The Wrath and the Dawn Page 6

  And stifled a cry.

  It burned his hand.

  No matter.

  He dragged his sleeve onto his fingertips and tried again.

  The text was an early form of Chagatai. Translating it would be a painstaking process, even for a man as learned as Jahandar. And especially with such pressing time constraints.

  Again, no matter.

  His heart thundered as he drew the single candle closer to begin his work.

  For his children, he would move mountains.

  He would not fail again.

  ALADDIN AND THE WONDERFUL LAMP

  THIS TIME, SHAHRZAD KNEW BETTER THAN TO WAIT for him.

  So it was no surprise when he failed to make an appearance until well into the night.

  The servants who delivered the food and wine found no trace of Shahrzad anywhere within the chamber. It was the caliph who discovered her standing on the terrace, overlooking a side entryway flanked by fountains.

  She did not turn around when he arrived. Instead, she leaned over the railing and smiled to herself.

  He paused for a moment and then joined her.

  A crescent moon hung high in the sky, reflecting back into the shimmering pools of water below.

  “You can’t see them, but I love how you can smell the citrus blossoms from here . . . the suggestion of something beautiful and alive,” she began.

  He didn’t respond immediately. “You’re partial to citrus blossoms?”

  “Yes. But I prefer roses above all. My father has a beautiful rose garden.”

  He turned to her, studying her profile in the moonlight. “I think a father who tends to flowers must have objected to . . . this.”

  Shahrzad continued to stare ahead. “I think a king who hopes to be beloved by his people shouldn’t execute their daughters at dawn.”

  “Who said I hoped to be beloved by my people?” the caliph replied in a staid monotone.

  At this, Shahrzad twisted to meet his gaze. “And all this time, I could have sworn you were a smart man.” She mimicked his quietly aloof tone as she pronounced this judgment, and the effect of her subtle mockery was not lost on him.

  A corner of his lips twitched. “And all this time . . . I could have sworn you didn’t want to die.”

  Shahrzad blinked.

  And then decided to laugh.

  The sound carried over the terrace, bubbling out into the night, filling the sky with the tinkling music of bells.

  The caliph watched her, his spark of surprise quickly masked by somber reflectiveness.

  “You’re very strange,” Shahrzad commented, once her laughter had subsided.

  “So are you, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”

  “At least I know it.”

  “I’m aware of it as well.”

  “But I don’t punish people for it.”

  He sighed. “I envy people who see the world as you do.”

  “Are you insinuating I’m simpleminded?” Anger seeped into her words.

  “No. You see things the way you live your life. Without fear.”

  “That’s not true. I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

  He cast her a searching glance. “What are you afraid of?”

  Just then, as if the night had foretold the moment, a vicious breeze raked across the terrace, whipping through Shahrzad’s long black hair. Tendrils flew into her face, obscuring her features.

  “I’m afraid of dying,” she announced over the wind.

  And I’m afraid of losing to you.

  He stared at her as the gust died down . . . as it finished toying with Shahrzad’s tresses, winding them to and fro.

  When the last vestiges disappeared, that same errant lock from earlier in the day still hung in her eyes. She started to reach for it—

  But he caught her hand in one of his own and brushed the curl behind her ear, gently.

  The fluttering in her stomach returned with a vengeance.

  “Tell me why you’re here.” It sounded entreating in his low voice.

  I’m here to win.

  “Promise me you won’t kill me,” she breathed back.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to say.”

  • • •

  As with the first night, Shahrzad was amazed by her ability to detach from reality.

  And again, she remained strangely grateful he never once tried to kiss her.

  Grateful . . . yet somewhat perplexed.

  She had kissed Tariq before—stolen embraces in the shadows of vaulted turrets. The illicit nature of these encounters had always thrilled her. At any time, a servant could have found them; or worse, Rahim could have caught them kissing . . . and he would have needled Shahrzad mercilessly, as he’d done from the moment he’d crowned himself the brother she’d never had.

