The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) Read online

  It was not loud, nor was it demanding.

  Nevertheless, Artan rubbed his nose with the back of one hand, frowning with frustration. He groaned, the sound much louder than the situation warranted.

  It was only a series of names. Yet it seemed to signify so much.

  “Please,” Shahrzad said, shrugging away her confusion. She took a step toward the boy. “I need your help.”

  Artan pressed a palm into his forehead, exasperated. “I shouldn’t help you. And I have no desire to take a snipe like you anywhere.”

  She gnawed at her lip. “Please—”

  “At least not until you learn to defend yourself. You’re like a newborn colt; I can see everything you’re capable of doing, which is a great deal of nothing, save run your mouth.” He snorted. “Come back tomorrow night. Once you learn to control basic magic, I’ll take you to see my aunt. She won’t help anyone she doesn’t respect. And she’ll laugh you out of the room. Before burning you out of existence.” Artan scowled once more at the shoreline, then kicked at the water, sending a salty mist high into the air.

  Still at a loss, Shahrzad watched as the boy continued to exert his irritation on the hapless sea.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “After my less-than-gracious behavior earlier, I know I don’t deserve—”

  “Oh, I intend to exact revenge upon you for this, make no mistake.” Artan eyed her askance. “And I always get what I want.”

  Something about the way he looked at her made Shahrzad regret the decision to ask him for help. That same sense of danger intensified about him. Like the feeling right before falling. “Why—what exactly made you change your mind?”

  “Because Musa-abagha asked me. And Musa-abagha asks for very little in return for offering me a safe haven.” He sneered, sharp and biting. “Don’t worry; I have no interest in you. I like nice girls, and you are not nice at all. You’re selfish and spiteful.”

  Startled by this pronouncement, Shahrzad began to protest. “I’m not—”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m pleased by it. It means we can be friends one day.”

  “Why in God’s name would I want to be your friend?”

  Artan fell back into the water with a strangely contented smile. “Because I’m just as selfish and spiteful as you are.”

  WHERE THERE IS RUIN

  THE FIREBALL HURTLED THROUGH THE DARKNESS, streaking across the sand.

  Right toward her face.

  Shahrzad tried.

  Truly. She did.

  But, at the last moment, all she could manage was to throw herself into a patch of glimmering powder at her feet.

  “Useless!” A deep voice cracked out at her like a whip. “Just a complete waste of time.”

  I . . . hate him.

  Gritting her teeth, Shahrzad clenched fistfuls of sand, wanting desperately to fling them into Artan Temujin’s smug face.

  “Are you angry, little snipe?” Artan continued. “Good. So am I. This makes the second—no, wait—third night in a row you’ve arrived at the temple and ruined my evening with the moon.”

  She unfurled to her feet, dusting off her palms. “Pardon me for ruining what would have been an otherwise productive evening.”

  “I’m pleased you agree with me. For the moon would surely have offered me more entertainment than your pitiful attempts at magic.” He snorted. “Such gifts . . . wasted on such tripe.”

  Bastard!

  A rush of blood heated her cheeks. “If I had a fireball, I’d send it straight between your legs. But I worry there would be little to burn.”

  Artan laughed, loud and without a care. “At least your sense of humor offers something to recommend you. Though I’ve never been one for skinny, angry girls.” He cast her a questioning glance. “Does the Caliph of Khorasan like the way you look?”

  “Of course he does!”

  “Wretched dolt.” He leaned back on his heels. “Beauty fades. But a pain in the ass is forever.”

  “Ha! I suppose you would know.”

  Another fireball blazed to life in his palm. “That I would.” Artan grinned, waggling his brows. “And I would take heed, if I were you.”

  When she broke into a run again, Artan groaned behind her. “The old adage is true, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran: we only run from things that truly scare us!”

  “Then I am truly afraid of fire, Artan Temujin!”

  Another loud groan. “Cease with being afraid. And begin doing something about it!”

