The Wrath and the Dawn

“I know.”

  “A great deal.”

  She nodded against the linen of his qamis.

  “Yet you have said nothing about it,” he continued.

  “I wanted to. I meant to. But then you were so hateful.”

  “There is a vast difference between meaning to do something and actually doing it.”

  She nodded again.

  He sighed and swiveled in her arms to look at her.

  “You’re right. I was hateful to you.”

  He raised his palms to her face and wiped away her tears.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” Shahrzad said, her eyes luminous.

  Khalid slid a hand behind her neck and rested his chin atop her head.

  “As am I, joonam,” he whispered. “So very sorry.”

  THE DIE IS CAST

  JAHANDAR STOOD BENEATH THE SHADE OF THE marbled vestibule at Taleqan with his thumbs looped through his wrinkled tikka sash. He watched Rahim al-Din Walad dismount from his gleaming Akhal-Teke and nod at several laborers carrying bushels of grain toward the kitchens. The workers returned smiles and exchanged a few pleasantries with the young nobleman before parting ways.

  As soon as Rahim turned to walk in his direction, Jahandar scrambled from behind the polished stone pillar and into Rahim’s path.

  “Rahim-jan!” Jahandar cleared his throat with a cough and a gasp.

  Rahim took a startled step back. “Jahandar-effendi. It’s good to see you.”

  “Is it?” Jahandar offered him a mangled attempt at a grin. “Thank you for not saying what you must be thinking about me.”

  Rahim forced his mouth into a patient half smile. “This cannot be easy for you.”

  “It is not. But I am doing much better now.”

  Rahim nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. And I’m sure Irsa will be happy as well.”

  Jahandar cleared his throat again, looking away.

  Rahim’s eyes cast a sudden chill of judgment. “Since you arrived from Rey, Irsa has spent most days in the far corner by the fountain, painting or reading from a book. I believe it’s one you gave her.”

  “Of course. The book on tea,” Jahandar remarked absentmindedly.

  Rahim bowed his head in a curt gesture. When he began striding down the vestibule once more, Jahandar held up his palms to stall him.

  “Why are your hands burned?” Rahim asked with alarm, glancing at Jahandar’s blistered fingers.

  Jahandar shook his head, flicking away Rahim’s distress like a bothersome gnat. “I mishandled a lamp while I was translating a text. Don’t worry yourself, Rahim-jan. I already prepared a salve in my room.”

  Rahim frowned. “Please be careful, Jahandar-effendi. Shazi will rail at me if something happens to you while you’re here at Taleqan. And if Shahrzad is unhappy, Tariq will be furious. Dealing with hellions of their ilk falls rather low on my list of things to enjoy. Like scorpions and quicksand.”

  Jahandar sighed piteously, scuffing his feet. “You must find me quite pathetic as a father, do you not?”

  “You love your children. That is obvious. But I cannot speak to what it means to be a good father.”

  “You’ve always been so good, Rahim-jan. Such a wonderful friend to Tariq and to my Shahrzad.” Jahandar studied Rahim in an unusually intense manner.

  Rahim’s features stiffened, discomfort settling between the lines. “Thank you.”

  An awkward silence fell between the two men.

  And Jahandar knew it was time to take action. For a new kind of test was at hand. The kind he had always dreaded, ever since he was a boy. So he forced back the needling part of him that wanted to shuffle away to the safety of the shadows. Those last remaining traces that babbled from lofty corners reminded him he was not a fighter.

  Just an old man with a book.

  Jahandar’s jaw squared under his wispy beard. “I know I have very little right to ask anything of anyone, Rahim al-Din Walad. But as a father, I have no choice.”

  Rahim waited, drawing in a careful breath.

  “I know Tariq left Taleqan because of Shahrzad,” Jahandar continued. “There is no way for me to know what he has planned, but I will not sit in a darkened room while others take charge of rescuing my child. I did not do as a father should have at the onset; I did not stop her. But whatever needs to be done now, trust that I will do it. I cannot fight as you can. I am not fearless and strong. I am not Tariq. But I am Shahrzad’s father, and I would do anything for her. Please do not dismiss me. Please allow me to be part of your plans. Find a place for me in them.”

