The Wrath and the Dawn

  And these eyes were hers. From the moment he turned and saw her.

  Shahrzad slowed her pace as she neared him, her fear fading into a strange sort of calm.

  She attempted a smile.

  He reached out his hand.

  When she took it, she noticed a thick band of muted gold on the third finger of his right hand. Embossed on its surface were two crossed swords. Shahrzad ran her thumb over it.

  “It’s my standard,” Khalid explained. “They’re—”

  “Twin shamshirs.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked up, worried he would wonder how she knew.

  But he was unfazed.

  “The general told you I saw the tournament?” she asked flatly.

  “Of course.” A corner of his lips twitched.

  Shahrzad exhaled in a huff. “Of course.”

  He laced his fingers through hers. “You look beautiful.”

  “So do you.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Are you?”

  At this, Khalid smiled. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “Thank you, Shazi. For standing at my side.”

  She nodded, words failing her.

  Then Khalid strode forward and the Rajput pushed open one of the huge doors. The warmth of Khalid’s hand led Shahrzad onto the upper landing of an immense two-way staircase shaped like open arms. For an instant, she hesitated, thinking they were supposed to go their separate ways, but Khalid grasped her palm tight and started down the stairs with Shahrzad beside him. Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of blue damask trailing behind her like gently rolling waves across a sea of hewn marble.

  When they paused at the base of the staircase, Shahrzad gasped in wonder for the second time that evening.

  The royal audience hall of the palace at Rey was undoubtedly the largest room she had ever seen in her life. The floor was immense, alternating stones of black and white, patterned diagonally as far as the eye could see. Beautiful reliefs depicting human bulls charging into battle and winged women with long tresses flowing in the wind adorned the walls, which stretched high into the air. So high that Shahrzad had to lengthen her neck to see the very tops of the carved columns bearing the ponderous weight of the ceiling. Fashioned near the base of each of these columns were two-headed lions with iron torches protruding from their roaring mouths.

  In the center of this vast space was a three-sided, raised dais with a series of low tables situated upon its surface. Sumptuous fabric and richly appointed cushions littered the dais with vibrant color and lush texture. Fresh rose petals and dried jessamine were strewn across the silk and fringed damask, perfuming the air with a sweetly intoxicating scent that beckoned to anyone who wandered by.

  Their guests were milling about, awaiting their arrival.

  Tariq.

  The fear returned in a rush.

  She could sense Khalid watching her. He squeezed her hand, offering his gentle reassurance in one simple gesture.

  Shahrzad glanced back at him with a wavering smile.

  “If it pleases our esteemed guests . . .” a sonorous voice echoed from above.

  Every head in the room swiveled their way.

  “The Caliph of Khorasan, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid . . . and the Calipha of Khorasan, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”

  All eyes turned toward her, bodies twisting, necks craning for a better vantage point. From the edge of her gaze, she finally saw a pair of silver eyes flash to her face, glide over her resplendent form . . . then back to her hand, still interwoven in Khalid’s steady warmth.

  Then the silver eyes vanished into the crowd.

  Leaving behind panic.

  Please. Not here. Do nothing. Say nothing.

  She briefly recalled the skirmish in the souk a few weeks ago.

  The drunken men with their piecemeal arms . . .

  And the cloaked caliph with his deadly shamshir.

  If you threaten Khalid, he’ll kill you, Tariq. Without a second thought.

  Khalid strode onto the dais and took his place before the center stretch of tables. Shahrzad released his palm and sat to his right, her mind a jumbled mass of thoughts.

  I can’t look for Tariq. I can’t do anything. It will only make matters worse.

  What could he be planning?

  “Is this seat available?” Jalal grinned down at Shahrzad.

  She looked up, blinking hard. “That depends. Is it for you?”

  He sat down next to her.

  “I did not give you per—”

  “Good evening, sayyidi,” Jalal said in a loud tone.

  Shahrzad wrinkled her nose at Jalal.

  “Don’t do that, my lady. You ruin your face when you do that,” he teased.

  “Good evening, Jalal. And I disagree,” Khalid retorted under his breath.

  Jalal laughed heartily. “My apologies, then. If you would permit me this indulgence in its place, sayyidi: I do believe every man here is currently reassessing his notion of beauty.”

  Despina was right. He is such a consummate flirt.

  “Stop it.” Shahrzad flushed, glaring at Jalal’s arrogant mien.

  “Now, that . . . ruins nothing,” Jalal said.

  “At last, we agree on something.” Khalid spoke to Jalal, though his eyes lingered on Shahrzad.

  And Jalal leaned back into the cushions with a satisfied smile, his hands laced across his stomach.

  “If it pleases our esteemed guests . . .” the announcer intoned once more.

  Again, all heads turned to the set of open-armed staircases.

  “The Sultan of Parthia, Salim Ali el-Sharif.”

