The Wrath and the Dawn Read online

  Tariq leaned a shoulder into the tan stone wall. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “I’m listening,” Rahim sighed. “Despite my wiser inclinations.”

  “The Badawi tribes along the border of Khorasan and Parthia . . . they’ve notoriously claimed no allegiance to either kingdom. What if we offered them a reason to change their position?”

  “What kind of reason?”

  “The reason any man fights for a cause. Purpose.”

  “Sounds vaguely poetic,” Rahim rejoined. “You’re going to need more than that.”

  “Land. The rights to land. The organization they need to demand those rights.”

  Rahim shifted his lips to one side in contemplation. “Interesting. But they’re nomadic by nature. Why would they have any interest in land?”

  “Some of them may not. But they’ve fought against each other over the centuries, and save an influx of gold, land is the quickest way to gain power and influence. Perhaps one of their leaders might take an interest in fighting alongside us. They may be notoriously ruthless, but they’re also some of the best horsemen I’ve ever encountered. I see nothing but an advantage for both parties.”

  Rahim hedged. “It sounds dangerous.”

  “It’s worth speaking to them. The worst that can happen is a refusal.”

  “Actually, the worst that can happen is that they slit your throat.”

  “Yes.” A series of vertical lines formed along the bridge of Tariq’s nose. “There is that. But it was not on my agenda to insult them, in the process.”

  “Well, if anyone can talk their way out of a beheading, it’s you.”

  “I thank you, Rahim. As always, your abiding confidence in me casts any possibility of doubt astray.”

  Rahim countered with a lopsided grin. “Actually, if anyone can talk their way out of a beheading, it’s Shazi. Thankfully, some of that charisma managed to rub off on you.”

  “It was never charisma. It was unmatched nerve,” Tariq said in amused remembrance.

  “Perhaps you’re right. I could see her daring a cobra to strike, swearing her venom would kill first.”

  Tariq smiled. “And she would win.”

  “Of that, there is no doubt. In fact, I’m almost certain she terrorized the mighty Caliph of Khorasan until he was nothing but a mewling kitten, cowering in the corner. Who knows—we might be deposing her one day.”

  Tariq sombered immediately at the mention of their king. “No. He is not a man to rescind any kind of power with ease.”

  “And how would you know this?”

  “I just know it,” Tariq snapped. “He murdered my cousin. And now he has Shahrzad. This is a man with nothing but evil in his blood. The only thing to consider when it comes to Khalid Ibn al-Rashid is how many times I wish he could die at my hands. And how unfortunate it is that the answer is only once.”

  “I despise him, too. With the fire of a thousand suns, I despise him. But it is always a good idea to know your enemy, Tariq.”

  “Don’t mistake my vehemence for foolishness. I intend to learn everything I can about him. But that will never happen locked in the walls of my family’s fortress. With that in mind, I’m going into the desert to seek out the Badawi.” Tariq’s face was set with determination. “Alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Alone. I need you to go to Taleqan in case my uncle sends word. I’ll dispatch Zoraya every two days with my location.”

  “You’d leave me with your parents?”

  “You could always go home.”

  “To my brothers and their screaming children?” Rahim scoffed. “To the constant attempts to marry me off to a cousin’s friend’s ugly sister? I think not. Besides, I owe you this much for all these years of friendship. And I owe Shazi even more.”

  Tariq laughed softly. “I thank you, Rahim-jan. As I always should, yet seldom do.”

  “You’re welcome, you selfish bastard. In any case, I can look forward to one good thing coming from all this secret plotting.”

  “And that would be?”

  “A full night of sleep . . . without being shot at for it.”

  • • •

  The first morning Shahrzad awoke in the palace without fearing the dawn was a strange one.

  Her heart clenched reflexively at the light, and then relaxed when she heard the sound of Despina bustling about the room. She breathed deeply and settled back into the pillows, allowing her body to bask in this newfound ease.

  “Maybe he should just stay in Amardha,” Shahrzad mumbled to no one.

  “I was about to wake you up,” Despina replied. “Your food is getting cold.”

  Shahrzad paused. Then made a decision.

  Honey catches more flies than vinegar.

  “Thank you for using your better judgment. And not resorting to your usual churlishness,” Shahrzad teased.

  “Churlishness? You’re not exactly pleasant in the morning.”

  Shahrzad grinned before rising to her feet. She pushed aside the thin silk surrounding the bed and strode to the table, where her customary tray of food sat waiting. When she glanced over at Despina, she was surprised to see her handmaiden’s face was not as glowing and perfect as usual. Her skin was wan, and her forehead appeared strained.

  “What’s wrong?” Shahrzad asked.

  Despina shook her head. “I’m fine. Just a bit piqued.”

  “Piqued? You look ill.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you need to rest?”

  “I’m fine, Shahrzad. Truly.” Despina raised the lid from the tureen of soup and dropped a crystal of rock sugar into the bottom of a small etched-glass cup. Then she lifted the ornate silver pot from its resting place above a low-burning candle. As she raised it high above the glass cup and began to pour, her hand trembled, and the stream of tea splashed back from inside the cup before hitting the teapot.

  “I’m sorry,” Despina mumbled.