  Rahim listened to Jahandar with quiet consideration. “I’m sorry, but this is not my decision to make, Jahandar-effendi.”

  “I—I understand.”

  “But I will take you to see Tariq when the time comes.”

  Jahandar nodded, a peculiar, martial light entering his gaze. “Thank you. Thank you, Rahim-jan.”

  Now Rahim’s smile was genuine. He put a hand on Jahandar’s shoulder. Then he bowed his head and lifted his fingertips to his brow.

  Jahandar remained in the archway of the vestibule, pleased by his success—the passing of this test.

  He looked down at his palms. The newest blisters formed over the scars of the last, and they smarted at the slightest touch. Seared with the promise of pain to come. His skin was hard and crusted beneath his nails, and he could no longer sacrifice the sleeves of his remaining garments to this endeavor.

  It was time.

  Jahandar stared across the courtyard at the entrance to the kitchens.

  A mere hare would not do. Not this time.

  He needed more.

  Always more.

  THE FALCON AND THE TIGER

  SHAHRZAD STOOD AT THE MARBLE RAILING OF HER balcony, overlooking the pools of water below. A midday sun reflected back in their glistening surfaces, rippling with each passing breeze.

  But this was not of particular interest to Shahrzad.

  The arriving guests were far more fascinating.

  It was a veritable menagerie of the absurd.

  One nervous-looking young man entered the courtyard with a bevy of attendants, each waiting to remove a particular article of his clothing. First one leather mankalah. Then another. Then his rida’. Then his boots, which were quickly replaced by a pair of pristine sandals. Each of the servants stashed away the garments in methodical order before the young man ventured a single step from his steed.

  Another man—the size of three men put together—swayed atop an elephant sporting hooked tusks, its grey trunk trailing across the gritty granite pavestones below. This man had an oiled mustache with ends that twitched at the slightest movement, and each of his fingers displayed immense rings of a different gemstone, glittering with abandon in the rays of the sun.

  Shahrzad rested her chin in her palm and stifled a giggle.

  Another nobleman galloped through the entrance on a creature Shahrzad had never seen before. It resembled a horse in size and build, yet its coat was covered in the strangest pattern of black and white stripes. The animal stomped its hooves and snorted, flinging its neck to and fro. As soon as Shahrzad saw it, she gasped and called Despina to her side.

  Despina shook her head as she stood next to Shahrzad. “You really shouldn’t be out here.”

  “Why not?” Shahrzad waved a flippant hand. “It’s perfectly safe. All weapons are surrendered at the palace gate.”

  “I wish I could make you understand. You’re not a girl on a lark, watching an amusing display. You’re their queen.”

  “They came here because of that wretched sultan from Parthia, not because of me.” Shahrzad leaned farther over the railing. “Despina, did you see that imbecile on the camel? The one with the brass bells and the finger in his nose?”

  Despina’s eyes clouded over.

  And Shahrzad ignored the lines creasing her handmaiden’s forehead.

  Ignored them because she needed a lighthearted moment. Needed it enough to appear foolish, just for an instant, so s
he would not have to deal with the reality of her life in a palace of polished marble, with flashing gems at her throat and a shimmering pool of water at her feet.

  In a marriage rife with growing tension . . .

  With a husband who would not touch her. Nor venture near her, much less share his secrets.

  Shahrzad clenched her teeth.

  Ever since that night two weeks ago, when she’d told the tale of Tala and Mehrdad, Khalid had come to have dinner with her each evening and hear a new story. He would listen at a distance, engage her in stilted conversation, and share pithy observations he’d made throughout the day.

  Then he would depart, and she would not see him until the following night.

  “Your husband is not a forgiving man.”

  Shahrzad gripped the stone railing in both hands, the blood leaching from her fingertips. “Who are all these fools, anyway?” She tried to smile at Despina.

  Despina’s lips puckered into a moue. “Most of them are the caliph’s bannermen. A general invitation was issued to every emir of Khorasan.”

  A bubble of air caught at the top of Shahrzad’s throat. She twisted away from the railing to look at her handmaiden.

