The Bodyguard
“Zeki.” Bazmara reached for him, tear tracks marking her face.
He dropped beside her, looking down at Delara. She was still, so still. Her features were pale and bloodless.
“She collapsed suddenly.” Bazmara’s breath hitched, and her fingers trembled around Zeki’s arm. “Is she breathing? Oh, Almighty! Is she breathing?”
“Do not fret,” Zeki said. “Shahzadeh, run for the healers.”
Omid jerked out of his shock and rushed from the garden.
Zeki continued consoling Bazmara, pulling her away from Delara.
I kneeled and touched her neck. Her pulse was faint.
Bazmara’s cries were hysterical. She fell to her knees again, and Zeki sank down with her.
I wondered about the implications if they were seen.
I doubted they cared at that moment. Zeki observed her like she was the only thing that mattered, and Bazmara was clutching him like he was her lifeline.
I held Delara’s small fingers. “Do not give in,” I whispered into her ear.
When footsteps closed in, Zeki stood, disentangling himself from Bazmara and wiping a hand across his face. He turned to encounter the newcomers.
Dayyan appeared at the forefront, shoving through the guards and stumbling to a halt at the glimpse of his sister. His mouth was thin, his eyes stricken, his fists clenched at his sides. My heart ached, and yet at the sight of him, my fears lessened. Somehow, some way, we would overcome this.
Dayyan leaned down, scooping his sister into his arms, and then rushed past the guards who had accompanied him. I followed, glancing back to see Bazmara curled into herself, her eyes red and coated with tears. Zeki moved to follow us but hesitated with a broken look at the shahdokht.
Dayyan moved incredibly fast. I increased my speed, nearly breaking into a run to match his pace. The healing chamber was a mess as a man garbed in white robes and a turban ordered his assistants about. Dayyan placed his sister onto the low bed.
“Ustaad Saf, please.” Dayyan’s strained voice and shaking hands revealed his agony more than words ever could.
Ustaad Saf waved us out. In the hall, Dayyan ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth.
I watched him, my breath stilling when I noticed the blood staining the fabric by his shoulder.
He was wearing a cream undershirt, as if he had been in the process of pulling on his robes when he heard the news.
The light color made the blood all the more apparent.
Surely he would notice. Surely someone would tell him.
But the guards standing in the hall all lowered their gazes and didn’t dare speak, as though fearing his wrath.
When an assistant rushed to the chamber, I grasped her sleeve. “Would you fetch me something to clean the shahzadeh’s wound?”
She glanced at Dayyan, her eyes widening at the growing stain, and nodded. She disappeared into the chamber, returning moments later to give me salve, steaming water, and clean cloths. Dayyan caught sight of her and stormed toward us.
“How is she?”
The assistant shrank back at his demanding tone. “It is not yet clear. Ustaad Saf is doing the best he can.”
Dayyan let loose a noise that resembled a growl. The assistant retreated into the healing chamber, and Dayyan resumed his pacing. I cut in front of him. His brows lowered in that fear-inducing glare.
“You are bleeding.”
He looked down. “It’s nothing.”
“It must be treated. It could get infected or worse.”
“Worse.” He scoffed. “Wouldn’t that please you, Shahdokht?”
“If you do not care for your own health, at least pity the servants who will have to mop your blood from the floor.”
He shook his head, his mouth curving in a mocking grin.
“Dayyan.”
I stared up at him, our gazes entangling.
His features softened, and the tiniest drop of his chin signified his defeat.
Why did I want to wipe away the worry lines marking his skin?
Why did I feel his pain as if I were stabbed?
I reached for his shirt. My fingers stilled around the first button. I cursed myself as they trembled.
“I will do it,” he said, soft and gruff.
He undid the shirt halfway, exposing his upper chest so I could view his shoulder. He must have reopened it when carrying Delara. As I cleaned the wound, blood dribbled onto my sleeve.
“Your clothes are ruined,” he said.
We had been careful not to meet each other’s gazes, but now they clashed together. His thick lashes were wet with the moisture of tears he hadn’t allowed to fall, framing the intense blue irises that betrayed his every emotion.
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied.
He swallowed, leaning in. Mere air separated us.
We were so close, my hand pressed over the cloth, feeling the thump of his heart beneath beating faster with every passing second.
Footsteps approached, and the moment of lunacy broke.
Malikeh Madar Morvarid and Malikeh Madar Sanaz rushed toward us with their handmaidens and guards only steps behind them.
“Dayyan!” Morvarid screeched. “What happened to you? Oh, Almighty, what is going on in this palace?”
Dayyan sighed. “I am fine, Madar.”
She clasped a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “Move away from my son. The healer must tend to you right away.”
She attempted to push me, but Dayyan wrenched her hand from my arm.
“Farani is treating my wound. It is a scratch. Nothing to worry about. The healers are focused on Delara.”
Malikeh Morvarid looked betrayed, glancing between us. She took in the blood-soaked cloth. “You call that a scratch?”
Sanaz stepped toward us. “Delara. What happened?”
“She collapsed in the garden,” I supplied.
Sanaz’s mouth turned down. “It is only a matter of time. The sickness will kill her sooner or later.”
My mouth parted in shock at her emotionless statement. There was no pain or sadness in her voice or face, only acceptance. She turned, walking back down the hall, her company following her. Dayyan’s jaw flexed as he watched her leave. Even Morvarid’s mouth was slack.
She looked back at us. “I will go address the harem. They are in an uproar, wanting to know what is happening.”
Dayyan nodded, and she left. The hall was as silent as before. I examined the injury. It had stopped bleeding. I retrieved the cream and spread it over the wound. I patched the area as best I could before covering it with another cloth.
“The healers will need to check it, but this should help for now. At least you won’t bleed out.”
He smiled that tiny smile.
The healing chamber opened, and Ustaad Saf exited. His eyes found us, and I sensed at once his dampened mood.
“Shahzadem, I am deeply saddened, but the sickness has progressed too far. Shahdokht Delara has at most two days.”
Dayyan grew stiff beside me, his face wiped clean of feeling.
“Is there nothing we can do?” I asked.
“I am afraid not, Shahdokht.” He turned his attention to me. “We have tried everything but only managed to slow it down.”
Dayyan stumbled, bracing himself against the wall.
I knew how much it hurt—the agony of losing a sibling.
As I stared at him, saw him fight to stay strong, I recalled myself all those years ago, watching my father aid a dying woman in the village we’d lived in during his banishment.
He’d created a sanctuary hidden from powerful eyes to serve the helpless.
Although he’d been unable to save my mother, he’d used the golden root he’d taken to help whoever came to him.
I froze.
Could I do this? Could I give up such an important secret?
For a young girl’s life, I could. She was innocent of the war, of the bloodshed her ancestors inflicted. Of the curse that had begun the conflict hundreds of years before. I stepped forward, emboldened by my intention.
“There is a place in the West. A small amount of the golden root is stored there. It will cure her.”
A wet sheen glazed his eyes. With rejuvenated hope, Dayyan gripped my hand. “Where?”
I nodded, swallowing back my own emotion. “You must promise not to tell anyone and pledge you will not harm the guardians there.”
“You have my word.”