The smell hit him first.
It was not the clean, hot scent of the desert. It was the rot of the sea—brine, dead fish, and wet stone.
Khalid was thrown from the transport cart onto the cobblestones of the fortress courtyard. Above him, the walls of Akka rose like teeth against the grey sky. The waves crashed against the other side of the wall, a relentless, pounding rhythm that sounded like a headache.
"Get up, scum."
A guard kicked him in the ribs. Khalid scrambled to his feet, wheezing. The journey had taken two weeks. He was thin, dehydrated, and feverish.
They marched him down. Down past the barracks. Down past the kitchens. Down into the bowels of the fortress, where the light of the sun was just a rumor.
They reached a heavy iron door that dripped with condensation. The guard unlocked it with a key that looked like a weapon.
"Strip," the guard ordered.
Khalid removed his torn robes. He stood shivering in the damp cold.
"Everything," the guard said, pointing to the tunic.
Khalid hesitated. He reached into the tunic and pulled out the leather-bound journal. It was warm from his body. It was the only thing he had left of himself.
"Please," Khalid croaked, his voice unused. "It is only paper. Poetry. Let me keep it."
The guard snatched the book from his hand. He laughed, flipping through the pages. "Poetry? You won't need words here, Bedouin. You only need to know how to count rocks."
The guard tossed the book into a brazier burning in the hallway.
Khalid lunged. "No!"
The guard backhanded him, sending him sprawling onto the wet stone floor. Khalid watched, helpless, as the pages curled and blackened. The ink—his thoughts, his fears, the lines he had written for Layla—turned to smoke and drifted up toward the ceiling.
"Get in."
He was shoved into the cell. The iron door slammed shut. The darkness was absolute.
Khalid crawled to the corner. The floor was slick with slime. He could hear the scratching of rats in the walls. He curled into a ball, trying to preserve his warmth.
They had taken his sword. They had taken his name. They had burned his book.
He closed his eyes. In the dark, he saw words glowing in his mind.
They can burn the paper, he thought, a spark of defiance igniting in the cold. But they cannot burn the mind.
He began to whisper.
"The heart is a traveler..."
He repeated the line. Then the next. He would memorize them. He would write them on the inside of his skull. He would build a library in the dark, a place where the Pasha could not go.
"I am Khalid," he whispered to the rats. "And I am still speaking."