  “What?” she whispered.

  Despina canted her head to one side. “I told you. You never listen. This gathering is not just for the Sultan of Parthia. The caliph wants to introduce you as his queen. He invited every nobleman in the kingdom to share in the spectacle. To meet you.”

  A knot of panic started to gather in the pit of Shahrzad’s stomach.

  Tariq wouldn’t. He may be a nobleman, but he’s not an emir. Not yet.

  He wouldn’t dare.

  Despina’s ongoing lecture dissolved into a muted din in Shahrzad’s ears.

  Until a familiar, screaming cry echoed from above.

  Shahrzad balled her hands into fists and spun back to the railing, pleading to the heavens that—

  No.

  Clattering across the granite pavestones on a dark bay al-Khamsa was her first love.

  Tariq Imran al-Ziyad.

  “My, my, my,” Despina breathed.

  Had Tariq not reined in his stallion at that moment and whistled to the skies, he still would have drawn attention. Even dust-worn and bedraggled, he cut an imposing figure. Broad-shouldered, with skin of the desert and eyes of silver and ash, he was the kind of boy who turned heads and never noticed. The faint shadow of hair that darkened his jaw served only to accentuate features hewn from stone by the hand of a master sculptor.

  When Zoraya came plummeting from the clouds to land on his outstretched mankalah, Tariq glanced up.

  And saw Shahrzad.

  His look was a touch.

  Shahrzad’s heart began to pound, the fear rising. Taking hold.

  But it was nothing compared to the panic that gripped her, that screamed a soundless scream at the scene unfolding before her . . .

  When Khalid rode into the courtyard atop a black Arabian—

  A stone’s throw from her first love.

  • • •

  Shahrzad had disappeared from the balcony.

  It was just as well.

  For, as much as Tariq wanted to drink in the sight of her, now was not the time for distraction, even one as welcome as she.

  His target had arrived.

  Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

  Murderer of Shiva. Husband of Shahrzad.

  Tariq gripped the reins in his free hand.

  The monster rode past Tariq on a magnificent black Arabian. His dark rida’ billowed in his wake. A visceral hatred coiled in Tariq’s chest. When the monster stopped in the middle of the courtyard and pulled back the hood of his cloak, Tariq’s wrath flowed to his fists.

  And he envisioned them smashing against the monster’s chilly regalness until nothing remained but blood and bits of bone.

  To the right of the monster was a young man with an arrogant grin, curly brown hair, and a cuirass with the standard of the Royal Guard embossed on its breastplate. To his left was an older man with a golden griffin stitched on his cloak, signifying his status as the Shahrban of Rey.

  As the noise in the courtyard died down, the monster began to speak.

  “Welcome to Rey.”

  His voice was surprisingly unassuming.

  “I trust your journeys were safe and uneventful. It is an honor to host you on this occasion, and I thank you for always striving to embody—in all the days past, present, and future—the greatness of Khorasan to those who would take notice.”

  A polite cheer rose from the edges of the courtyard.

  “Again, I welcome you to my home. I have the fervent hope that when you leave it, you will have come to care for it as much as I do. It is the city of my childhood.” The monster paused. “And the city of my queen.”

  At this, the chorus of approval grew, mingled with a clear tenor of curiosity. The arrogant boy to the monster’s right smirked appreciatively, while the shahrban sighed with seeming resignation.

  It took all Tariq’s willpower to look away and not draw undue attention. The hate was too palpable. It roiled off him in murderous waves.

  Death was too easy for this monster.

  He dared to flaunt Shahrzad, as if she were a prize he had won?

  Zoraya flapped her wings from her perch on his mankalah, aware of his fury. Tariq raised a hand to soothe her while he observed the monster exiting the courtyard, his gold-clad retinue clamoring in his shadow.

  Tariq was not impressed by the show.

  Rahim was a far better rider. The Caliph of Khorasan was an above-average horseman, at best. For all his dour black and stern expressions, all the whispered rumors of trick swords and cold brutality, he did not appear worthy of genuine fear. He appeared bored with life. Bored and in need of a nap.

