The Wrath and the Dawn Page 9

  “Jalal,” she gasped.

  “Delam.” He stroked the hair out of her eyes, comforting her, bringing her back from a place of nothingness.

  Then he glanced behind him, to the sound of continuing commotion.

  To a chorus of whimpers and fury.

  “Stop it, Khalid!” he yelled. “It’s done. We have to get her inside.”

  “Khalid?” Shahrzad murmured.

  Jalal smiled ruefully. “Don’t hate him too much, delam . . .”

  Shahrzad buried her face in Jalal’s shirt as he lifted her from the ground.

  “After all, every story has a story.”

  • • •

  Hours later, Shahrzad sat on the edge of her bed with Despina.

  At her throat was a ring of purple bruises. Her arm had been pushed back into place with a sickening sound that made her cringe in remembrance. Afterward, with Despina’s assistance, she’d bathed carefully and changed into comfortable clothes.

  The entire time, Shahrzad had not uttered a single word.

  Despina lifted an ivory comb to untangle Shahrzad’s still-damp hair. “Please say something.”

  Shahrzad closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t in my room.” Despina’s gaze flicked toward the small door by the entrance, leading to her chamber. “I’m sorry I didn’t know . . . they were coming for you. You have every right not to trust me, but please talk to me.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Obviously, there is. You might feel better if you talked about it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Yes, I do.

  Shahrzad did not want to talk to Despina. She wanted her sister’s soothing voice and her father’s volume of poetry. She wanted Shiva’s bright smile and infectious laugh.

  She wanted her own bed and a night when she could sleep without the fear of dawn.

  And she wanted Tariq. She wanted to fall into his arms and feel the laughter rumble in his chest when she said something very wrong that sounded exactly right. Perhaps it was weakness, but she needed someone to take the weight off her shoulders for a moment. To ease the burden, as Tariq had done the day her mother died, when he’d found her sitting alone in the rose garden behind her house, crying.

  That day, he’d held both her hands in his and said nothing. Just drawn her pain away, with the simple strength of his touch.

  Tariq could do that again. He would gladly do that.

  For her.

  Despina was a stranger. A stranger she couldn’t trust in a world that just tried to kill her.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Despina.”

  Despina nodded slowly and dragged the comb through Shahrzad’s hair. The tension against her neck hurt, but Shahrzad said nothing.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “May I open it?” Despina asked.

  Shahrzad raised an indifferent shoulder, and Despina placed the comb in Shahrzad’s lap before she made her way to the double doors.

  What can they do to me now?

  When she looked past the threshold, her heart crashed into her stomach.

  The Caliph of Khorasan shadowed her doorway.

  Without a word, Despina exited the room, pulling the doors shut behind her.

  Shahrzad stayed at the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the comb in her lap, staring down her king.

  As he drew closer, she saw the mark across his face where she’d struck him. It colored his skin a deeper bronze, with a tinge of purple at his jawbone. His eyes were drawn and tired, as though he had not slept in a long while. The knuckles along his right fist were red and raw.

  He returned her scrutiny, taking in the bruises at her neck, the hollows beneath her eyes, and the wary posture of her spine.

  “How is your arm?” His voice was even and characteristically low.

  “It hurts.”

  “A great deal?”

  “I’m sure it won’t kill me.”

  It was a pointed jab, and Shahrzad saw it strike a chord, his careful composure falling for an instant. He strode to the foot of the bed and sat beside her. She shifted uncomfortably at his proximity.

  “Shahrzad—”

  “What do you want?”

  He paused. “To make amends for what I’ve done.”

  Shahrzad expelled a caustic breath and looked him in the eye.

  “You will never be able to make amends for what you’ve done.”

  He studied her. “That may be the first truly honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She laughed bitterly. “I told you, you aren’t that gifted at reading people. I may have lied once or twice in my day, but I have never lied to you.”

  It was the truth.

  His chest rose and fell in steady consideration. Then he reached up and brushed aside her hair. With great care, he touched the slender column of her throat.

  Unnerved by the obvious concern on his face, Shahrzad drew back.

  “That hurts, too.” She pushed his hands away.

  Flustered, she snatched the comb from her lap so she could finish untangling her hair—

  And grimaced with pain.

  Her arm.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “No. I do not.”

  He sighed. “I—”

  “If I need help, I’ll wait for Despina. In any case, I do not need your help.” When she moved to stand, he caught her waist and pulled her back against him.

  “Please, Shahrzad.” He spoke into her still-damp hair. “Let me make amends.”

  The hammering in her chest grew as he wrapped his other arm around her, holding her close.

  Don’t.

  “There are no excuses for what happened this morning. I want you to—”

  “Where were you?” Shahrzad tried to control the tremor in her voice.

  “Not where I should have been.”

  “This morning and last night.”

  His breath fanned on her skin as he bent toward her ear. “This morning, I was not where I should have been. Last night, I was not where I wanted to be.”

  Shahrzad tilted her face upward, and her eyes grew wide at what she saw.

  His hands tightened at her waist. He lowered his head and pressed his brow to hers, his touch as soft and gentle as a whisper.