  Despite her distress, Shahrzad tried to conjure the feeling of warmth that flared to life whenever her skin came in contact with the carpet.

  But she couldn’t. It was impossible.

  Like grasping for the stars.

  She’d tried now for two consecutive nights. The only conclusion she could come to was this: her power did not arise from within her. Instead, she absorbed it from things around her.

  When she’d first offered this suggestion to Artan, he’d laughed, his head thrown back and his mouth a fathomless chasm. Then he’d proceeded to attack her with a controlled volley of fire. He’d wanted her to—at the very least—defend herself.

  Artan wanted her to toss aside spinning balls of fire. Or move other objects into their path to repel them.

  With naught but the wish to do so.

  It had been her turn to laugh, head thrown back in equally exaggerated fashion.

  Artan believed that, if she were pressed by the thought of immediate danger, perhaps her body would react on instinct. So, for the past two nights, they’d been confined to the beach. He’d begun by threatening her with small, slowly swirling circles of flame. Shahrzad had run from them in a near panic. Indifferent, Artan had proceeded to actual churning spheres of death—which were decidedly harder to avoid.

  All Shahrzad had to show for it were multiple bruises from the many times she’d thrown herself into the sand.

  All Artan had to show for it was mounting frustration.

  “You’re a terrible teacher,” Shahrzad cried. “This method was flawed from the beginning!” She neared the lapping waves, slowing her strides.

  “If you’re suggesting I’m flawed, then you’re correct.”

  Stopping in her paces, Shahrzad leaned forward, gasping for breath. “Lesson concluded for the evening.”

  “Not quite.”

  She turned around, more than a little unsettled by his tone.

  Sure enough, Artan began firing another series of shots directly at her. Orb after orb of rolling flames flew from his outstretched palms.

  Shahrzad panicked. There was no way she could dodge them all.

  “Don’t run,” Artan shouted. “Make them run from you. Make me believe I’m not taking a sheep to be sheared by wolves when I take you to my aunt!”

  “I can’t,” she shrieked, aghast at the number of fire spheres spinning toward her. Not knowing what else to do, Shahrzad made a dash for the water and dove beneath the waves. She held her breath for as long as she could, treading beneath the churning surf. Then she kicked for the surface and emerged in waist-deep water, sputtering for air—

  “Shahrzad!”

  She peeled back a curtain of hair just in time to see a final ball of fire spin toward her.

  There was no time to react.

  It crashed against her, burning through her qamis and into her stomach.

  For a moment, there was nothing but shock.

  From the shoreline, Shahrzad heard Artan shouting in a strange language. The ball of fire turned back on itself and disappeared in a feather of smoke.

  She couldn’t even manage to scream. Around her, the smell of burning flesh mingled on the sea breeze. Her knees started to tremble as a wave collided against her.

  The salt water on her bare skin stunned her back into feeling.

  Into agony.


  Shahrzad fell toward the sea, a cry caught on her lips.

  “Idiot.” Artan gathered her in his arms and dragged her from the foaming surf back onto the shore. “Absolute fool,” he muttered.

  The shaking spread from her legs into her arms. Her teeth began to chatter.

  “It’s—it’s on f-f-fire.” Shahrzad dug her fingers into his wrist. “My—my skin. It’s—it’s . . .”

  Kneeling along the shore, Artan pushed her back against the hard sand. “Complete moron.”

  “S-s-stop. I c-couldn’t—”

  “I’m not talking about you!” Without another word, Artan stripped back the scorched bits of linen around her stomach.

  That time, Shahrzad managed a scream.

  “Shut up, shut up!” Artan tugged at an earring, his expression pained. “Lie still, and I’ll fix it. I swear I’ll fix it.”

  Though his words were wrong, his face was strangely right. His jaw was fixed. The diagonal scar through his lip, white. He pressed both hands to her shoulders in an attempt to steady her quaking. A jolt blazed through her.