  So, while she appreciated not having to kiss a murderer, it did appear odd for her new husband to refrain from this particular act, especially when it seemed a great deal less intimate than . . . other things.

  Shahrzad found herself wanting to ask why. And her curiosity grew by the hour.

  Stop it. It doesn’t matter.

  Instead of rising to dress as he did, Shahrzad lingered on the bed and grabbed a large cushion the color of bright carnelian. She pulled it against her chest and wrapped her slender arms around its center.

  He turned to face her when she did not join him by the table.

  “I’m not hungry,” she stated.

  He inhaled, and she watched his shoulders move in time with his breath.

  Then he returned to the foot of the bed so that they were positioned on opposite ends, as far from each other as possible.

  So strange.

  Shahrzad rolled on her side and burrowed into the mass of silken pillows. Her bronze ankles dangled off the bed.

  The edges of the caliph’s amber eyes tightened, ever so slightly.

  “Would you like me to continue the story?” she said. “Sayyidi?”

  “I almost thought you were above the use of honorifics now.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Have you forgotten who I am, Shahrzad?”

  She blinked. “No . . . sayyidi.”

  “So then a lack of decorum just comes with your sense of comfort.”

  “Inasmuch as bitter apathy does yours.”

  Again, his shoulders rose and fell. “Tell me, why do you find it permissible to talk to me like this?”

  “Because someone has to,” she replied without hesitation.

  “And you think it should be you?”

  “I think it should be someone who isn’t afraid of you. And, though I do feel . . . anxious in your presence, the more I see of everything around me, the less I have reason to fear you.”

  As soon as she said the words aloud, she was startled to realize their truth. In the single day she’d been his wife, she’d seen remarkably little of the bloodthirsty monster she’d expected.

  This time, it was much more than a mere flash of surprise that etched its way across his face. His astonishment burgeoned into dismay before it melted back into the landscape of emptiness that forever shrouded his features.

  “You know nothing,” he countered.

  Shahrzad almost laughed at this. “You’re right. I know nothing. Would you care to educate me, sayyidi?”

  It was a quiet taunt . . . a poisoned glass of wine, meant to intoxicate and exsanguinate.

  Meant to compel him into exposing his weakness.

  Please. Give me the rope from which to hang you.

  “Finish the story of Agib, Shahrzad.”

  The moment was lost.

  For now.

  She smiled at him from across the bed. “The shadow forming within the blue plume of smoke solidified . . . and began to laugh.”

  The caliph’s shoulders relaxed. He eased forward.

  “Agib scrambled back farther, his terror mounting. The laughter grew until it echoed across the black sand of Adamant’s shore. Agib covered hi
s face with trembling hands. And, from the depths of the shadow, a figure emerged. He was bald, with sharply tapered ears adorned in gold. His skin was blanched white and covered with raised markings in a language Agib did not recognize. When the figure opened his mouth to speak, Agib saw that every one of his teeth was filed to a razor-sharp point.”

  Shahrzad bunched a pillow below her neck and crossed her ankles. When the caliph’s gaze flickered down her bare legs, her eyes widened in awareness, and he glanced away.

  Ignoring the rising warmth in her neck, she continued. “Agib was sure he was about to die. He clasped his hands before him and closed his eyes, offering a silent plea for a quick and painless end to a worthless life. So when the creature spoke to Agib in a voice that shook the very ground they stood upon, his words were the last things Agib expected to hear, for a multitude of reasons. The creature said, ‘What question does my master wish to ask of me?’ And Agib just sat there, speechless. The creature repeated himself. Agib sputtered, almost inaudibly, ‘Question? What kind of questions do you speak of, O creature of the cup?’ The creature laughed again and replied, ‘That was the first of my master’s three questions. He is permitted three, and only three. After this, he has two questions remaining. The questions I speak of are the questions the master of the Bronze Chalice may pose to the All-Knowing Genie of the Bronze Chalice. I possess the answers to questions—past, present, and future. Choose them wisely, for once you ask three, you are a master no more.’”

