King Sahir's Arc

Chapter 8 of 17

The rider had left at dawn. Three days had passed since. Sahir had no word from the weaver, and no way to know if he would come at all. Until they knew, they could not plan, could not ready a room, could not prepare their own heart to see him again. So they went where they always went when the waiting grew too heavy. They walked to the shrine inside the castle garden, past the trimmed desert greenery, and climbed the cracked stone steps alone. The winged stone figure watched from above the doors. Two lanterns burned low. Sahir knelt at the center, where small bowls waited for offerings. Their knees ached against the stone. They had not come to ask the prophets for a future. The prophets had already chosen their whole life once, and never asked. "I never wanted any of it," Sahir said to the quiet. "The crown. The walls. You studied every future and picked me. You never asked what I wanted." They set a copper coin in a bowl. "I want one small thing now. Let him see me. Not the king. Just me." Footsteps crossed the garden behind them. Sadiq stopped at the base of the steps. He held a folded paper in one hand. His staff did not move. For a long moment he only watched the kneeling king. "You should not be on the floor," Sadiq said. "I know." Sahir did not rise. Sadiq climbed two steps and held out the paper. "The rider returned. The weaver sent an answer." Sahir's breath caught. They took the paper with both hands. The edges were soft, folded the way a careful person folds something they mean to keep. No seal. No crest. Just plain creases. They unfolded it slowly. The writing was uneven, the hand of a man who worked with thread more than pen. *I remember the one who walked past the red tapestry every morning. I hung it back up when I read your letter. I will bring my work to the castle. I would like to see you again, whoever you are.* Sahir read it twice. Their eyes stung. He had not written "Your Majesty." He had written "whoever you are." He still did not care about the crown. "He is coming," Sahir said. Their voice shook. "He is coming," Sadiq agreed. He studied the king's face. "You wept over a tradesman's letter." "Yes." Sahir did not hide it. Sadiq was quiet. Then he offered a hand and helped the king to their feet. "Three days," he said. "That is when he arrives. A room must be chosen. Your pain must be managed. You cannot greet him on the floor." Sahir pressed the letter to their chest. The waiting was over. Now came a harder thing. Soon Kūrush would stand inside these walls, and Sahir would have to decide how much of the truth to give him.