Equal of the Sun by Anita Amirrezvani Read Free Book Online Page A

the top of the room, dressed in dark silk robes in honor of the Shah’s passing.
    Saleem Khan, the master of palace protocol, entered the room. He possessed a voice that could tame an army of men. When he called, “Come to order!” the nobles fell silent. The chief mullah of Qazveen, whose black turban and robes were a sobering sight, walked slowly to the front of the hall and said a prayer for the dead. Every head in the room was bowed, as if weighed down by the uncertainty of the future.
    After the prayer, Saleem Khan announced that a member of the Safavi dynasty wished to address us. The brown velvet curtain at the back of the platform stirred, and Haydar Mirza stepped out and stood in the Shah’s place. He was a slight young man with a nervous left eye that sometimes blinked too much. His fitted dark gray robe made him look even smaller than usual.
    “Greetings to all the valued retainers of the Safavi court,” he began in a nasal voice that was too quiet to be heard well. “I give my thanks to you for attending upon us on this terrible day. Together we mourn the passing of my father, the fulcrum of the universe, even as we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. I call on you, great ones, to help me fulfill my father’s wishes for the future.”
    Not even the fringes on the nobles’ sashes stirred as they waited to hear what he had in mind, but Haydar faltered.
    “I request your indulgence for a moment,” he finally said before disappearing behind the curtain. We heard the high-pitched murmuring of a woman.
    “That sounds like his mother,” I whispered to Balamani.
    “If he can’t get through a meeting without her help, how does he expect to rule?” Balamani growled. Speculation filled the room until Saleem Khan’s voice boomed like a cannon, and the room quieted again.
    Haydar emerged from the curtain too quickly, stumbling as if he had been pushed out. In his fist was the great golden sword of the Safavi dynasty, a beautifully crafted weapon encrusted with emeralds and rubies. The matching belt at his waist emanated rays of light when he moved.
    “I hereby declare myself your new shah and demand your loyalty unto death!” Haydar shouted. “Those who serve me will be well rewarded; those who oppose me will pay the consequences.” He tried to thrust the sword high into the air, but the weapon was too heavy and his arm faltered midway.
    The room exploded. Men leapt to their feet—some cried out in surprise, others shouted their support.
    “Squelch your chatter!” commanded Saleem Khan, and gradually, the men settled down.
    Haydar’s uncle on his mother’s side, Khakaberi Khan, asked to be recognized and stood up to help his nephew. “By what authority do you make this claim?”
    Haydar handed the sword to Saleem Khan. From deep in his robe, he produced a rolled document and held it high for all to see.
    “By my father’s will,” he said.
    There was a low, powerful roar of disbelief.
    Haydar unrolled the document and read it aloud. It named him as the only lawful successor to Tahmasb Shah and urged the courtiers to show loyalty to him as his father’s choice.
    “I know the Shah’s writing better than my own,” challenged Mirza Shokhrollah, the treasury chief, whose long gray beard wagged when he spoke. “Let me see that document.”
    “Here it is,” replied Haydar, waving the paper but refusing to relinquish it, so Shokhrollah had to approach the platform. After a few moments, he said in a surprised tone, “I would swear the writing was the Shah’s.”
    Pari’s uncle, Shamkhal Cherkes, arose to have his say. “Everyone knows there is a lady in the royal palace whose handwriting resembles his,” he said, his index finger pointing heavenward for emphasis. “How can we be certain that this isn’t her handiwork?”
    “Whether you doubt the writing or not, everyone knows my father’s seal,” Haydar said, pointing to the will. “Surely you don’t deny that this is