King Sahir's Arc

Chapter 3 of 17

The next morning Sahir walked into the bazaar with their hood down. The braid hung over one shoulder. Nobody bowed. Nobody stared. They passed stalls of spices and copper pots until they reached the one with the woven tapestries. The red one still hung out front. Behind it stood the weaver, the young man who had seen their face. Sahir stopped. Now the old problem returned, sharper than before. They wanted to approach him. But they had no reason. For months they had only looked, then walked on. To step closer now, with their face bare, would show everything. It would say plainly that they came for him, not the cloth. Sahir pretended to study the red tapestry. Their fingers hovered near the woven edge. They tried to think of a question that sounded ordinary. The weaver spoke first. "You came back." He smiled, wide and easy, and set down the thread in his hands. His vest was bright red over pale sandy cloth. Rings and bracelets caught the light. "I was afraid I'd scared you off yesterday. People get shy when the hood slips." Sahir's throat tightened. "You remember me." "Every morning for two years." He laughed. "You slow down at the red one. Same spot. I always wondered who was under there." He tilted his head. "Teal eyes. I only caught them once before. Now I see I wasn't dreaming them." Sahir waited for the next word. The title. The crown. It did not come. The weaver only looked at them the way he would look at anyone. "This one isn't for sale," he said, touching the red tapestry. "My grandmother made it. She taught me the loom when I was too small to hold it. Everything else here is mine. But this one I keep." He paused. "You like it. I can tell. You've liked it longer than anyone." "I do," Sahir said. The truth came out simple. "I've wanted to say so for a long time." "Then say it inside, over tea." He stepped aside and waved a hand toward two low stools behind the display. "I'm Kūrush. I talk too much. My grandmother said it was a gift. You can decide." Sahir looked at the stool. The excuse they had needed all along stood in front of them, offering itself. No clever question required. He had simply invited them in. They sat. Kūrush poured tea into a chipped cup and began a story about the first tapestry he ever ruined. Sahir listened and, for the first time in longer than they could remember, felt no weight on their shoulders. Here they were only a shy stranger with striking eyes. A person at a stall, drinking tea. The obstacle was gone. But as Kūrush talked, a new one took its place. He knew their face now. He would want a name. And the only name Sahir had belonged to the King.