The Silver Sparrow

For Pride and Honor

Jarem had a vision then, of his head rolling across the floor to stop just short of the salar's feet, his master looking down at it with disappointment on his face, perhaps also a hint of regret for having trusted him this far.

It was the worst nightmare for a soldier—to die knowing his life hadn't made a difference, that his loyalty had been misunderstood.

He thought of saying something to fix the situation, an excuse, a good reason perhaps, and realized it could be considered an insult to his master's intelligence. The only thing to be done to justify his actions, Jarem decided, was to come clean and accept whatever judgment the salar would deem appropriate. Traditionally, however, or at least under the rule of Salar Muradi, what he had done incurred a death penalty.

Jarem adjusted himself and straightened as he saluted the salar. He was ready for that, too, had been from the beginning.

"How much has Imran told you, my lord?" He asked what he needed to know, had to know before he was to be executed. The truth was, Imran should have had no knowledge of anything at all. The general had never been a part of any conversation. He had been kept outside of the loop and had only been ordered to tighten up security and to deal with the mob, no more.

The salar, dressed in the most formal attire as though he was about to attend an important ceremony, seemed a little pale and worn down that morning as if he hadn't slept for the whole night. His expression was flat, unreadable, like that of a statue whose sculptor had failed to express himself. "I know everything, Jarem," he said. Words so softly spoken yet made shockingly loud in the stillness and the crippling silence that occupied the hallway. "Imran has been ordered to follow, observe, and report to me on everything you do."

Jarem looked at the general then, trying to read the man he'd trusted and fought alongside since the battle of Vilarhiti and found no trace of guilt on that face. On it was only pride—the pride of a man who had done his duty to perfection. It only occurred to Jarem at that moment, how much of a fool he had been to have believed Imran was loyal to him. He may have been the commander of Imran's division for two decades, but the men at Vilarhiti had fought and died only for one man—the one standing in front of him now, just like then, with those obsidian blades on his back.

"I see," said Jarem. "Since when, may I ask?" How long have you stopped trusting me?

"I've never trusted anyone, Jarem," replied the salar, to the real question that needn't be spoken—they had, after all, known each other for too long for that. "You, of all people, should know."

It was an answer in itself, really, for the salar to have refused to go into specifics. From the very beginning, of course. "I suppose I do," said Jarem. Except Ghaul, he wanted to say. He didn't. It wasn't the time to express that kind of bitterness. Besides, he knew the explanation for that well enough. Ghaul had been someone who survived Sabha with the salar—the prince at the time. If there was one person in this world the salar would trust, it was always going to be Ghaul.

But a man could wish he might one day gain such a trust if he stayed loyal long enough. A man could wish he might also one day become an exception, couldn't he?

As it happened, he wasn't going to live long enough for that.

"May I presume that you have dealt with the traitors, my lord? And the mob?" There were more important things, of course, that must be done and corrected before his execution.

The salar nodded. "The mob has been called off. Azram, his mother, and Amelia are being detained, so are the assassins you've sent into the temple."

Jarem sighed in relief. At least those problems had been solved. He could die without worrying about these things, even if the Witch would still be alive.