  “My Mountain of Adamant.”

  She felt herself leaning into him, bowing into his caress. He smelled of sandalwood and sunlight. Strange that she’d never noticed before—that in her desire to distance herself from him, she had not detected something so simple and yet so marked as a scent.

  She inhaled, letting the clean fragrance clear her thoughts.

  As he placed his palm against the side of her face, Shahrzad realized something horrifying.

  She wanted to kiss him.

  No.

  It was one thing to return his kiss; she’d been prepared for that. But it was another thing entirely to want his kiss . . . another thing entirely to desire his affections. To melt into the arms of Shiva’s killer at the first sign of adversity.

  Weak.

  She sat up in disgust, destroying the moment in a single action. “If you want to make amends, I will think of a way.”

  And it will not involve you touching me.

  He withdrew his hands. “Good.”

  “Are there any rules?”

  “Does everything have to be a game?” he said in the barest shred of a whisper.

  “Are there rules, sayyidi?”

  “The only rule is that I have to be able to grant your request.”

  “You’re the Caliph of Khorasan. The King of Kings. Is there a request you cannot grant?”

  His face darkened. “I am just a man, Shahrzad.”

  She stood up and faced him. “Then be a man who makes amends. You tried to have me killed this morning. Consider yourself lucky I have not tried to return the favor.”

  Yet.

  He rose to his feet, more than
a head taller than Shahrzad. The veil of dispassion had returned, and it deepened the lines, as always.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Pitiful. But a start, nevertheless.”

  His tiger-eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. He bowed his head. Then he made his way to the door.

  “Shahrzad?”

  “Yes, sayyidi?”

  “I’m leaving for Amardha this afternoon.”

  Shahrzad waited.

  “I’ll be gone for a week. No one will bother you. Jalal will be in charge of your security. Should you need anything, go to him.”

  She nodded.

  He stopped himself once more. “I meant what I said to General al-Khoury the day I introduced you.”

  The day he called me his queen.

  “You have a strange way of showing it.”

  He paused. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.”

  “My queen.” He bowed again before he left, his fingertips to his brow.

  Shahrzad closed her eyes tight, falling against the bed as soon as the doors shut behind him.

  Shiva, what do I do now?

  A RIGHTEOUS BLAZE AND A RESTLESS SPIRIT

  THE HALF-MOON OVER REY WAS A MILKY COLOR, framed by a thin haze of clouds.

  Along the border of Reza bin-Latief’s elegant courtyard, the torches blazed in their sconces, throwing off shadows that danced with abandon against the walls of tan stone. The musky scent of smoke and ambergris hung heavy in the air.

  “I feel human again,” Rahim announced as he crossed the courtyard and took a seat at the low table before him.

  Reza smiled warmly. “You look a great deal more rested, Rahim-jan.”

  “I was promised a cloud of perfume, and I was not disappointed, Reza-effendi.”

  Tariq joined them a moment later, sitting across from Rahim in the open-air gallery.

  Soon, platters of food were brought before them—steaming, buttery basmati rice with bright orange saffron staining its center, surrounded by lamb in a savory sauce of dates, caramelized onions, and tangy barberries; skewers of marinated chicken and roasted tomatoes, served alongside chilled yogurt and cucumbers; fresh herbs and lavash bread, with rounds of goat cheese and sliced red radishes splashing brilliant colors against a polished wood backdrop.

  The aroma of the food mingled with the fragrance of the tapers, saturating the senses with spices and decadence.

  “This almost makes me forget the last three days,” Rahim said. “Almost.”

  “Did you sleep well, Tariq-jan?” Reza asked.

  “As well as can be expected, Uncle.”

  “Don’t sound so frustrated,” Rahim grumbled. “You’ve barely rested a moment since receiving Shazi’s letter. Do you think you’re invincible? That you live off nothing but fresh dew and cold fury?”

  Tariq glared at his friend before grabbing a skewer of chicken.

  “He’s right. I know you are eager to discuss our plans, but it’s important to take care of yourself first.” Reza glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you. Please leave us,” he directed his servants. Once they were gone, he served himself a portion of basmati rice and lamb stew.

  “While you were resting this afternoon, I made a few inquiries,” Reza began in a low voice. “First, I will sell everything I have here. We will need money and mobility. Following this, we will need the support of others with money and mobility. Am I correct in assuming your father does not share our point of view?”

  “My father will not want to be a part of this,” Tariq replied with resignation. “It is likely he will forswear all involvement, if put to question.”

  Reza nodded, seemingly unfazed. “Then this presents us with our next problem. If your father does not wish to be linked to this endeavor, you cannot brandish your family’s name about freely without risking their lives and, possibly, the lives of Shahrzad’s family as well. The same goes for you, Rahim; the al-Din Walad name is an old one, and your elder brothers will not take kindly to you jeopardizing their families. You must conceal your identities.”

  Tariq considered this. “You’re right, Uncle.”

  “I am of the same mind, but how are we to garner support if no one knows who we are?” Rahim interjected. “What will inspire them to follow?”

