The eunuch beside him adjusted the mail and prevented the links from ripping the cotton shirt. Faraj gestured for the quilted leather tunic. He slipped the garment over his head. A gasp came from his doorway. Fatima stood there. He ignored her and took his sword belt from the eunuch. He girded it around his waist and tucked his khanjar into its sheath. The leather bonds encircling the dagger’s hilt chaffed his fingers. While he slipped the mail mittens on his hands and finished dressing, Fatima remained just outside his room. She did not utter a word. Nor did she have to say anything. He prepared to make war on her brother, whom she had supported in his bid for power. Faraj did not have to guess at her feelings. Still, when he turned to her again, the tears that streamed down her cheeks took him aback. After years of icy mistrust between them, the sight moved him as nothing else had. His jaw tightened. He grasped his helmet and approached her. She stood aside and leaned against the doorpost.
