Malik loved being part of us, anyone of us could tell. He was a brave warrior, never one to hesitate when jumping in battle. I respected him, and grew to love him like a brother. He saved my life once, in a battle against another tribe, and this strengthened our bond. We would never be apart for long, whenever the other needed us, we were there, for each other. We often went riding in the night together, most of the time, not saying a word. I realized he was dearer to me than Shajar or Nazm ever were.

After a year had passed, one night we were riding together as usual. We were both doing some deep thinking, when Malik let out a barely audible sigh that caught my attention. "What are you thinking about, Malik?"

"I was thinking about poetry."

I made a face of disgust. "I don't trust poets. They're full of jealousy and lies."

"Not all of them," Malik replied. "Even though I know why you say so."

"Poetry is a terrible weapon in the hands of an unscrupulous man. As the poet says, 'A wound from the tongue is like a blow from the hand.'"

"You speak against poetry, but you quote from poets to do it," Malik observed.

"As I child, I wanted to be a poet," I admitted. "My father composed beautiful verses, and I wanted to learn from him. But I came to know a poet who was crueler than the bloodiest thief."

"You did?"

I nodded. "He killed my father. He subjected him to terrible tortures. His body arrived home in a cart like a load of cheap goods, led by a servant who didn't even know what he was carrying, He was in horrible condition, like someone who had spent a long time in prison. My poor mother died of sorrow."

I should have noticed Malik tense up, but I was too busy relating to him about Walid. I continued, "And all of this was done by a man who called himself a poet. He was jealous because my father had proven himself better in a competition.

Malik couldn't help but stare at me with what I mistook for growing interest. I plunged on, determined to convince him how cruel poets were. "The gold my father won in the contest was meant to offer my brothers and me a better future." I recalled. "In my case, it was useless. After my mother died, I became an outlaw to fight against King Walid and his men. I was sorry to hear he died, because then I couldn't kill him with my own hands."

Malik, I noticed, had turned very pale and was quiet. He asked calmly, "What is your real name, Sayf?"

I shot him a piercing look. "No one who knew has lived to tell."

"I know it." Malik said quickly, pulling the reins of his horse to bring it closer to mine. "You are Amir ibn Hammad, the son of the carpet weaver of al-Lakik."

I pulled back hard on my reins, and my horse snorted. My eyes flashed. "I see that my father's story is not unknown in the place you come from." I said coldly.

Malik looked at me with a fierce yearning, dismounted with a leap, and threw himself on the ground. "Kill me," he said with a choking voice. "I killed your father."

"You're lying, Malik. King Walid killed my father." I said, my voice hard.

"I am King Walid. I'm the man you are looking for. I imposed terrible tasks on your father, and he accomplished them every time. It was my fault that he died exhausted – I forced him to spend all his genius on a carpet, one extraordinary carpet…"

It dawned on me that Malik – Walid – was actually speaking the truth. I unsheathed my sword without taking my eyes off of him. "It's you, you traitor! You've changed a lot! And I took you in like a brother!"

"Kill me," Walid breathed. "I don't deserve to live. Kill me and put an end to my cursed life."

I raised my sword, and he waited, but I slowly lowered my weapon. "First, tell me everything." I said hoarsely. Walid was honest; he told me everything I didn't know. My father's patient work as a historian in the archive, how he had imposed on him the task of weaving a carpet that contained the whole history of the human race, and how he had accomplished it, first by losing his mind, then his sight, and finally, his life. I listened, astonished and wide-eyed. "He…accomplished it?" I asked in wonder.

"He did," murmured Walid. "Your father was an extraordinary man and I'm a miserable wretch to have destroyed him."

"You said you offered him his freedom and he refused it."

"I offered it to him too late. Too late…"