“If only the Hajji would return!” she said that night to her old nurse.
“If only he would return—soon, soon!” she sobbed, a week or two later, when news had come that the governor of the eastern marches had returned to his provincial capital and was suspected of intrigues with the Ameer of the Afghans, while his twin brother, the governor of the western marches, was said to be hand in glove with a band of Persian marauders who were plundering the caravans going to Tamerlanistan.
“If only he would return!”
The words choked in her throat, and Ayesha Zemzem folded her in her withered old arms.
“Do not give wings to grief, little piece of my soul,” she crooned. “It flies swiftly without them. Remember the words of the Koran that it is the dust and grime which purify the great soul. Remember, too, the ancient prophecy of thy clan!”
“Yes!” said the princess. “I remember.”
From a taboret, she took the straight, simple sword that had rested across the knees of the dead Ameer during the funeral procession. Her narrow, white hand gripped the hilt.
“The old prophecy!” she whispered. “Out of the West he will come to save Tamerlanistan! Twin brother to the Gengizkhani through the mating of blades!”
She stepped to the window and looked out to where, above a sunset of somber, crushed pink, the gathering night was wrapping palace and town in her trailing cloak of black, shot with golden stars.
“Out of the West!”
