The Wrath and the Dawn Page 4

  Shahrzad bolted upright, sleep caking the corners of her eyelids. She swiped at them with her hand. Traces of liquid gold and black powder dotted her palm when she was finished.

  “You’re very small to have caused such a big fuss,” a musical voice intoned.

  “What?” Shahrzad focused her bleary attention on its owner.

  “I said, you’re very small to have caused such a big fuss.” A plump girl near her age strode to the foot of the bed and yanked aside the gossamer curtains. She had fair skin and thick honeywalnut hair, piled atop her crown in typical Grecian fashion. Her eyes were the sparkling blue of the Aegean and were lined in kohl with the practiced hand of an expert. Her lips were puckered into a perfect moue, stained pink with carmine and beeswax. The white linen garment clung to her rounded frame in all the right places. A thick silver band was looped around her upper left arm.

  Shahrzad pushed aside her drowsiness and attempted to conjure a semblance of dignity. “I heard you the first time.”

  “Then why did you ask me to repeat myself?”

  “Because I don’t know who you are, and I have no idea why you’re banging around making ridiculous pronouncements first thing in the morning,” Shahrzad shot back.

  The girl laughed. It was a loud and robust sound.

  “I think I’m beginning to understand why there’s such a fuss. Also, it’s hardly first thing in the morning. It’s noon.” The girl marched to the screens and threw them open to reveal a midday sun sitting high in a clear cerulean sky.

  Shahrzad cringed away from the harsh stream of light.

  “I brought you some food. You should eat something. You’re so small,” the girl reiterated.

  “I fail to understand why my size is of import.”

  “Because a waif of a girl can’t manage a sustained fight, much less succeed in one. And I’d like to see you succeed.”

  Instantly wary, Shahrzad pulled her knees against her chest and shuttered her expression. “Succeed?”

  “By Zeus, you’re a strange thing. Yes, my lady, I’d like to see you succeed. Meaning, I’d like to see you live. I’m not fond of watching young girls die at the whim of our enigmatic ruler. Are you?”

  Shahrzad studied her for a breath before placing her bare feet on the cold marble and rising from the bed.

  Be careful.

  “No. I’m not,” she replied.

  The girl grinned. “You’re taller than I thought. Still too skinny, but not the worst I’ve seen. There’s a curve or two where there should be. I’m sure you’re stunning when you’re done up well.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Shahrzad demanded.

  “Despina. Your handmaiden . . . as long as you’re succeeding.”

  “I don’t need a handmaiden.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not your choice.” Despina’s grin widened, and her blue-fire eyes sparked at Shahrzad, daring her to rise to the challenge of such impertinence.

  Shahrzad paused in consideration. “So he sent you here to spy on me?”

  Despina’s white teeth flashed in her face. “Yes.”

  “Are you a good spy?”

  “The best.”

  “A good spy would hide her identity.”

  “The best spies don’t have to.”

  Shahrzad smiled at this, in spite of herself. “You’re arrogant.”

  “As are you, my lady Shahrzad. But I do not see this as a shortcoming. For without a measure of arrogance, how can one attempt the impossible?”

  Shahrzad stepped down from the platform to stand before Despina.

  The girl stood half a head taller, and everything about her radiated confidence and a sense of surety as to her place in the world. From her artfully draped dress to her impeccably enhanced features, it was clear Despina was a force to be reckoned with.

  But her eyes caught Shahrzad’s attention more than anything else.

  They were the watchful eyes of a hunter.

  And they mirrored her own.

  She warned me she was a spy. Why did she warn me?

  “Would you like to eat something? Or do you plan to go on a hunger strike? If that’s the case, do your worst, for I believe a hunger strike will kill a pretty little imp like you long before our caliph does.”

  Shahrzad laughed wryly. “That’s the best worst compliment anyone has ever paid me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Despina spun around in a whirl of white linen, the scent of jessamine saturating the air about her. Shahrzad followed her to the table in the corner. The tray atop it was covered with lavash bread, a round of goat cheese enfolded in sweet preserves, a tureen of soup, and a halved pomegranate, its seeds glistening like garnets in the warm light spilling from the terrace. An ornate silver pot of cardamom tea sat over a low burning flame.

