Khalid walked out of the tent and into the center of the terrified circle.
The wind whipped his robes around him, carrying the scent of torch smoke and horse sweat. He did not look at his tribesmen huddled in the dust. He walked straight toward the wall of soldiers, past the weeping women, until he stood alone in the open sand.
"Halt!"
The command came from a mounted officer pushing through the front rank. It was the Captain—the same man whose nose Hamza had broken days before. His face was a swollen mask of bandages and dark bruising. He looked down at Khalid with eyes full of hate.
"Where is the animal?" the Captain spat, his hand resting on the hilt of his saber. "Where is Hamza? Bring him out, or I give the order to fire."
Behind the Captain, a hundred muskets clicked, hammers pulled back in unison. The sound was like the cracking of dry bones.
Khalid stopped five paces from the horse. He raised his hands slowly, showing he held no weapon. But he did not bow. He stood with the arrogance of a king who has already won the war.
"Hamza is not here," Khalid announced. His voice was steady, projected clearly over the wind so every soldier could hear. "He is with the northern herds, miles from this road."
"Liar!" The Captain screamed, his face flushing purple. "We know he was on the road! We know he killed Yusuf Bey! Do not play games with me, Bedouin. I will slaughter every soul here to find him!"
"You will slaughter goats and old men," Khalid countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy calm. "And when you return to the Pasha with a pile of corpses but no killer, how will he reward you? Will he pin a medal on your chest? Or will he ask why you failed to bring him the man responsible for his nephew's death?"
The Captain hesitated. The horse shifted beneath him.
Khalid took a step forward. "You want the man who killed Yusuf Bey? You want the man who ordered the strike? Look at me."
The Captain blinked. He peered at Khalid, confused. "You? The scribe? The one with the pouch of gold?"
"I am Khalid Ibn Walid," Khalid said, drawing himself up to his full height. "Heir to the Al-Fayid. The sword of this tribe is mine to command. My brother is a brute, yes, but he does not have the authority to strike an Ottoman officer. Only I do."
Khalid reached into his belt. The soldiers tensed, fingers tightening on triggers. Khalid moved slowly. He pulled out the empty scabbard of Al-Shams, the mother-of-pearl glinting in the firelight. He threw it into the dirt at the Captain's feet.
"Yusuf Bey insulted my father," Khalid lied. The lie was perfect, smooth as polished glass. "He dishonored our name. So I put a knife in his heart. It was my hand. My order. My crime."
A murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers. They knew Khalid was the Heir. To capture the Prince of the tribe was a far greater prize than capturing the second son.
The Captain stared at him. He knew, deep down, that Khalid was lying. He remembered the scene in the camp—Khalid was the peacemaker, Hamza was the wolf. But the Captain was a pragmatist. If he attacked now, the Bedouins would fight with the desperation of rats. He would lose men.
But if he took Khalid...
He would bring the Pasha the Heir. He would bring a confession. It would be a clean victory.
"You confess?" the Captain asked, a cruel smile twisting his bandaged lips. "You claim the blood of the Pasha's kin?"
"I claim it," Khalid said. "But this is the bargain: You take me. Me alone. The tribe is innocent; they followed my orders. You leave them. You march away now, and you have your killer. Touch one hair on a child's head, and I retract the confession. I will say I was miles away, and you killed innocent subjects of the Sultan."
The Captain weighed the options. He looked at the tents. He looked at Khalid.
"Get down," the Captain ordered his men, gesturing to two burly Janissaries. "Seize him."
The soldiers surged forward. They weren't gentle. They kicked Khalid's legs out from under him, driving his knees into the hard sand. They wrenched his arms behind his back, twisting the joints until Khalid gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.
Cold, heavy iron shackles were snapped onto his wrists.
"You are a fool, Bedouin," the Captain sneered, leaning down from his saddle. "The Pasha will peel the skin from your bones."
"Take me to him," Khalid gasped, the pain in his shoulders blinding. "Leave my family."
The Captain looked at the Al-Fayid camp one last time. He spat into the dust. "Mount up!" he bellowed to his troops. "We have the murderer! Back to the Citadel!"
The ring of fire broke. The horses turned. Khalid was hauled to his feet and dragged toward a prisoner wagon, an iron cage on wheels.
He was thrown inside. He hit the wooden floor hard.
As the wagon lurched forward, rattling violently over the dunes, Khalid pulled himself up to the bars. He looked back.
The camp was safe. The torches were fading. He saw the flap of the main tent open, and a figure stepped out—Hamza. Even from this distance, Khalid could see his brother fall to his knees in the dust, wailing.
Khalid turned away. He gripped the cold iron bars. He looked North, toward the invisible dark where the shrine lay.
The Pasha wasn't here. But Khalid was going to him. And he knew, with the certainty of a man reading the final page of a book, that he would never walk on sand again.
Wait for me, he prayed silently to the girl in the dark. Wait for me.