CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE SMELL OF AMMONIA WAS strong despite how clean and well tended the horse stables were. There wasn't a single object out of place, seeming as though each laid around with purpose. Even the hay didn't seem to have a single straw out of place.

The stable Zaabit brought Mazeeda to was the one that housed many of the king's inner circle. Inside itself was hot from housing sixteen horses, eight on each side. Within the qasr grounds, there were eight more stables just east of where they stood now.

“His highness has three horses for himself,” Zaabit informed the queen as they awaited Sonya’s presence.

“Three seems too much of an abundance, no?” Mazeeda said, recalling the distant memory of seeing them face to face when they came to her village to take her. She had rode one, though its name slipped passed her at the moment.

“It is as he wishes.” The soldier made its way to the fourth stall as if it were such a natural thing to do. His rough hands made it to the soft black mane of a bay horse whose brown coat seemed to shimmer in the light.

The horse was quiet, not a trickle of a noise came out as Zaabit ran his hand through the coat. It seemed fitting to have a man who kept to himself own a horse who was equally so. A thick finger traced the outline of it’s right ear before whispering into it, giving soothing words of praise and solace.

“What have you named your horse?”

Zaabit moved to the side, offering an open space next to his horse in case her queen wanted to pet it as well. “Iremia.”

Mazeeda remembered this horse, Iremia. How could she not? The coat reminded her of the sand back home, looking like gold caught onto the sun just perfectly, a golden thread spun to perfection on a spindle wheel.

But most importantly, she remembered Iremia because it was the first horse she saw across the horizon the day the king came to her village all those months ago, Khai himself following a pace behind on his own horse.

She remembered watching Zaabit slow to a stop when he was within proximity of the village, getting off of Iremia, taking her reins into his hand, and walking the rest of the way on foot. Everyone is quiet, everything is quiet. The people parted in half like the sea as they watched the soldier walk past him, eyes in awe. Eyes in fear.

Mazeeda’s mother stood on her right, Shazerade to her left. Her father and three brothers a thousand miles away. And now, a complete stranger stands in front of her.

The three women watched cautiously, but curiously, as Zaabit ran a soothing hand up and down the side of the sand-colored horse, whispering soothing words to his girl. The king’s right hand man felt the heavy stare’s of everyone on his back. It brought him a cold sweat amidst the heat of the sun and sand. The dread he thought he suppressed was beginning to come up like a geyser, and he knew that when he arrived back at the qasr, whatever that was left in his stomach would be emptied. For now, he shifted and clicked his feet together and looked into the crowd, took a deep breath, before making his way to the next victim. He no longer was surprised when the crowd parted like a red sea in one of the stories Sinbad told him long ago. Nor was he surprised by their venomous looks or hurt by objects that were thrown his way. Zaabit stopped himself short once he appeared before the three women.

Whatever stares or objects thrown at Zaabit were non-existent as the king made his way through the path carved by the man prior, striding atop his horse in elegance and pride. A spectacle to look at, but never to touch.

The bile that was building up in Mazeeda’s throat that day was forcefully swallowed down as she watched the king dismount his house and made his way towards his future wife, reins in hand. Her eyes were too afraid to look anywhere but him. He is all she sees.

Just one look and she knew. He was dangerous.

He was glorious.

He was beautiful.

He was something she did not trust.

“Do not let his beauty bewitch you. He has killed a thousand girls before you,” the mother hissed in Mazeeda’s ear, “he may be looking for a bride, but do not forget that he is only looking for blood to spill come morning.”

“I fear this will not work,” Shazarad’s voice trembled in Mazeeda’s other ear. “If they find out you are not the Shazarad they are looking for, they will slaughter you and everyone else in this village until they find the correct one. It’ll be all for naught.”

Amongst all the noise, Mazeeda stood rigid and dared not to falter as she kept her gaze among the approaching man. He was basked in the color of the setting sun, powerful and terrible all at once. His golden eyes Mazeeda would yet to discover later was covered in fine cloth, protected from the harsh sand. Whatever hair that escaped within the cloth now moved freely with the soft wind. His attire was as fine as his shemagh. It’s worth enough to rebuild the entire village of Evilla.

Adorned at his waist were two belts, one with an assortment of weapons and the other holding a water skin and a crooked dagger. Together made a cacophony of noises with each step he took into the soft earth beneath his feet.

As venomous as the air may have been around him, he had the air of a king. His walk confident and controlled as a beast stalking its prey. He seemed to command everyone in the village with just his presence.

"Mazeeda?" Shazerad asked.

Whatever possession fell upon the bride broke as she finally reassured her friend by saying, “You forget they are looking for a name and not a face. Whether Shazarad has my face or yours or any other among this village does not matter; but rather, who has the courage to claim it as theirs.”

