Saladin Ahmed - Throne of the Crescent Moon

His cheek burned like the Lake of Flame. If his Shaykhs had seen that kiss, they would have been scandalized. But Raseed could find no fault with Zamia Banu Laith Badawi. All he could do was force back the tears he felt filling his own eyes, and follow her back to join the others.

Adoulla sipped his tea and looked at his oldest friends in the world. His heart nearly broke, looking at Dawoud. Adoulla was used to seeing his friend look bleary-eyed and haggard after a fight, but this was different. A day later and Dawoud’s shoulders were still stooped. He had lines around his eyes and a hitch in his walk that hadn’t been there yesterday morning.

They’re really leaving, Adoulla thought, and he felt an almost physical ache. Everything had changed now, and not all of it for the better. He looked about Mohsabi’s formally decorated teahouse. The place was fine enough—fancier than Yehyeh’s had been, to be sure—and Mohsabi himself was a generous host, but the tea was a bit bland and…

Oh, Yehyeh. My friend, you deserved a quieter end than what God granted you. But may your soul find shelter in His embrace.

Adoulla silently mouthed lines from the last passage of Ismi Shihab’s Leaves of Palm :

So this is old age! I’ve seen half my friends die.

I say prayers at their passing, too tired to cry.

Raseed and Zamia, both looking somewhat stricken, emerged from a side room and walked back toward the table, finished with whatever private talk they’d had. Adoulla looked at the two young warriors and sighed. They frightened him and made him wonder about the future, these zealous children who longed to kill. Who considered killing a calling and a path to honor. Would that we lived in a world that needed no swords or silver claws , he thought. But that was not the world he lived in. Without meaning to, he moaned in pain, thinking of the world as it was.

He knew that Dawoud was right about the chaos that was likely to come. But regardless of what was coming, regardless of what building Adoulla lived in, or where he took his tea, Dhamsawaat was his home. At the end of the day, nothing could change that. And, for whatever it was worth, Adoulla did not think that Pharaad Az Hammaz could possibly make a worse Khalif than the last. He even dared to hope that the man—the blood-drinking usurper—might just make a better one.

As he moaned, his companions—not just his old friends, but the two youths as well—looked over at him. In each pair of eyes—tilted, bright green, rheumy, and reasonable—he saw concern for him. More—he saw love. It was disguised by degrees of gruffness and grim honor, but it was love nonetheless. Each met his gaze with a silent offer to lend him their strength. Four fine people who wished to save him pain.

Perhaps this world is not in such bad hands, after all .

He and his friends had faced their most powerful threat yet, and defeated it. And everything and nothing had changed. The sky had not split open to reveal the Ministering Angels singing that all ghul-makers were dead. There was no shower of flowers from a forever-safe populace. Tomorrow, or the next day, or a month from now, some fishmonger or housewife would come to Adoulla with more terrified tales. God had not rewarded Adoulla with retirement in a peaceful palace full of food and friends. The half-mad Falcon Prince, armed with the tainted powers of the Cobra Throne, ruled Dhamsawaat tenuously. And the people Adoulla cared about most were either leaving that city or dead.

But not Miri.

Not Miri, who mattered more than anything. He had made a sacred oath to her. More than once in his life Adoulla had found himself regretting a sworn oath, but he had never broken one.

His obligation to God had never felt so sweet.

And so, despite all of the horrors Adoulla had seen, despite all of the horrors that were yet to come, he felt a small smile steal across his lips. There were ways to help men other than ghul hunting, he told himself. Men had managed to survive without him once. They would do so again. He had paid his “fare for the festival of this world.”

Now it was his turn to dance.

That evening, Adoulla again found himself standing on the doorstep of Miri Almoussa’s tidy storefront. The brass-bound door was closed, a rare sight. No doubt some of her Hundred Ears had brought her tales of the battle in the Palace. If that was the case, pragmatic Miri was likely preparing herself as best she could for the chaos that was to come.

He pounded on the door, and when it opened it was not Axeface but Miri herself who stood there. Adoulla’s breath caught in his throat, and he found he couldn’t speak.

Miri said nothing, but she looked at him, her eyes bright with an unasked question.

Adoulla swallowed hard, clutched at his kaftan, and nodded once. As Miri took a step toward him, he allowed himself a small smile.

Then Doctor Adoulla Makhslood got down on his knees, touched his forehead to the ground, and wept before the woman he would wed.

A number of people have helped me usher Throne from the “neat idea” stage to the book you now hold in your hands. In particular I’d like to thank:

• All of the readers who’ve helped me hone my writing over the past few years: My fellow students in the 2007 Taos Toolbox workshop (especially Christopher Cevasco, Scott Andrews, and Dorothy A. Windsor); the members of the 2009 Rio Hondo workshop; and the past and present members of the Tabula Rasa and Altered Fluid writers groups (in particular E.C. Myers, Rajan Khanna, Richard Bowes, and Justin Howe)

• Walter Jon Williams, the best teacher in the genre-writing business

• Kevin J. Anderson, for the precious gift of his free time

• The members of the SFNovelists listserv, for their generous mentorship

• Jennifer Jackson, super-agent extraodinaire

• Betsy Wollheim, the best editor/publisher a writer could ask for

This book wouldn’t exist without your help, folks. Thank you!