King Sahir's Arc

Chapter 7 of 17

The sealed summons sat on the table between the three candles. Sadiq watched Sahir turn it over twice. The wax held firm. The words were plain and correct: a royal commission for the weaver Kūrush, to bring his work to the castle. Sahir should have felt relief. Instead their stomach knotted. "A rider leaves at dawn," Sadiq said. "He will put this in the weaver's hand." Sahir pressed a finger to the seal. "He will see the crest first. The horse. The uniform." They looked up. "He will not see a message from me. He will see an order from a king he never met." Sadiq said nothing. That was agreement. Sahir thought of the stall. Of the young weaver who talked while his hands moved, who had poured them tea without once asking their name. If a soldier arrived with a sealed command, that man would vanish. Only a frightened tradesman would come. He would bow. He would say yes to everything. He would never laugh again in front of them. "Break the seal," Sahir said. Sadiq's brows rose a fraction. "You sealed it an hour ago." "I know what I sealed. It frightens him." Sahir reached for a fresh sheet. Their knees ached from sitting, but their hands were steady now. "A summons tells him what the crown wants. I want him to choose." "Kings do not ask. They instruct." Sadiq's voice went flat, the way it did when he meant to close a subject. "Then I will write a bad one." Sahir dipped the pen. They did not write of commissions or castle walls. They wrote that a buyer admired the red tapestry that used to hang at the front of his stall. That the buyer missed walking past it. That the buyer would pay fairly, and would understand if the weaver chose not to come. They signed it with their own name. Only Sahir. No title. Sadiq read it over their shoulder. A long silence. "He will know who signed it." "He will know a person signed it," Sahir said. "Not a throne." Sadiq took the paper. He studied the plain words for a long moment. Then he folded it with care, the way a man folds something that belonged to an old friend's grandchild. "Her honesty bred true," he murmured. He tucked the letter into his robe. "The rider leaves at dawn. This one, not the other." He burned the sealed summons in the tallest candle. The wax crest blackened and curled. Sahir watched it char. The castle still held them inside. The gate was still shut. But for the first time, something of theirs would leave these walls and reach the weaver's hands. Not a command. An invitation he was free to refuse. "If he does not come," Sahir said quietly. "Then you will have your answer," Sadiq said, and shut the door.