  Despina removed the lid from the tureen and began to prepare the tea, placing a sparkling crystal of rock sugar in the bottom of a small etched-glass cup.

  As she sat on the cushions, Shahrzad reached for a piece of lavash.

  The handmaiden peered through her eyelashes at Shahrzad while she poured the tea in a slender stream from high above the glass. “I meant what I said; I do hope you succeed, my lady.” Her tone was filled with quiet circumspection.

  “Please call me Shahrzad.”

  “Shahrzad.” Despina grinned at her.

  Shahrzad could not prevent herself from returning the gesture.

  Be very careful.

  • • •

  An hour later, with Despina’s help, Shahrzad had bathed and dressed in another elaborate ensemble of silk and damask. A slim circlet of silver, spangled with pearls and tiny blue sapphires, adorned her brow. Around her neck was another fetter, made to match. Thin diamond bangles clinked together on her left wrist with every movement.

  “Am I allowed to leave?” she asked, once Despina had put the final flourish on the kohl lining her eyelids.

  Despina nodded. “You can roam most of the palace, as long as you’re with the Rajput.”

  “The Rajput?”

  The corners of Despina’s eyes crinkled with a mixture of dry humor and pity. “The caliph is apparently so enamored, he has gifted you a member of his personal bodyguard.”

  Shahrzad balled her hands into fists. “So I necessitate a spy and a ready executioner?”

  “More or less.”

  Hate is not the right word for such a man.

  “Who is the Rajput?” Shahrzad spat.

  “At one point, he was known as the Scourge of Hindustan. He’s the best swordsman in Rey, perhaps in all of Khorasan. A devotee of the talwar. There’s only one other swordsman in Rey who comes close, but even he has never bested the Rajput.”

  Well, this information might be beneficial in the future.

  “Who is the second-best swordsman in Rey?”

  Despina’s brow furrowed. “I expected better of you.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you would make it a point to be informed.”

  “Forgive me for neglecting to carry around a list of the ten best swordsmen in Khorasan,” Shahrzad shot back.

  “I suppose this information wouldn’t be readily available to a young girl with a librarian for a father. It isn’t exactly posted on walls for public viewing.”

  “My father is a curator of ancient texts and the smartest man I know. He was a vizier for the former caliph.” Shahrzad cut her eyes.

  “And after his wife’s death, I heard he lost his mind and was subsequently demoted. Now he’s a librarian.”

  I can’t lose my temper. She’s clearly trying to bait me. But why?

  Shahrzad replied instead with a measured silence intended to reestablish control. She fiddled with the heavy silver at her throat, despising its weight.

  “So, do you still want to know who the second-best swordsman in Rey is?” Despina asked, changing tack.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  Despina smiled knowingly. “The second-best swordsman in Rey is Khalid
Ibn al-Rashid. Our illustrious King of Kings.”

  Shahrzad’s heart sank. Gifted swordsmen tended to be stalwart strategists. Quick to spot signs of subterfuge.

  And this presented yet another obstacle. If he ever suspected her of treachery, it would be even more difficult to plot his death and catch him unawares.

  She swallowed carefully. “Again, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I guess it shouldn’t matter to you. But I thought you might want to know, nevertheless.”

  What kind of game is she playing?

  “You thought wrong.” Shahrzad walked to the doors of the chamber and tugged on the handles. As soon as she crossed the threshold, a hulking figure stepped into view. His skin was the color of burnished copper, and he towered over Shahrzad, with his head bound in an intricately wrapped turban. His exposed arms were thick with corded muscle, and his black beard was neatly trimmed to a point just below his chin. Eyes the color of a moonless night gleamed down at her, stark and merciless.

  “Uh, yes. You must be . . . I’m sorry, what is your name?” Shahrzad stammered.

  “I told you; he’s the Rajput,” Despina replied from behind her.

