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The sound of the crowd gathered for the execution almost surpassed the thudding of eight pairs of military boots as the soldiers marched through the near-empty palace. They weren’t in a hurry, they even nodded to the few bored guards they encountered. Kherim walked in front, stopping every salute his brother’s men tried with a swipe of his hand. Most of the palace guards leaned out the windows and watched what appeared to be ants in the distance, forcing their eyes not to miss the big moment – the beheading of Rashad Hazra.
No one guarded the back room. The magenta and gold door was open, which made Kherim’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
He entered. The room was still swimming in the toxic fumes that Charta willingly inhaled, but the prince was nowhere to be found. The servants chatted with each other in the corner next to the trays, waiting and fearing the moment when their master returned.
“Safir!” the qrahr said. “Come here.”
The boy jumped to his feet and walked up to Kherim, hanging his head in shame. “My lord. Looking for the merciful prince?”
“Merciful. Yes.” Kherim’s voice was grim. “Where’s my brother?”
“He said... He said he wanted to see Sal... Lord Aarif’s killer’s head falling to the ground. The suite in the east tower, I think. But he’s in a good mood today.”
Kherim nodded, then ripped off a silver button from his uniform and put it in the boy’s hand.
“Run to the square and don’t stop until you reach the execution. If you get there and any guard stops you, shout that the Graceful Prince Kherim will pardon Rashad Hazra as loud as you can. Do you understand, Safir?”
The boy’s face grew pale. Kherim locked Safir’s fingers around the button with a stern face, so the boy took a step back, knees trembling, then turned around and ran.
The qrahr closed the door, toying with the idea of giving orders to burn it down. If anything had to disappear today, he would’ve chosen this: Kahlaran’s weakness. But deeds wrote history, not symbols.
His soldiers looked at him quizzically, but Kherim made his way to the east tower without reply. His brother was either stupid or completely reckless. There was only one stairway up to that tower, no other exit, no other escape route. If he had wanted to choose the location of this battle, Charta had chosen poorly.
The prince was standing by the window when the qrahr entered the room. His hands were clasped behind him in satisfied expectation, and he did not seem to move a single part of his body. He was like his own statue, like those in the crypts.
“I’m sorry, brother, but the spectacle is canceled,” Kherim said. His soldiers followed him silently, and when the last one entered, they closed the door behind them.
Charta turned around and looked at the assembled men with a faint spark of recognition. “Kherim? What should I make of this?”
Kherim shook his head and moved closer. The warm air chilled with each step he took as if Seiran itself knew what would happen.
“Sinners must be evicted, Charta. But you and I have a different understanding of sin. You think it is a sin to annoy you. Sinners are those you watch gladly as they’re executed. In my eyes, lacking the will to act, burying the truth with lies, and abandoning an empire are far greater sins. The neglect of duty, patriotism, family... All for yourself.”
The prince looked at his brother incomprehensibly at first, then laughed. “Kherim, my dear brother... You and your high and mighty words again. I’ve always admired you for your cruelty, for your perseverance. Maybe I should have taken an example from you, as our father said. You wouldn’t flinch if they had killed Aida or Salar.”
Kherim moved suddenly, closing in on his brother with a leap, and although Charta was a head taller, Kherim shoved him forward and grabbed the neck of his shirt just before he fell out of the window.
“What do you know about that? What?” he shouted. “You don’t have a son; you don’t have a family. All you have is your desires. You got this city as a gift, it’s your legacy, and look at it now! Look if you want to watch an innocent, good man die. That’s what you did to Kahlaran by giving up. Would I feel the same way if Salar was killed? They can’t lay a finger on him, you hear me? Because I’m protecting what’s mine!”
“I loved him!” Charta cried. The sentence got stuck between them, and neither the wind scraping the prince’s hair nor the pain in Kherim’s arm could distract the two brothers from it. Kherim’s jaws tensed, his teeth pressed against each other, but there was no anger or fear in Charta’s eyes. Just pain, grief, and disappointment.
“What would you do to the people who killed someone you love? The ones who protect the killers? You’d do the same thing.” Charta glanced down from the tower and smiled. “But you know what? You’re welcome to kill me if you think you’d do better. If you think the title of the prince protects your loved ones, instead of making you a target. During my reign, Kahlaran was a city of peace and prosperity, and you will see this when you sit on the throne with my problems. Because that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Kherim did not respond. He closed his eyes and stepped back, pulling Charta with him and getting him back on his feet. “The age of peace is over, brother. I know what’s coming our way. I saw it, and I’m going to face it head-on. I didn’t come here to kill you if I don’t have to. I’m here to replace you. You decide what path leads to that; that’s the last thing you’re going to decide.”
Charta looked in disbelief at his brother’s tiny stature and then burst into laughter again. “What if I resign? You’re going to lock me in this tower like a princess in a fairy tale?”
“Yes,” Kherim nodded as his brother’s laughter grew more hysterical. “Or in another one. Or in the dungeon, to see what you’re condemning people to out of entertainment. Or even in the Temple of Idar, among the broken minds. Anywhere you can no longer decide for Kahlaran.”
“I’d rather have you kill me.”
Kherim’s gaze met the eyes of the fallen prince one last time before he pulled a dagger and stabbed it between his ribs. "So be it, brother. Go, be with Saleel.”