  “Leave that to me,” Reza continued. “I was one of the foremost merchants of Rey for decades, and I understand the notion of a commodity. Something is rare and desirable when it is made to seem so.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Uncle,” Tariq said.

  The light from the torches blazed in Reza’s eyes. “I will make you what they want to see. You need only be what you already are—strong young men and gifted warriors.”

  Tariq’s forehead creased, his gaze uncertain. “But that still doesn’t explain how we intend to persuade others to follow a leaderless cause.”

  “It will not be leaderless. You will be its leader, Tariq-jan. You will give this cause a voice. The lack of a voice is the reason the riots in the city streets are quelled time and again. Your voice must be one that resonates, that demands we see what truly lies at the heart of our kingdom: a boy-king who does not deserve to rule Khorasan. A boy-king who must be destroyed, at all cost.”

  Rahim pounded his palm against the table in approval.

  “So we mean to organize a force and storm the city? That is my greatest hope, but is such a feat even possible?” Tariq asked.

  Reza took a sip of wine. “It will work if we build on our beliefs and make them a reality. Your hope will be our tinder, and my righteousness, our blaze.”

  Tariq looked to his uncle once more. “Where do we begin?”

  Reza pushed his plate aside. “Return home. I need time to clear my affairs in Rey and determine who might be willing to assist with our cause. The Emir of Karaj will likely provide some form of aid . . . his wife’s cousin suffered the same fate as Shiva a few weeks ago. Once I am in the position to do so, I will send for you.”

  “What about Shazi? I won’t leave Rey until—”

  “The caliph left for the city of Amardha this afternoon. He does not—” Traces of hidden rage settled around Reza’s mouth. “He does not murder his brides unless he’s in Rey, presumably to witness the spectacle. She will be safe for at least a week.”

  Tariq paused for a beat before nodding. “Then, after we collect Irsa and Jahandar-effendi, Rahim and I will return home and await your missive.”

  “Jahandar and Irsa? Did you not know? They left Rey the night of the wedding. No one has seen or heard from them since.”

  “Gone? But where could they—”

  “I assumed they were going to you, Tariq-jan. Did you not receive a letter from them?”

  “Shazi’s letter. Did she not make mention of her family in it?” Rahim asked.

  “I don’t know. I never finished reading it.”

  “Of course not.” Rahim harrumphed.

  Reza gazed thoughtfully at his nephew. “In the future, you must be more deliberate in your actions. Take time before making decisions. It will be of great benefit to you.”

  Tariq inhaled through his nose. “Yes. I’ll do better, Uncle.”

  “You’ve always done better, Tariq-jan. Which is why I know we will succeed.”

  “Thank you. For taking on such a task so willingly.”

  “I am the one who should be grateful to both of you. It has been a long time since I’ve felt hope spark within me.”

  The three men rose from the table and moved farther into the courtyard, where Zoraya remained perched on her makeshift mews, patiently awaiting Tariq. He donned his mankalah cuff and whistled for her. She soared to his outstretched arm, reveling in his attention. Then, with a flick of his right hand, Tariq directed Zoraya into the sky so she could hunt. She shrieked once, her cry filling the courtyard, before she ascended into the hazy darkness.

  The shadow of her body in flight drew across Tariq’s face, masking his features from the torchlight for
an instant.

  Reza smiled to himself.

  Something to fight for.

  And something to use.

  • • •

  The following morning, Rahim was jarred awake by the sound of metal thumping into the wood just outside his open window. He rolled from his bed and lumbered to the sill.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he grumbled to Tariq.

  “What does it look like?” Tariq lifted the recurve bow and nocked an arrow to the sinew. “We need to leave.”

  Rahim glanced up at the sky. The sun had yet to crest above the horizon; it was nothing but a jagged ribbon of light along the eastern rooftops of Rey.

  “Did you even sleep?” Rahim yawned.

  Tariq let the arrow fly. It thudded into the wood beside Rahim’s head.

  Rahim did not flinch. “Was that truly necessary?”

  “Get your things. Before my uncle returns and insists we eat with him.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. He left while it was still dark outside.” Tariq fitted another arrow to the string and took aim.

  “Why are we vanishing like thieves in the night?”

  Tariq shot him a look to skewer a stone. “Because I don’t want him to know what we’re doing.”

  “Oh? What are we doing?”

  “You and your infernal questions!” Tariq loosed the arrow. It coiled in a tight spiral and thunked into the wood, perfectly grouped alongside seven other arrows with matching fletchings.

  “All hail Tariq, son of Nasir, Emir of Taleqan. Congratulations. You can shoot an arrow,” Rahim said in a flat tone.

  Tariq swore under his breath and started for the window. “I knew I never should have—”

  “Calm down.” Rahim scratched at his scalp. “I’ll get my things. But can you tell me the reason for such secrecy?”

  Tariq stopped near the open window and took a steadying breath.

  “You’re starting to worry me,” Rahim continued. “I know you’re concerned about Shazi, but Reza-effendi said we should wait until—”

  “No. I won’t wait. I can’t wait.”

  Rahim pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Something. Anything.”

  “We still don’t have a plan. And Reza-effendi said to wait. We should wait.”