  Tariq sneered to himself, his loathing mingled with a newfound distaste.

  Monster? Hardly. Merely a boy-king.

  And a dead one, at that.

  TWO CROSSED SWORDS

  ANOTHER MOMENT OF THIS, AND SHAHRZAD would scream.

  Sitting here, idling about in her room, while somewhere in the palace, a reckless boy with a falcon and a quick-tempered king with two swords—

  “Hold still!” Despina commanded. She clutched Shahrzad’s chin in her left hand. Then she lifted the tiny, three-haired brush to Shahrzad’s eyelid once more.

  Shahrzad gritted her teeth.

  “You are an utter nightmare,” Despina grumbled. When she was finished, she pulled back and nodded with satisfaction at her work.

  “Can I leave now?” Shahrzad blew a lock of glossy black hair out of her face.

  “Such a brat. Would you at least do me the courtesy of feigning a dram of appreciation for all my efforts?” Despina grabbed Shahrzad’s wrist and hauled her before the mirror in the far corner of the chamber.

  “Despina, I’m going to be late for—”

  “Just have a look, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”

  When Shahrzad glanced into the polished silver, her hazel eyes nearly doubled in size.

  Nothing about her appearance seemed normal.

  Despina had turned tradition on itself. She had dressed Shahrzad in sirwal trowsers of luminous black silk with a matching fitted top, and chosen to eschew the typical mantle of muted gold or silver. Tonight, Shahrzad’s sleeveless mantle was the same cerulean blue as Despina’s eyes. It matched the glittering sapphires swinging from her earlobes. Instead of placing a band of stones across Shahrzad’s brow, Despina had woven tiny strands of obsidian beads throughout her hair. They caught at wayward beams of light, making each curl flash like shadow incarnate.

  For the final touch, Despina had painted a thick line of black kohl above the top portion of Shahrzad’s eyelashes. She had flicked the lines far past each outer corner, giving the illusion of cat’s eyes.

  The entire effect was . . . arresting, to say the least.

  “No—necklace?” Shahrzad stuttered.

  “No. You don’t like them. Or you do
a good job of pretending you don’t.”

  “My arms are bare.”

  “Yes.”

  Shahrzad ran her fingers across the shining blue fabric of her mantle. Black diamond bangles clinked together on her left wrist.

  “Tonight is a night to turn heads. Make them remember you. Make sure they never forget. You are the Calipha of Khorasan, and you have the ear of a king.” Despina put her hand on Shahrzad’s shoulder and grinned at their shared reflection. “More important, you have his heart.” She bent forward and lowered her voice. “And, most important, you are a fearsome thing to behold in your own right.”

  Shahrzad smiled, but it came from a place of unexpected despondency.

  For once, you’re wrong about several things.

  She reached up and clasped Despina’s hand. “Thank you. I’m sorry I was so distracted on the balcony earlier. I didn’t realize the . . . importance of the gathering until that moment. It’s not an excuse for being so wretched all afternoon, but—”

  Despina laughed, and it was a balm to Shahrzad’s nerves. “I’m used to it. Just handle yourself with aplomb tonight, and all is forgiven.”

  Shahrzad nodded and walked to the door of her chamber. The Rajput was waiting beyond the threshold to escort her through the vaulted marble corridors. When he looked down at her, his moonless eyes constricted for an instant, and she thought she saw something resembling amity in their depths. Then he directed her down the labyrinthine hallways.

  As they rounded the final corner, Shahrzad paused midstep.

  Khalid stood before a set of massive, gilt-framed double doors three times his height. They were guarded on either side by creatures carved from stone, with the body of a bull, the wings of an eagle, and the head of a man.

  He turned when he heard their footsteps, and Shahrzad’s breath was gone before she could catch it.

  The linen of his off-white qamis was so finely spun that it reflected a faint sheen from the torches lining the corridor. Their fires gave life to the carved hollows of his features. The hilt of his sword was looped through the crimson tikka sash wound across his hips. His mantle was a rich brown that enhanced the amber of his eyes, making them appear even more intense, even more fluid. Even more illusory.