  The dark centers of Artan’s eyes spread, like a drop of ink through water. His hands moved from her shoulders to hover above her stomach.

  From the tips of his fingers bloomed an unsteady light.

  But it wasn’t a warm light.

  Something viciously cold tugged at her center. Tugged through her skin. A tremor rolled down her spine, as though the very air around them was prickly and alive.

  The ink in Artan’s eyes began to change color. Began to brighten to a stormy grey.

  He swallowed a cry of pain. Then fell back onto his heels.

  When Shahrzad sat up, she glanced down at her stomach. An ugly red welt remained. But it was nothing like the burn she’d expected, the pain nothing worse than that of a few days in the hot sun.

  It took her only a moment to realize what had happened.

  For on Artan Temujin’s bare stomach, in the exact same spot, was a burn like hers.

  Except his was far worse.

  His was blistered. Sores formed along its length.

  The sores she should have had.

  Somehow, Artan had transferred the worst of her injury onto his skin.

  “You—didn’t have to do that,” she sputtered, a salty lock of hair caught on her lips.

  It was a ridiculous thing to say. An obvious thing to say. Yet she felt it should be said, nonetheless.

  His mouth bent into a smile resembling a scythe. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Shahrzad replied, still at a loss.

  After a beat of unsettling calm, a shudder racked through him, and Artan collapsed into the sand. “We always seem to do things hind over end, don’t we?”

  “It appears so.”

  His chest heaved from exertion. “This”—he motioned between their matching burns—“isn’t working.”

  “No.” She leaned up on an elbow, her expression morose. “It’s not.”

  “Such a pity.” Artan remained prostrate along the shore, lost in thought, regarding the night sky above. “My aunt will eat you alive.”

  “Why—why do you think your aunt will eat me alive?” Shahrzad asked haltingly. “And if you know this, why did you agree to take me to her?”

  What is the real reason you are helping me, Artan Temujin?

  When Artan finally deigned to speak, his gaze remained fixed on the stars.

  “Have you ever heard the story ‘The Girl Who Grasped the Moon’?”

  “Of course. Every small child has heard it.”

  “Tell it to me as you heard it.”

  “To what purpose—”

  “Humor me.” Artan pointed at his blistered stomach. “This once.”

  Shahrzad’s brows pinched together. “Just this once.” She turned her gaze toward the sky. “There was a girl who lived in a stone tower, surrounded by white dragons that did her every bidding. When she desired a sticky pastry, she had but to ask. When she wished to sleep, they turned the sky to night with the beat of their wings. The sun to moon with a simple roar. Though the girl wanted for nothing, she continued to want—more and more of everything and anything. But more than anything, the girl wished to be powerful. To her, the dragons always possessed more power than any being in the world, because they were able to make her every wish come true.”

  Artan heaved a breath, holding it for a spell. At this odd behavior, Shahrzad’s confusion swelled further, and she stopped speaking.

  When Artan eyed her sidelong, Shahrzad continued. “One night, when one of her dragons brought her a thick gold necklace she’d requested from a distant land, the girl smelled the strange perfume adorning its silken wrappings and decided she could no longer live with wanting this power. She had to have it. The girl demanded the dragon take her to its magic’s source. The dragon turned to the full moon, its distress plain on its horned face. The girl did not care. She insisted the dragon take her to the moon so that she might harness its power. They flew toward it, a volley of stars collecting in their midst. The girl gathered the stars and from them fashioned a rope. Then—though the dragon roared a final warning—the girl threw a ring of stars around the moon, all while laughing like a bell tolling in the night.”

  Shahrzad stopped to glance at Artan. “But, like so many things of power, the moon refused to be contained.”

  At this, Artan smiled. But it was not a smile of amusement. It was a smile of something much darker and deeper.

