A Crook In The Sand

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.