In truth, Maslakhat gave little thought to his name, or why he had been called such a thing. His father Kiral had been named in the hope that one day he would lead their herd—but instead he had committed the ultimate act of shame in creating Yusuf. Maslakhat therefore was the true heir to Zenith’s lands, but despite his good fortune their gods would not allow such a thing to pass. Zenith’s greed had led to nothing but famine and despair. It was fortunate that he and Valve survived—their departure had been an unsuspecting blessing, yet Yusuf the blind abomination still walked the earth—and each day that passed without his death was yet another that ended in failure.

Yet there had been some progress. El Aran was dead. And as Gabbar laughed, Maslakhat looked on and offered the Arabian a thin smile.

“Fair enough,” he offered, mulling over exactly how much detail he should divulge regarding the recent events of the desert. If he had been keeping to himself for these past few weeks, he obviously wouldn’t have heard much of anything.

“As it happens, you are right. I do have some news,” he continued as they walked steadily over the sand, matching pace and strides.

At mention of Iftikhar. Maslakhat flicked his ears backward and stiffened his expression. He had never been fond of the fiery red mare, but at least she was predictable.

“Let me guess,” he began again. “She is extraordinarily livid,” he finished with a hint of his own attempt at dry humor, flicking his ears forward again to prove his whimsy.

Maslakhat did know that Iftikhar was not present during the execution of the blind seer, so therefore she would have no knowledge to pass on to Gabbar in that regard. Just in case, he wanted to hear the other stallion speak first, as he was curious about what she would want from him.



MASLAKHAT
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