After rising, he'd been more blunt than he ought to have been, asking the courtiers-and the vizier and a prince! — to leave the room. But he always used a manner of crisp efficiency to suggest authority beyond his years, and this was no time or place to deviate from his customary methods. If he was to die, it hardly mattered what they thought of him, did it? He asked the commander to stay. A soldier would be unfazed by bloodshed and screaming, and someone might have to hold the afflicted person down.

The afflicted person. The King of Kings. Sword of Perun. Brother to the Sun and Moons.

Rustem forced himself to stop thinking in that way. This was a patient. An injured man. That was what mattered. The courtiers left. The prince- Rustem didn't know which of the king's sons this was-paused in front of him and made vivid with twisting hands the threat of death that had been with Rustem from the moment he'd left his garden.

It could not be allowed to matter. All would be as had been written.

He'd cast the Ajbar powder into the fire to bring the room in tune with more harmonious presences and spirits, then crossed to the bed to examine the arrow and the wound.

And he had smelled kaaba there.

His mind reeling with shock, he'd realized that the smell had jogged a hovering awareness, and then a second one had emerged and left him very much afraid. He'd sent the commander hurrying for gloves. He needed them.

If he touched that arrow shaft he would die.

Alone in the room with the King of Kings, Rustem discovered that his fears were those of a physician and not a lowly subject now. He wondered how to say what was in his mind.

The kings eyes were on his face now, dark and cold. Rustem saw rage in them. "There is a poison on the shaft," Shirvan said.

Rustem bowed his head. "Yes, my lord. Kaaba. From thejijana plant." He took a breath and asked, "Did your own physicians touch the arrow?"