. I blinked, the world becoming clear around me, no longer curtained by a blue haze.
I felt bare, terribly exposed to the eyes of all who thirsted for my death.
I clutched my arms around me, praying for protection against these monsters.
Shahzadeh Bahir grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back.
A cry slipped past my lips. I struggled against his hold and reached for the dagger at his hip, but his rough fingers met my skin in a harsh slap.
I collapsed onto the ground with blood dribbling over my lower lip.
“Southern whore,” he spat.
The shah stood from his throne. “Execute her. Now.”
I curled into myself. My lashes fluttered shut as steps approached.
At least I would reunite with my father, mother, and brother, and this hellish torture would be over.
A shamshir was pulled free, rasping as it was drawn from a sheath.
I inhaled a stuttering breath. I could picture it rising into the air.
Shahzadeh Bahir’s enraged stare. I whispered my dying prayers as quickly as I could, accepting my fate.
But the sharp edge of the blade didn’t reach my skin.
I heard a shout and a scuffle. My eyes popped open as someone grabbed my arm and hauled me up.
Shahzadeh Dayyan pulled me behind him and faced his brother.
Bahir scowled, fury forming lines on his face.
“What are you doing, biyoder?”
Bahir’s chest heaved as his question remained unanswered for several seconds. I couldn’t breathe myself. I could hardly feel anything. Adrenaline coursed over me. The hair on my neck stood upright.
“She’s mine,” Shahzadeh Dayyan said.