Free Between Two Ends by David Ward

warm, dry wind the scent of sweet blossoms filled the air. Although his heart thumped briskly, his curiosity and sense of adventure started to take over. He fixed his scowl again and faced the new world.
    Royalty would seek solace in a place that smelled of blossoms, not garbage, he reasoned. He shrugged and followed his nose.
    His feet sank into sand as he trudged toward the palace. At the top of the beach his vantage point changed and he had a better sense of the place.
    Walls separated the poor from the wealthy. The palace and gardens were cut off from the sea and port town. The walls were whitewashed, baked clay, and loomed higher then he could throw a stone. The heat emanating from the brick was stifling. But the artistry and majesty of the place quickly diverted him from his discomfort. Colored tiles formed a mosaic of a roaring jackal beside the gate, and running along the highest wall was a border of flowing script as tall as Yeats. The stonewas pockmarked and scored by the elements. The walls continued as far as he could see.
    The city was bristling with activity on land and water, with bazaars, markets, churches, soldiers, peasants, and animals everywhere. His scowl deepened. In the city he could at least blend into crowds and search with some anonymity. But not here at the palace—not without a disguise. He sat with his back to the gate and waited for night. The darkness would be his cloak. When the shades of night finally came down and he could wait no longer, he stood up.
    The gate creaked open to reveal a starlit garden. It was nothing like the jumbled mess of Gran’s garden. A path of white stones formed a large oval around neatly tilled beds of blooming plants and cultivated trees. The smell of freshly turned soil wafted on the night air. And there were voices.
    The moon shed its cover, opening the garden as light to a page. Two figures stood on the central path, an old man and a girl.
    â€œYou must tell me, Mohassin. I beseech you!” the girl said.
    The old man’s voice trembled. “My lady, I cannot. Your father, the vizier, has made each of us swear, on the tombs of our fathers no less, that we will not breach our silence on this matter. You endanger your servants to ask that question.”
    Yeats listened intently.
    The girl sighed. “What would you have me do? Every morning I hear wailing outside the palace. Night after night I hear their cries! The voices of mothers and sisters and daughters. Upon my soul, Mohassin, I will find out.”
    â€œMy lady. You must shut your ears and close your eyes.”
    â€œI cannot!”
    The old man sighed. “Your people love you, my lady. And with discretion”—his voice trembled—“I dare say, not a princess in this land shares your love and duty to the people.”
    â€œAnd I will not rest while the city weeps,” the girl replied.
    â€œPunish as you may. There is nothing that can move me.”
    The girl’s voice broke. “Go, Mohassin! I willnot be the cause of grief to such a friend. Go back to your kitchen without fear and take these coins for your trouble.”
    â€œDear lady. Your kindness is enough.”
    The figures parted and the servant hobbled to a set of steps leading to a colonnade. The girl remained, looking at the stars.
    When Yeats’s eyes adjusted to the deepening dim, he realized she was crying. A sob drifted with the scent of flowers. Yeats moved closer to the cover of a tree several yards ahead, but when he peeked out, the girl was coming right for him along the main path.
    He froze.
    She was close enough to touch and dressed in a thin lace tunic that swished as she walked. A shawl covered her head. She must have heard him move, for she stopped, then turned and peered into the shadows. As she pushed back the branches, her face was suddenly illuminated by moonlight.
    Shaharazad!
    â€œKhan?” she whispered.
    Yeats gawked. “I … I …” The shawl had