Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,84
balanced a desk on my lap, smoothed out a sheet of paper, and dipped my reed pen in ink, wiping it to avoid smudges. I penned the first letter as quickly as I could and passed it to Pari for her signature; then I penned the next one. In the middle of the night, I put the first few letters to her half brothers in a cloth bag, took them to her most trusted courier, and told him to dispatch his men immediately.
All through that long night we wrote letters to her family members, pausing only to eat a sweetmeat or drain another cup of coffee. Azar kept the oil lamps brightly lit and melted wax so that Pari could press her seal into it as soon as each letter was dry. When our forearms became tired from writing, her lady massaged them with vigor. As she kneaded my arms, I relaxed into my cushion and stared at the pretty beauty mark near her lip. I was achingly tired, and lonely. I wondered if Azar Khatoon would take me into her bed, but her indifference announced to me that she had no need.
We heard the first call to prayer while sealing the final letters. I wrote a quick additional note to Mahmood, although Pari had already written to him, urging him to take care of himself in every respect, and I signed it, “your loving tutor.”
Pari’s eyes had deep hollows under them, and I was certain they mirrored my own.
“I pray that we will save your family,” I said. Eight of her brothers and male cousins were still alive, as far as we knew.
“Insh’Allah,” she replied, and then she looked at me with new compassion in her eyes. “Now I know something of the heart-tearing sorrow that you endured when you were a young man. Death is always ugly, but to lose a family member to murder is horrifying. Alas, my broken heart!”
“Princess, I am so sorry,” I replied softly. “Please know that I understand that no consolation is possible.”
I put the letters in a bag and made another trip to her chief courier, silently praying they would be delivered in time.
A few hours later, Pari told me to go to Ibrahim’s house to check on him again. It was a cold morning, and the streets were icy as I walked down the great avenue, whose trees were now all bare. I hoped that having made his point, Isma‘il Shah would show Ibrahim mercy. Perhaps this time, I would be admitted to his house and catch a glimpse of him that I could take back to Pari as a treasure.
When I arrived, I was relieved to see that the Circassian guards were gone. I knocked using the round knocker for women, and one of Gowhar’s ladies opened the door. She told me that I could find her mistress in the courtyard.
“I cannot accompany you,” she added brusquely. “I must attend to my own work.”
I suspected her rudeness had to do with the fact that the household had been turned upside down by the guards. I proceeded down a corridor and passed a large room whose shelves were so bare they looked blue in the early morning light. No doubt this had been the famous library, but where were the books? My heart clenched at the sight of loose manuscript pages on the floor, some bearing the imprint of men’s boots.
As I approached the courtyard, I smelled a fire, which was strange for this snowy time of year. Outside, a great bonfire roared to the heavens, tended by an elderly man. Gowhar sat on the frozen ground near the fire as if she were a common servant, her back rounded under her dark robe, her sober face reflecting the leaping flames.
“Salaam aleikum. I bring greetings from Pari Khan Khanoom,” I said. Gowhar continued staring into the flames, silent as the grave. A wave of discomfort overtook me.
“My lieutenant asks after your well-being and wishes to know if there is anything she can offer to help you.”
Gowhar closed her eyes and two large tears slid down her cheeks. “Pari was right. We should have left.”
She collapsed into sobs so piteous I am certain they would have broken even Isma‘il’s heart.
“They killed him this morning,” she added, “and didn’t even have the grace to kill me with him.”
No words, no expressions could suffice in such a case. I was speechless.
The manservant poked at the fire, which ejected bits of burned paper into the