  At this, the caliph smiled to himself.

  “Agib pitched to his feet, still reeling in disbelief. But the sharp mind of a thief was beginning to take control, and he quickly realized his foolishness had already cost him one precious question. So he stopped himself from speaking out of turn and succumbing to yet another trick by the clever genie before him. He formulated his next question carefully in his mind before posing it. Then he asked, ‘Genie of the Bronze Chalice, your master wishes to know the exact way to escape this island so as to reach his homeland without any further harm befalling his person.’ The genie grinned wickedly before bowing before Agib. With a nod toward the mountain, the genie said, ‘Buried at the top of Adamant lies a boat with bolts of brass. Drag it to the shore and sail in the direction of the third brightest star in the night sky. After twenty days and nights, you will reach your homeland.’ His eyes wary, Agib prodded further. ‘My question demanded that no further harm befall my person for the duration of this journey. Nowhere in your answer did you address food or water.’ The genie cackled once more. ‘My master learns faster than most. I shall direct you to a hidden spring near the westernmost point of the island. And, as for food, I suggest you dry enough fish for the journey.’”

  “That seems rather convenient,” the caliph interjected. “The genie cannot be trusted.”

  “They rarely can be, in my opinion, sayyidi.” Shahrzad grinned. “Over the next few days, Agib followed the genie’s instructions. He brought the boat to the shore and filled it with supplies for the journey. On the third night, by the light of a full moon, he set sail, with the Bronze Chalice safely stowed in a pouch at his feet. For ten days, he traveled without event. He began to believe his journey might end well . . . that luck might be on his side, after all. Hoping against hope, he started to dream of what to ask as his final question. Where could he obtain all the riches in the world? How could he win the love of the most beautiful woman in Baghdad?”

  Shahrzad paused for effect.

  “And then . . . the boat started to creak. Briny water began seeping into the seams. Aghast, Agib discovered the brass bolts were cracking at the edges, allowing the sea to flow in through the joints. In a panic, he tried to bail the water out of the boat with his bare hands. When he realized the futility of his efforts, he grabbed the chalice and rubbed its surface. The genie appeared and sat calmly on the boat’s listing bow. ‘We are sinking!’ Agib shouted at the genie. ‘You assured me I would reach my homeland without any harm befalling my person!’ The genie merely stared at Agib, without a seeming care in the world. ‘You may ask me a question, Master,’ he replied. Agib glanced about frantically, wondering if now was the time to use his last, and most precious, question. Just then on the horizon, Agib saw the mast of another boat—a much larger vessel. He stood up and waved his hands, shouting for its attention. When it shifted in his direction, Agib yelled with triumph, and the genie smirked before vanishing back into his chalice. Agib boarded the vessel, trembling with gratitude, his clothes tattered and his sun-stained face hidden beneath a scraggly beard. But, lo . . .”

  The caliph’s eyebrows lifted.

  “When the owner of the vessel emerged from belowdecks, Agib was horrified to discover it was none other than the emir . . . the very man whose soldiers had chased him out of Baghdad and driven him to take this wretched voyage in the first place. For an instant, Agib considered plunging headfirst into the sea, but, when the emir smiled warmly at him and welcomed him aboard the ship, Agib realized his disheveled appearance made him all but unrecognizable. So he broke bread at the emir’s table, sharing in his food and drink as though he were unaware of his patron’s identity. The elder gentleman was a consummate host, refilling Agib’s cup with his own hand and regaling him with tales of his many seafaring adventures. As the evening wore on, Agib learned the emir had set sail several weeks ago in search of an island with a mysterious mountain at its center. Hidden on this island was a chalice with the mystical power to answer any question in the world—past, present, and future.”

  The caliph leaned back on his elbow, his eyes warm.