  “You’re permitted to make mistakes, on occasion.” Shahrzad smiled impishly.

  “All evidence to the contrary,” she shot back under her breath.

  “When did I ever make such outrageous demands?”

  The lines on Despina’s brow deepened.

  “Despina. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!”

  She’s lying. Again.

  Shahrzad cut her eyes and tore a piece of lavash in half.

  “I’m sorry.” Despina finished pouring the tea. “What were you saying about Amardha?”

  “I was just commenting on the caliph’s recent journey. Do you know why he went there?”

  “He’s most likely visiting the Sultan of Parthia—his uncle.”

  “I see. Does he visit him often?” Shahrzad began eating her soup.

  Despina shook her head. “No. They are not exactly . . . friendly. The sultan is not his uncle by blood. He’s the brother of the former caliph’s first wife. And he despised our caliph’s mother.”

  Interesting.

  “Why?”

  Despina shrugged. “I suppose it’s for the logical reason any man would hate his dead sister’s replacement. In addition, our caliph’s mother was beautiful, smart, and vivacious. By all accounts, the first wife was . . . not.”

  “Then why would the caliph visit the sultan?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose it’s for diplomatic reasons. You should ask him when he returns.”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  Despina gave her a half grin. “I’m glad you’re talking to me again.”

  “Staying silent isn’t a good option for someone like me.”

  “A wise decision. For someone like you.”

  “I just said that.”

  “I know.”

  Shahrzad snorted. She reached for her glass of tea. Just then she noticed an unusual smattering of small, dark spots on the side of the silver teapot. She grasped the handle and drew it closer, her eyebrows tufting together. With a linen napkin, she rubbed at one of the areas of disc
oloration.

  It did not clear away.

  Shahrzad pursed her lips.

  She lifted her cup of tea and poured a drop of its contents onto the pot. As soon as the liquid hit the shining surface, the silver changed color.

  Black.

  Like death.

  “Despina?” Shahrzad began in an even tone.

  “Yes?”

  “I think there’s something wrong with my tea.”

  WHERE YOUR HEART

  LONGS TO BE

  SOMEONE HAD TRIED TO POISON HER.

  And it was not the tea, as Shahrzad had first suspected.

  It was the sugar.

  Jalal was furious.

  When he confronted all those with access to her food, each person staunchly proclaimed innocence. As was customary when serving any member of the royal family, the cook had tasted all the items on Shahrzad’s tray before sending it to her room, and numerous individuals had attested to this fact.

  Though no one had thought to taste the sugar.

  Unsurprisingly, Shahrzad did not eat anything else the rest of the day.

  And now a young servant girl accompanied every tray of food brought to Shahrzad’s room. A girl whose sole purpose in life was to taste the queen’s food and drink one last time before it entered her mouth.

  A young girl who must mean something to someone.

  It disgusted Shahrzad.

  As did the knowledge that her time feeling safe—those fleeting moments without the weight of her impending doom hovering about her like a dark specter—had been taken away from her before she’d had a true chance to enjoy it.

  But the worst part was that she knew now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she could not trust her handmaiden.

  After all, Despina was the last person who had handled her tray of food.

  The one who had prepared that fatal cup of tea.

  For some reason, this fact disheartened Shahrzad more than anything else. She had not trusted Despina before, but some part of her had wanted to. Had hoped that, one day, she could be a real friend, despite everything.

  That hope was shattered.

  And it made Shahrzad angry.

  Three nights of mostly uninterrupted sleep had not dulled the anger.

  This afternoon, Shahrzad had elected to wander one of the many terraced courtyards in search of a perfect rose. The banality of this task added a feeling of uselessness to her already irritated disposition.

  She wandered past another flowering hedge, her eyes squinted against the sun, and her forehead creased with frustration.

  “If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, I can help,” Despina offered.

  “No. You can’t.”

  “My, but you’re in a mood.”

  “You really can’t help me. There’s an art to a perfect rose. The scent. The color. The arrangement of the petals. My father even argues that one too many petals can ruin the entire flower . . . can disturb the way it grows.”

  “And I would argue the prettiest flowers are the ones that seem a little imperfect.”

  “See? You can’t help me,” Shahrzad groused.

  Just then she felt Despina stiffen by her side.

  “What’s wrong?” Shahrzad asked.

  “Cap—Captain al-Khoury is coming down the stairs.” Her flush spread from throat to hairline.

  “So? Why are you nervous?”

  Despina hesitated. “Ever since the incident with the tea, I’ve felt uncomfortable around him.”

  “I see.” Shahrzad pursed her lips, fighting to contain the accusations.

  As Jalal stepped into view, Despina took special pains to scramble behind the Rajput, out of sight. Jalal curved a languid eyebrow in her direction and then turned to Shahrzad.

  “How are you this afternoon, Shahrzad?” He bowed with an easy grin, his gold-trimmed cloak spilling over one shoulder and a hand resting casually on the hilt of his scimitar.

  “Alive.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m glad to see it. Are you in the midst of something important?”

  “Of course. I have a possible coup in the works. Then I intend to draw up plans for a new form of trade involving elephants at sea and sails of spun silk. Would you care to join me?”

