The room was not large, and was simply constructed with a white tile floor and white marble walls and pillars that supported the arches of the ceiling. By the back wall, in a polished brass basin, shone the Adaran fire that symbolized the presence of Oromasd, seeming small compared to the blaze they’d just been through. And in front of the fire, on the cushion-covered leewan, perched the man they’d come so far to see.
The prophet Muhmad was a small man, his body thin and looking so frail Jafar doubted he could stand without assistance. The skin of his face was stretched so tight it was practically a barren skull, but the eyes were alive with intelligence and insight. His head was wrapped in a loose white turban and his beard was more than waistlength, resting peacefully now in the lap of