  “The moon began to glide through the sky. Torn from her dragon’s back, the girl clung to the rope of stars. She cried out, asking the moon to grant her wish or release her. Like a chilling breeze, the moon’s reply chased across her skin: ‘You wish to be powerful? Then I will make you into my shadow. A moon to command the lost stars. But know that such a thing will come at a cost.’ Without hesitating, the girl trilled with laughter. ‘I care not about cost. Take all my worldly possessions, for I have no need of them once I possess such power.’ The moon’s words wafted through the night air, colder than a first snow. ‘Very well, girl. I have long desired a true companion.’ Then, in a swirl of stardust, the moon turned the girl into its shadow, bereft of all light. Tethered to it for all time. This shadow moon—the new moon—was granted power only a few nights a year. But never power enough to free itself from its bonds.”

  “This is why the moon we know seems to disappear,” Artan finished quietly. “Overshadowed. Eclipsed.”

  Shahrzad nodded once. “Always chasing the true moon.”

  Their voices fell silent as the waves crashed in the distance.

  “Why are you here, little snipe?” Artan began. “Is it really for your father?”

  “Yes.” Her response was swift.

  “Nothing more?”

  At this, Shahrzad hesitated. Of course she was here for her father. But she was also here for another reason. A reason that needed to remain shrouded in mystery. “Why do you ask?”

  Artan turned his head to hers. “Because I know there’s more. I know you’re queen of a broken city and of a kingdom on the brink of war. That your king is a monster.”

  Shahrzad said nothing. Her fingers moved to the bare skin of her stomach, tentatively grazing her wound. It felt hot to the touch. Her mind’s eye returned to only moments ago, when Artan Temujin’s face had lost all hints of pretense.

  When signs of true remorse—signs of richer emotion—were all too evident.

  “Trust is an interesting matter when it comes to Artan. He will not give it to those who do not offer it first.”

  Perhaps it was time to put a small measure of trust in this boy. “Khalid is—not a monster. Not at all.” Her heart lulled for a beat in the warmth of memory.

  “Truly?” Artan studied her further. “Then what is he?”

  “Why are you so cur
ious?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why did you agree to help me, Artan Temujin?”

  Artan did not reply immediately. “That story about the girl? It’s about my family.”

  “What?” Trying to conceal her shock, Shahrzad turned to face him.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. Facets of your story are ridiculous. Heavily embellished by time. But its core is rooted in truth. One of my ancestors stole a powerful bringer of light to become an equally powerful wish-granter. In return, her maker trapped her. Bound her to him forever. A powerful genie, trapped in a hollow sword.” His expression was equal parts bitter and blithe.

  For a moment, Shahrzad was filled with disbelief. “I—”

  “You wanted to know why I agreed to help you. It’s mostly because Musa-abagha asked me to. And because I am bound by my ancestor’s foolishness. Bound to be a trapped granter of wishes. Musa-abagha has kept me safe these many years. Safe from those who would enslave me. Make of me a dragon who does nothing but bring gold necklaces to thankless little girls.” He laughed bitterly. “Musa Zaragoza protects me from my family’s curse; he keeps us—me, Parissa, Mas, and the others—hidden and teaches us to control our powers. Protects us all here at the Fire Temple. Here, when we are asked to use our abilities, it is always our choice. Here, we are never slaves to our magic.”

  “But why would Musa-effendi need to protect you from your family?”

  “My family is every bit as power-hungry as the girl who grasped the moon. They are monsters imbued with strange magic. My aunt safeguards them in a mountain fortress. But”—Artan paused, his face grim—“she’s made mistakes before. My parents were casualties of her arrogance. They left the fortress, seeking a way to destroy their bonds. The magic they leaked into the world brought about terrible consequences. As a result, my aunt expects me to stay near and do as I’m told. Serve whom I’m told. So I ran away.” Artan watched her closely as he spoke. “I find my aunt’s control to be another form of slavery.”

  Shahrzad mirrored his scrutiny, taking care in preparing her next question.

  “Is your aunt—very powerful?”

  He snorted. “She could set fire to this temple with a single belch. And light every candle in Khorasan with the mere hint of her flatulence.”