  “But he must have a name,” Shahrzad rasped over her shoulder.

  “If he does, I don’t know it.”

  With an irritated sigh, Shahrzad faced forward and braved the sight of her potential executioner once more.

  “I’m Shahrzad.” She met his black gaze.

  He glowered at her before moving aside to let her pass.

  As she slipped by him, she noticed the long talwar sword hanging from his hip, shining with menace in the midday sun.

  So this silent brute is the only swordsman who can best my enemy . . .

  How am I to find any weakness in Khalid Ibn al-Rashid with his spies all around me, watching my every move?

  She exhaled protractedly.

  I might have a serious problem.

  DRAW WEIGHT

  THE ORIGINAL STRUCTURE OF THE PALACE HAD BEEN built nearly three hundred years ago, by a king with a flair for extravagance. In the years since, many wings had been added to augment the base of marble and limestone. They branched off like tributaries, winding toward an unseen destination far in the distance.

  It would be easy to get lost in such a place.

  “How do I get to the courtyards?” Shahrzad asked Despina, after they had wandered the shining halls for half an hour.

  Despina canted her head to the side in thought. “I suppose that would be fine. No one expressly forbade you from going outdoors.”

  Shahrzad resisted the urge to retort as Despina backtracked down a corridor to the right. The Rajput stalked alongside Shahrzad, his posture as rigid and implacable as his expression. After several minutes of traversing in silence, they came to an open-air gallery with a series of arched double doors leading outside.

  An attendant pushed through one set of doors to allow them passage, and Shahrzad walked into a terraced courtyard arranged like colossal steps in a descending staircase. The first of these terraces was filled with flowering trees and an elaborate aviary enclosed on all sides by carefully wrought trelliswork. The sturdy acacia wood was covered with a thin layer of white paint and anchored by bolts of polished bronze. Lush blue-green grass flourished between pavestones of coarse granite.

  Shahrzad strode past the aviary, glancing at the colorful trove of songbirds flittering within: nightingales, goldfinches, larks, canaries . . .

  A loud squawk blasted from behind her. She twisted around to find a peacock strutting across the lawn, his plumage of malachite and gold fanning in the sun, catching errant beams of light.

  Shahrzad glided closer. The peacock stopped to glare at her before lowering his fan and scurrying away.

  She laughed to herself. “So quick to strut. So quick to flee.”

  “What are you talking about?” Despina asked.

  Shahrzad shook her head.

  “Are you talking about men?” Despina snorted.

  Choosing not to reply, Shahrzad paced the length of the top terrace and took the stone stairs leading down to the next tree-lined expanse. This garden was bursting with white citrus blossoms and green figs hanging heavy on their boughs, still awaiting their moment to ripen.

  She passed through this tier, pausing only to breathe in the scent.

  Despina regarded her thoughtfully. “What are you trying to do?” she asked with a trace of suspicion.

  Shahrzad lifted her hand to shield her eyes as she focused on signs of movement in an expanse of sand and stone below them.

  “If you’ll tell me what it is you’re planning, I can take you there,” Despina offered.

  “I’m not planning anything. I’m looking for something.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A handmaiden who doesn’t ask so many questions.”

  Despina snickered.

  Shahrzad quickened her pace as she flew down the last series of stairs, making her way to the intended destination of sand and stone.

  The Rajput grunted his disapproval as they neared the entrance.

  So he’s not mute, after all.

  Despina huffed audibly. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “You said I could go anywhere, as long as the Rajput is with me,” Shahrzad reminded her.

  “I don’t think anyone expected you to come to the training grounds.”

  Shahrzad’s keen eyes ran over the sea of male faces lost in the art of swordplay, training with spears and perfecting their deadly aim with the axe-like tabarzin.

  He’s not here.

  “Are you looking for the caliph?” Despina demanded.

  “No.”

  But I assume the second-best swordsman in Rey will practice at some point today . . . if he intends to maintain his title.

  And I need to learn his weakness, so that I may destroy him with it.