  “At this news, Agib stilled. For, of course, the emir could be speaking of none other than the very chalice lying in Agib’s pouch. Feigning complete ignorance, Agib asked the emir why he had decided to take on such a dangerous mission, especially in the twilight years of his life. The emir’s eyes saddened. He confessed there was one reason, and one reason alone, for him to take to the sea in search of the black mountain and its hidden chalice. Several weeks ago, something very precious had been stolen from him—a ring that had belonged to his dead wife. It was all that remained of her, and he considered it his most prized possession. In the streets of Baghdad, a gifted thief had slipped the trinket from the emir’s own hand and disappeared into the crowd with the stealth of a shadow. Ever since that afternoon, the emir had been haunted at night by the ghost of his dead wife, and he knew he had to recover that ring, whatever the cost. If he could ask the chalice where it was, he could appease his wife’s spirit and restore honor to the memory of their love.”

  “So his question to an all-knowing genie would be about a mere trinket of love?” the caliph interjected.

  “A mere trinket? Love is a force unto itself, sayyidi. For love, people consider the unthinkable . . . and often achieve the impossible. I would not sneer at its power.”

  The caliph held her gaze. “I am not sneering at its power. I am lamenting its role in this story.”

  “You are saddened by love’s importance in the emir’s life?”

  He paused. “I am frustrated by its importance in all our lives.”

  Shahrzad’s lips formed a sad smile. “That’s understandable. If a bit predictable.”

  He inclined his head. “Again, you presume to know a great deal for a day and two nights, my queen.”

  Shahrzad averted her eyes and toyed with the corner of the red pillow in her arms. She felt a flush in her cheeks.

  My queen?

  At her silence, he stirred with discomfort.

  “You’re right,” Shahrzad murmured. “I should not have said that.”

  He inhaled through his nose.

  An odd stillness seemed to stretch over the room.

  “And I should not have interrupted you. I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Shahrzad wound the scarlet fringe of the pillow tight between her fingers.

  “Please continue,” he said.

  She looked up at him and nodded.

  “Agib listened to th
is tale with a growing sense of unease. Obviously, he was the perpetrator of the theft. The ring in question had been discarded in his panicked attempt to flee the emir’s soldiers. He had no intention of turning over the chalice before he had a chance to determine what his all-important final question would be. And if the emir discovered Agib had the chalice, he would likely kill him to procure it. Even more imminent was the danger that someone would recognize the thief responsible for the emir’s heartache. Agib resolved to stay close by the man’s side for the remainder of the journey and use every means available to conceal his identity.”

  Shahrzad sat up carefully when she noticed a faint light streaming through the edge of the screens leading to the terrace.

  And it begins again.

  “For the next few months, the ship sailed the waters in search of the Mountain of Adamant, with Agib managing to keep them safely off course. In that time, he learned a great deal from the emir about his many experiences and, ultimately, about his life. He grew to admire the emir, and the emir soon saw in Agib an intelligent young man with a wide aptitude for knowledge and a courageous heart. Agib became a capable sailor. He realized men could respect him for being more than just a thief—they could respect him for being a man of honor upon whom they could rely. Alas, time did not stand on their side. The aging emir grew sick, and they were forced to turn back to port. Soon, it became clear he was dying. Every day became that much more precious. Agib watched in horror as his mentor, as his friend, began wasting away before his very eyes. He thought about asking the genie if there was a way to save him, but he knew it was beyond the realm of possibility.”

  The dawn crept up the screen with a haunting pallor.

  “As soon as the boat docked, Agib knew what he had to do. He fled from the boat with nothing but the chalice in hand. Once he cleared the docks, he scrubbed at the chalice’s edge and demanded the genie tell him where he could find the ring. The genie laughed uproariously when he realized Agib was wasting his final wish on such a question, but told Agib the ring was on the pinky finger of one of the most notorious mercenaries in Baghdad. Agib wasted no time seeking him out. The fight that ensued over the ring was bloody and brutal. Agib was forced to turn over his entire trove of spoils in exchange for safe passage through the den of cutthroats. His eyes blackened and his body bruised, he returned to the ship with nothing but the ring in hand.”