The Hall of Justice in the Citadel was designed to make men feel small. The ceiling was lost in shadow, and the walls were draped in the heavy red banners of the Ottoman Empire.
Khalid stood in the center of the marble floor. He had been beaten—his lip was split, his left eye swollen shut—but he stood upright. The chains on his wrists and ankles clanked softly as he shifted his weight.
The gallery was packed. Merchants, nobles, and soldiers jostled to see the "Savage Poet," the Bedouin who had dared to strike the Governor's house.
Khalid did not look at the judge. He scanned the crowd.
He was looking for a ghost.
And then, he saw her.
She was standing near the back, hidden in the shadow of a pillar. She was veiled heavily in black, but Khalid knew her. He knew the tilt of her head. He knew the way her hands gripped the fabric of her dress.
She made a movement—a small step forward. Her hand rose, as if she were about to shout, to object, to run to him.
Khalid froze.
If she spoke, she was ruined. If she showed she knew him, the Pasha would take her too.
Khalid stared directly at her. He shook his head. A minute, almost imperceptible movement. No.
He moved his shackled hand and pressed it briefly, sharply, against his heart. Then he let it drop. Save yourself.
He saw her shudder. He saw her hand fall. She understood.
"Khalid Ibn Walid," the Pasha's voice boomed from the raised dais.
The Pasha sat not as a judge, but as a bored god. He leafed through a stack of papers.
"You have confessed to the murder of Yusuf Bey. Do you recant?"
"I do not," Khalid said, his voice raspy but clear.
"The penalty for murder is death," the Pasha said. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. A cruel smile played on his lips. "But death is quick. And you... you have robbed me of a lifetime of my nephew's potential. It is only fair that I rob you of yours."
The Pasha picked up a quill. He wrote on the parchment with a flourish.
"I sentence you to the White Prison of Akka."
A gasp went through the room. Akka. The grave of the living. A fortress on the sea where the damp ate men's lungs and the rats ate their toes. Men did not return from Akka.
"You will remain there," the Pasha continued, his eyes locking with Khalid's, "until the stone walls turn to dust."
"Take him away."
The guards seized Khalid's arms. As they dragged him out, he did not look back at the Pasha. He looked at the pillar in the back of the room.
It was empty.
The ghost was gone.