“Even then-” Shazarad grew silent when her eyes caught the king’s, and bowed her head in respect. The growing words that began to grow out of her died out quickly, daring not to speak, to breathe, to move. The young woman followed Mazeeda’s earlier advice and made sure she did not give away the faintest aura of being a girl named ‘Shazarad.’

“Even then,” the storyteller began, daring to speak in the presence of her future husband, when no one has ever dared to do so in fear of losing their lives, “you love my brother, no? I will not let a cold-blooded murderer get between the future you have with my brother.”

At the sound of Mazeeda’s voice, the king’s narrow eyes flit to hers. Deep in the colors of his distinguished eyes is the ferocity of a predator in hunt of game. Terrifying, but lifeless almost. Empty.

Mazeeda is seized by the look, like a sheep caught in a trap. He is all she sees.

“We have come for the one named Shazarad.” Zaabit’s voice boomed across the village and seemed to echo into the desert’s expanse. The wind that was present when the two arrived died, along with it, the whispers of the people.

Because even the people of Evilla could not fathom the thought of their village finally falling prey to the king’s killing spree; not after so many years. So they dared not breathe, speak or even look at Shazarad. No less Mazeeda.

Hidden behind his keffiyeh, the soldier grit his teeth, his brow twitching at the slightest as to not frown when the silence began to become unbearable. If no one came clean, Zaabit would have to resort to force, something he despised doing.

The screaming and clawing of the young women as they tried with all their might to cling on to their loved ones, anyone, as they were pried away from them. The tearing of nails and fabric from being pulled every which way. The blood spilled on his hand, by his hand, to do whatever it took to take the bride had instilled in him a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

He thought he had gotten used to it. What horrible lie he told himself.

The worst part was that he already knew where Shazarad was. He always does. Playing doll and dressing in marital attire would not fool him. No less his king.

Zaabit had seen all the tactics, even this one, as new and taken aback as this scheme was. He applauded the young woman behind the veil for coming up with such a plan. Admiration bloomed in him, but died quickly.

Blowing out a fire was always better than letting it get too big.

Shazarad froze up as the soldier's gaze latched onto hers. Watching. Never leaving. Never wavering. This was what it felt like to be swept up in quicksand.

Mazeeda sidestepped and moved in front of her dear friend; a firm look to match the soldier's. "The Shazarad your king seeks for is I."

The guard turned his gaze unto the fake bride, his eyes widening, wondering if the wind had taken his breath from under his face cover. Never had he seen such a ferocious and determined aura. He didn't know if it was because she did not fear death or her determination to save all the girls and women in this village. No, perhaps it was both. Something like a fire lit within him, something he dare not let burn in so many years. The embers he quietly let lay to rest were beginning to wake.

"If you are the Shazarad you claim to be, your fate will be the king's. And his, yours. As well as the kingdom and its people. Do you understand?"

"I do."

Zaabit turned his head, nodded to the king behind him before looking back at his new queen. "Follow me, Malika."

After some trouble, Mazeeda mounted one of the three horses Khai brought with him. The steady breathing of the animal could be felt under her leg. Its vibrations felt through her core. Its muscles taunt and flexing with each step against the sand. It was a powerful horse and Mazeeda was in awe.

Pulling the reins to turn the horse around, the new queen watched as Khai was talking to her mother and Shazarad in the distance. Shortly after, he bows, pivots, and strides his way towards her.

A hand was rummaging in one of his pockets as he made his way to the horse Mazeeda was mounted on. He paid no heed to her, only offering his horse something from the said pocket. Whispering something even the queen does not know to this day, wiping off any sand around its face before giving it some water. A caressing touch to its mane before he finally looks at his new wife.

She is taken aback. All words ripe to fall never do. His usual empty and cold look is replaced by something else. "Ihaan is a capable breed, do not doubt his abilities. He has put trust in you to ride him and thus demands the same. You shall have a safe journey to the qasr, though a comfortable one is unpromised."

Just as quickly as the words come out his mouth, he leaves, mounts his horse, and the journey to the qasr began.

"I'd like to see the horse that brought me here," Mazeeda asks, recalling that day and the name of the horse she rode on finally coming back to her. "I'd like to see Ihaan."

|AUTHOR'S NOTE|

the veryyyy long awaited chapter is here. i have nothing else to say other than i'm sorry for the lack of update to this book. i deeply apologize for those who waited this long, to those who dropped it due to my lack of inactivity and motivation.

it's been almost two years since i last updated this book. i have not abandoned it, i just haven't found the time to write due to college and life in general. i hope you look forward to future chapters. i'm hoping to hold myself accountable and update at least once a month or more.

i do have a vague vision of how i want this story to end, but fret not, as it is not that time quite yet. pls look forward to future updates. if you have any questions, comments, concerns, anything, let me know. thank you.