In the winding streets of the Persian Empire, a poor girl is chosen to become the third prince's concubine.
Aliya Farhad has no interest in the lofty ideas of the palace, the staff, or her lover. Prince Cairo has all the interest in his blue-eyed A...
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WE ARRIVED AT THE PALACE AT DAWN.
The King lived in Archaem, of course, the heart and pride of the Persian Empire -- and it was easy to tell why.
Unlike Babylon, the streets of Archaem were perfectly paved, with white stones the size of marbles dotting the soil and buildings built so high they seemed to pierce through the clouds and never end.
The capital of Persia was beautiful, more so than Babylon could ever hope to be.
Even the people, even the slaves, I realized, wore garments I could never be able to afford back home, their bangles jingling in time with their coin bags. If not for the tattled red band around their wrists, the biggest indication of an owned slave, you'd never have guessed that they weren't wealthy or noble themselves.
But as we rode past the market, I could see little children with dirt-smudged, black faces running around, their bodies so thin that when they lifted their arms, I could count out their ribs.
How long did they go hungry for, I wonder, to start to look like that?
As I continued to watch, I saw a little girl with braided hair come up to a merchant, her hands cupped together. "Khanom, could I have a bit of money, please? It's for my mother, she needs medicine."
She must be only six or seven at most. She should be at home right now, in bed, still dreaming about what or who she wants to be when she's older.
But in a situation where my throat tightened, the stall owner - a burly, oddly pale lady with hair that fell all the way down to her waistline - simply glanced once at the child, glared, and leaned down to pick up a broom.
The child screamed, running, and whatever hopeful smile she'd had on disappeared.
A few stalls away, another child, a dark-haired little boy with tears on his cheeks and large, stick-shaped welts on his hand, was running as well, the shopkeeper behind him shouting out curses that would make even Lucifer scowl.
I felt myself wanting to retch. Darij, Ismal and Abdul hadn't given us any food throughout the journey, but I still had the urge to throw up.
So perhaps Archaem was beautiful, more so than Babylon was, but there was a kindness in the people of my city that this place didn't have.
If those children lived in Babylon then, at the very least, they'd be given pity.
"Keep up the pace," Darij's voice called out. His voice had gone gruff now, half lost from all the yelling he'd done throughout the ride, and I was almost pleased. "We're almost there; don't slack off now."
"They're women, Darij," Ismal responded, his lips twisted into a smirk. "Let them sit still and look pretty."
I was quite sure that, at this point in the journey and with sixteen hours of no sleep, I did not look pretty, but some of the girls almost seemed to smile at the comment.