  He smiled. “Only in the coup. The rest sounds a bit commonplace, if you ask me.”

  Shahrzad laughed. “No, of course I’m not doing anything important. I’m firmly entrenched in the mundane. Please rescue me.”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you could do something . . . queenly for me.”

  “Queenly? What do you mean?”

  “We have an unexpected visitor. I was wondering if you could receive him, in the caliph’s absence.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He’s—a scholar, so to speak. He was Khalid’s first tutor, as well as the lifelong tutor of Khalid’s mother. He has not seen Khalid since he was a little boy. I know he meant a great deal to his mother, and I would hate to send him along without receiving him formally.” He winked.

  Shahrzad could not help but smile.

  “Additionally, I assume the visit may satisfy some . . . lingering curiosities.” Jalal grinned knowingly.

  “Why, Captain al-Khoury, you make it sound so . . . intriguing.”

  He laughed. “So are you coming, Shahrzad?”

  She nodded, her hazel eyes sparkling.

  “I have to warn you, he’s a bit—odd,” Jalal stated as he began retracing his steps, with Shahrzad and her tiny retinue in tow.

  “How so?”

  “He’s a relic of days past. Very devoted to the ancient arts. But I think you’ll like him, and I know he’ll be very pleased to meet you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Musa Zaragoza.”

  “That’s a very unusual name,” Shahrzad said.

  “He’s Moorish.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.”

  They continued up the numerous flights of stairs and into the cool marble hallways. Jalal led them to a large room with a domed ceiling five times the height of a man. Its walls were tiled and covered with painstakingly carved reliefs, depicting battle scenes long forgotten of warriors brandishing their weapons and vanquishing their foes.

  In the corner stood a very tall man draped in garments of vibrant fabric. His deep blue rida’ fell to the floor, and its hood was wound about his head, secured by a circlet of leather and gold. Thick mankalah cuffs were wrapped around both wrists, and his beautiful dark skin reminded Shahrzad of the finest Medjool date.

  When he turned to face her, he smiled so widely his teeth seemed to glow white, like pearls set against ebony.

  Jalal and Despina left her at the door, and the Rajput stood inside nearby, his sword at the ready.

  Shahrzad returned her guest’s smile and walked toward him.

  What do I say?

  “Welcome!” she began. “I am—Shahrzad.”

  He glided to her in a swirl of colors, his hands outstretched.

  “And I am Musa. What a privilege to meet you.” It was an intense voice, like honey and smoke.

  Shahrzad took his hands. Standing so close to him, she realized he was actually a great deal older than he appeared. His eyebrows were peppered with white, and the fine lines etched about his face indicated a propensity for deep thought and a predilection for amusement. As he grasped her hands, Shahrzad saw something register in his rich brown eyes, but it came and went in a flash.

  “Thank you so much, Musa-effendi. I am so sorry my—the caliph is not here to greet you.”

  He shook his head. “It is my fault for coming here unannounced. I was hoping to see him as I was passing through, but, alas, it appears I must save our reunion for another journey.”

  “Please sit.” Shahrzad gestured toward the cushions surrounding the low table to her right, and they took their places across from each other. “Would you care for something to eat?”

  “No
, no. I cannot stay. Again, this was not meant to be anything but a short visit. I do not wish to impose on anyone.”

  “It is not an imposition, in any way. I would not have such an esteemed guest leave the palace hungry.” Shahrzad grinned.

  He laughed. The sound seemed to leap from wall to wall.

  “And how do you know I am esteemed? Were you not told the truth?” His mouth twitched with humor.

  “And what is the truth, Musa-effendi?”

  “That the last time I was in this palace, I was thrown out on my heels, with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

  Shahrzad controlled her expression. She took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, it seems we owe you at least a meal, then, sir.”

  His laughter burst from his mouth once more, even bolder than before.

  “Thank the stars for you, my lovely child. What light you must bring to my poor Khalid.”

  Light may not be the appropriate word.

  She offered him a small smile in response.

  “As I feared, this is not a harmonious marriage,” Musa said gently. “Is there any hope for one?”

  “In truth, it is too soon to tell. We have only been married a few days. And marriage to the caliph is—somewhat difficult.”

  “So I’ve heard.” His voice was knowing and sad. “And do you wish for a harmonious marriage with him?”

  Shahrzad shifted uncomfortably in her seat. For some reason, lying to this strangely garbed man with the rich laugh and the probing eyes seemed . . . wrong.

  “I long for a marriage based on love and mutual respect, Musa-effendi. Whether it is possible with the caliph remains to be seen.”

  “Ah, so honest. Khalid values such honesty above all else. He craves it. Even as a small child, he sought the truth with a kind of fervor I’ve rarely encountered in any individual. Do you know this about him?”

  “I know very little about his past.”

  He nodded. “Tell me, beyond the rumors, what kind of man has Leila’s son become?”

  Shahrzad paused and studied the kind face of the stranger across from her.

  If I answer his questions, will he answer mine?

  “A quiet one. A smart one.”

  “These things I could find out on the streets of Rey. I want to know the things you know. The things a clever young girl has deduced, even in such a short time.”