Charta’s long fingers gripped Kherim’s shoulder and his eyes widened as if, apart from the big words, he was completely unprepared for this. His voice was nothing but a disgusting squeak as the blood flooded his lungs, and eventually, he couldn’t even keep squeezing Kherim’s arm.
Charta Vivekanda, Prince of Kahlaran, shuddered backward, falling from the tower window with sincere serenity on his face unseen since his coronation.
Kherim watched the body and the red puddle of blood for a while. It was hard to move on. He looked down at the bloody dagger in his hand and sought the sign of mourning in his soul, but could not find it. He had killed his own brother without feeling a moment of grief. He felt only relief and duty.
“My lord.”
It wasn’t time to rest. He was taking the reins from Charta, but he was taking his responsibilities as well. There was an army on the way, Idranil had told him. He didn’t want a war, but he was going to get it.
“My lord!”
Kherim looked back and his eyes met Dharm’s. The qrahr... no, the prince shook his head. “Qrahr Dharm, go and make sure Rashad Hazra’s execution is stopped. Then make sure that they put the late councilor Arjun Sikdar in his stead.”
It felt reassuring to give those commands. Kherim was the prince now. The only obstacle protecting that snake from him had crumbled and there was no power now to stop him from taking revenge for the city.
Dharm’s brows rose at this abrupt appointment, but then he bowed obediently. “Whatever you say, my lo... my prince.”
Kherim smiled and sat on Charta’s bed. “It doesn’t sound right, does it? But hurry now. When you’re done, give the order to find that girl, Zaira, and the Hazra boy.”
“At once,” Dharm bowed. “What if they refuse the invitation?”
“They can’t. I want to see them,” Kherim replied. The new qrahr nodded and hurried away to follow the orders. Kherim sighed, then stood up and headed for the exit. He had a much more uncomfortable chair waiting for him.
***
Charta’s throne room was completely empty, yet Kherim felt a hundred eyes watching him walk across the bridge. The oil in the pool has ebbed since the last time he had seen it, and the wind carried tiny grains of sand through the windows.
Kherim settled among the pillows of the throne, but jumped up almost immediately at the sound of a door swinging open. Two of his soldiers carried a man who, even in his ripped clothes and bleeding feet, had the combativeness to try to push his captors aside, no matter how painfully twisted his arm was.
“Your majesty, he tried running off with the girl you called for.”
Prince Kherim stood up and headed towards them, looking into the ice-blue eyes. He looked at his face, the angular, slightly elongated chin, the straight nose, and the scar that disfigured the right half of his face. Kherim knew him – half of Kahlaran did.
“The street saint of Kahlaran apprehended by my soldiers.” Kherim whistled. “That’s an interesting turn of events. Why were you fleeing? Despite your eyes, I don’t think you’re a djinn, so what’s in it for you?”
Hain only stared at him with his teeth gritted, so Kherim leaned closer and whispered into his ears.
“Answer me. Are you spying for someone? Did Idranil pay you to bring him the girl?”
Hain laughed, but as one of the soldiers twisted his arm slightly it turned into a painful groan. “It doesn’t matter...Not even you can win this war.”
“Too many people have said that recently. Why do you hold me so little?”
“You weren’t there. You didn’t see that city, nor that palace. You don’t understand what’s at stake. If you loved your city, you’d offer it voluntarily, and you would greet the Golden Army with fanfare—”
The end of the sentence was distorted as the prince clasped Hain’s chin with his fingers and turned his head. The two pairs of eyes stared at each other for long seconds before Kherim spoke.
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t see the Palace of Shardiz, and I didn’t see the future they planted in your mind. But I’ve seen the price for it. I’ve seen my brother strangled with mere words; I’ve seen them stir up my city without showing their faces. I don’t care about the Marid or Idranil. There’s no wealth worth this.”
The answer was just a painful smile, curling straight into the scar on Hain’s face. Kherim let him go, then turned around.
“Take him down to the dungeons. He’ll have time to think about what this is worth.”
The soldiers pulled Hain to his feet, but before they could lead him out, he spoke again.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“My brother asked me that, too,” Kherim replied. “I am not Inra’s avatar. I’m not just bringing death and fire. And I’m certainly not going to waste someone who could cause so much trouble to my best men before they caught him.”
“Your best men are slow. I’m used to an opponent who can knock me down faster than the rain hitting the ground.”
The new Prince of Kahlaran returned to his throne. “You killed three of my men, Hain. You have to pay for that. And trust me, I’ll find something to make even the Silver Viper pay.”
The door closed and Kherim was left alone with his thoughts. When he closed his eyes, he saw a golden army galloping towards them in the desert.
Hain was wrong. Kherim wasn’t standing in the way of prosperity, even Idranil couldn’t convince him. He stood in the way of slavery, the forced peace of foreign conquerors, leaving everyone who inhabited this city to suffer and die silently.
As long as Kanda’s blood flowed in his veins, Kherim couldn’t let it happen.
“Where were you?”
His eyes popped open as if lightning struck him. A woman slipped through the entrance and collapsed to the ground sobbing. As the veils slipped aside, the woman’s smoldering eyes turned to Kherim.
“Where were you, Kherim?” she repeated. Kherim rushed to her and tried to help her up, but the woman shook him off.
“Aida. What happened? Aida!”
Aida glanced up and fell powerless into his arm. “Where were you, Kherim... Salar... Your son...”