Chapter 35 · Chapter 35

The corridor between the private wing and the grand majlis was paved in cool desert limestone, insulated from the dry heat of the Riyadh morning. Every step I took alongside Talal carried the soft rustle of black crepe against stone. My tarha was pinned securely, shadowing my hairline and neck, framing only the steady line of my jaw and eyes. In public, under the scrutiny of lineage and law, armor took the form of unbroken composure.

Two attendants stationed at the cedar double doors did not wait for an order. At the sound of Talal’s approach, they pulled the heavy leaves inward.

The silence that met us was immediate, thick with the heavy scent of burning oud curling from a tall brass mabkhara near the threshold. The long hall was packed to its perimeter. More than thirty men of the Al-Zahrani line sat along the low perimeter divans, their stiff-collared white thobes gleaming under the tiered crystal chandeliers, their red-and-white shemaghs arranged in sharp, formal folds.