  “Liar.” Despina smirked.

  “Actually, I came here because I wanted to—” Shahrzad glanced around until her eyes fell on something she recognized well. “I wanted to learn how to use a bow and arrow.”

  “What?” Despina exclaimed.

  Feigning ignorance, Shahrzad moved toward the rack of weapons.

  The Rajput raised his arm to block her path, a note of warning in his onyx gaze.

  Shahrzad steeled herself before returning his belligerent stare. “Would you teach me how to shoot? I’ve always wanted to learn.”

  He shook his head.

  She affected a pout. “Nothing will happen to me. Anyway, I won’t be your concern after tomorrow. Please grant me this small request.”

  “Maybe he’s not worried about you,” Despina stated caustically.

  Shahrzad attempted to sidestep his mammoth forearm. When he thwarted her again, she pursed her lips.

  “Must you be so difficult?” she said in harsh undertone.

  “He’s not being difficult. That’s how he normally is,” a rich male voice remarked from behind them.

  Both Despina and Shahrzad swiveled to meet the amused scrutiny of a young man with a curly mop of mahogany hair and a warm, affable expression.

  The Rajput stiffened.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance?” the newcomer offered with a grin.

  Shahrzad shot him a winsome smile. “I hope so. I’m—”

  “I know who you are, my lady. By now, everyone in the palace knows who you are.” His brown eyes sparkled with mischief as he winked at Despina. She averted her gaze, her cheeks coloring.

  He’s quite the flirt.

  “Then you have a decided advantage over me, sir,” Shahrzad said.

  “I’m Jalal.” He bowed his head, his fingertips brushing his brow.

  “He’s captain of the guard and the son of General Aref al-Khoury . . . the Shahrban of Rey,” Despina clarified in a rote tone.

  “Don’t let the title fool you, my lady. I’m no one of consequence, even if my father is the highest-ranking general in Kh
orasan.”

  “Well, we share a portion of that lamentable status, for I am also no one of consequence,” Shahrzad said.

  “I doubt that, my lady Shahrzad. I highly doubt that.” Jalal grinned, bringing further light to an already easygoing demeanor.

  The Rajput grunted again. His lingering ire brought Shahrzad back to the matter at hand.

  “Would you be willing to teach me how to use a bow and arrow, Captain al-Khoury?” she asked.

  “That depends on a few things. The first being that you dispense with the formalities and just call me Jalal. The second being that Khalid never discover my part in this transgression.”

  Khalid? He calls him by his first name?

  “I can meet those terms. Gladly. If you’ll return the gesture, on both parts.”

  Jalal leaned forward conspiratorially. “Then follow me, Jalal.”

  Shahrzad laughed. Despina looped her arms over her ample chest. “This is a bad idea,” she cautioned, her blue eyes flitting to Jalal’s puckish face.

  “For whom? For you, or for me?” Shahrzad retorted. “Because it seems like a very good idea for me to spend the last day of my life doing the things I’ve always wanted to do.”

  Despina sighed with resignation and trudged behind Shahrzad and Jalal. The Rajput stomped in their shadows, his distaste as plain as his irritation, despite the sharp look of rebuke from the captain of the guard.

  Jalal led Shahrzad to the rack of bows. Several quivers hung from a steel bar, their goose-feathered fletchings dyed in bright colors for easy recognition. Shahrzad pulled out an arrow from one of the quivers. Its tip was blunted for target practice. Taking special pains to appear nonchalant, she bent the back end of the arrow, ever so slightly, to determine the weight of its spine.

  Not that flexible.

  “You’ve shot a bow and arrow before?” Jalal inquired, observing her with a surprising amount of keenness for someone so seemingly blithe.

  “Not really.” She attempted to sound dismissive.

  “So can I ask what you’re doing with the arrow, then?”

  “I’m merely curious.” She shrugged and put the arrow back in its quiver. Then she reached for another arrow with differentcolored fletchings. She performed the same test.

  Much better.

  She removed the quiver of arrows from the bar.