Page 46 of The Moon's Fury
A resounding crack rang out as the back of Zanjeel’s hand connected with his face.
“You overstep, boy,” he snarled. “Remember your place. Too much of your mother in you. And look where that got her.”
Ruslayn wiped the blood from his split lip.
“My decision is final,” Zanjeel continued. “Dhil will lead the team in Shahbaad. You will not interfere. Control your emotions, boy. You think Zarian weak because of his morals? Your thirst for violence—for flesh—makes you far worse. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to shield you from the consequences of your own actions. And I’ve grown weary of it.”
Chastened, or at least pretending to be, Ruslayn averted his gaze. “Yes, sire.”
Zanjeel dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
The tall man stood, but instead of leaving, he opened his foolish mouth once more. “Why did you let the Navrastani girl leave? Her knowledge of the Medjai makes her a threat.”
Ruslayn posed the question casually, but Zanjeel was no fool.
He knew his son.
He had seen Ruslayn’s hungry gaze appraising the earnest, pretty girl as she stood before Tahriq and the elders, informing them of the return of the Moon Queen’s powers.
“Has there been a single moment in your pathetic life when you weren’t ruled by lust?” Zanjeel sneered. “Think, boy. She is Ebrahim’s daughter. If she lives, we can use her to control him—and through him, control Alzahra.”
21
Herheadpoundedasif a stampede of horses had thundered through and back. The skin around her nose and mouth felt stiff, and when she pulled her hand back, flakes of dried, dark blood came loose. The stench of burning flesh and rotting death filled her nostrils.
Bright sunlight scalded her eyes.
What had happened?
Flashes passed through her mind—searching for her parents, the gathering mob, the first strike of stone.
His hateful eyes.
And yet another betrayal.
Gingerly, she forced her eyes open, ignoring the painful throbbing in her skull. Her clothes had burned away.
She cast her gaze around.
She wished she hadn’t.
Charred, black bodies littered the entire square. Judging by the rancid stench, they’d lain under the hot sun for days.
How long had she slept?
Bile crept up into her throat, and she retched and retched until there was nothing left to expel. Desperate eyes scanned the dead, searching for any sign of her parents, of anyone still moving, but it was no use.
She had burned them beyond recognition.
Staggering through the square, she entered her neighbor’s clothing shop—it would never see another customer again. She grabbed the first dress she saw, numbly pulling it over her head.
As she left the shop, her eyes caught sight of a small, blackened body a few feet away, tiny arms clutching an equally burnt, wooden horse.
What had she done?
She retched again, collapsing to the ground, tears leaving wet tracks down soot-stained cheeks. Time lost meaning as she sobbed, grief weighing down her heart. She cried for her parents, likely dead and unrecognizable; for her community, men and women who had hated her, but hadn’t deserved to die; and for the innocent children, who had not cast a single stone, yet lay dead and charred anyway.
She cried for herself until there were no more tears to shed.