  When Jalal rose to his feet with a grumbled oath, Shahrzad placed her palms on the dais to follow suit.

  But Khalid immediately reached his hand out to stop her.

  Shahrzad met his gaze, and he shook his head very slightly, his eyes narrowing at the edges. His thumb trailed along the underside of her forearm, and the knot in her stomach pulled tight. Then he let go, his features blank once more.

  As the sea of faces parted before them, Shahrzad took her first glimpse of the man who wished to lord over Khalid with accusations of illegitimacy. The uncle who had treated Khalid’s mother with such disdain.

  The sultan who would do anything for the chance to gain a kingdom.

  Salim Ali el-Sharif was an attractive man with a strong jaw, nicely greying hair, and a meticulous mustache. He was trim and appeared in good health, with a deceptively warm set of dark brown eyes. His charcoal-colored mantle was exquisitely embroidered at its collar and hem, and the scimitar at his hip had a burnished hilt of solid gold with an emerald the size of a child’s fist embedded in its base.

  He strode onto the dais with the confidence of a man absent worry and took a seat in the empty space by Khalid.

  At Salim’s arrival, the rest of the guests began filtering to the tables. Shahrzad finally dared to run her eyes across the room and was distressed to discover that Tariq was seated quite close, well within earshot. When their glances met, his handsome face eased into perilous familiarity—awash in the memory of stolen embraces—and Shahrzad immediately looked away.

  Stop it! Please don’t do this, Tariq. If Khalid sees you looking at me . . . you don’t understand.

  He notices everything.

  And you are risking your life.

  “Khalid-jan!” the Sultan of Parthia began in a spuriously pleasant voice, putting his wolfish white teeth on full display. “Are you not going to introduce me to your new wife?”

  As Salim spoke, the shahrban sat down next to him, shielded by his usual armor of circumspection.

  Khalid’s piercing gaze turned to Salim. Then he smiled slowly, with such patent falseness that its chill blew back like an icy gale on a mountaintop.

  “Of course, Uncle Salim. It would be a privilege to introduce you.” Khalid shifted to one side. “Shahrzad, this is my uncle by marriage, Salim Ali el-Sharif. Uncle Salim, this is my wife, Shahrzad.” r />
  Salim regarded her with an eager friendliness Shahrzad found disarming. He beamed at her with no small amount of charisma.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Shahrzad offered him a ready smile. She bowed her head and touched her fingertips to her brow.

  “By all that is holy, Khalid-jan—she is a vision.” Though Salim looked at her, he addressed Khalid, treating Shahrzad as little more than a tapestry hanging on his nephew’s wall. It rankled her.

  Shahrzad held firm to her smile. “A vision with eyes and ears, my lord.”

  Khalid continued staring ahead, but the ice set around his features thawed at her retort.

  Salim’s eyes widened, and something flared for an instant in their pools of contrived warmth. He laughed, and the sound was just as charming as his voice. Just as overdone. “Stunning and silver-tongued. What an interesting combination! I can see I will have quite a time getting to know you, my lady Shahrzad.”

  “Quite a time,” Shahrzad agreed. “I look forward to it, my lord.”

  Though his smile wavered for less than an instant, there was no mistaking it; she was irritating him.

  “As do I,” he replied. Each word was like a spear soaked in sweet water.

  “If it pleases our esteemed guests,” the announcer boomed from above, “dinner is served!”

  Two rows of servants descended the open-armed staircases, bearing steaming trays above their heads. They marched in unison until they arrived before the dais, setting plates of food in front of each guest—aromatic rice with fresh dill and split fava beans, lamb simmered in a sauce of turmeric and caramelized onions, skewers of chicken and roasted tomatoes, fresh vegetables garnished with mint and chopped parsley, olives marinated in fine oil, lavash bread with rounds of goat cheese and seemingly endless sweet preserves . . .

  Shahrzad had never seen so much food.

  The air filled with the aroma of spices and the clamor of conversation. Shahrzad began with some lavash bread and quince chutney, which had quickly become a favorite of hers since she arrived at the palace. As she ate, she chanced another perusal of the room. Tariq was speaking with an older gentleman seated to his left. When he felt her eyes on him, Tariq turned his head, and Shahrzad was forced, yet again, to look away.

  Khalid poured himself a cup of wine and eased back onto the cushions, leaving his plate of food untouched.

  “Have you no appetite, nephew?” Salim raised an eyebrow at Khalid. “Perhaps it has mysteriously disappeared. That can happen when one is—troubled.”

  Khalid ignored Salim’s attempt to bait him, choosing instead to take a sip of wine.

  “Or . . . is it possible you are concerned your food seeks to lash out at you in response to some inexplicable offense?” Salim laughed at his own joke, winking at Shahrzad.

  Hateful man.

  Shahrzad reached over and snared an olive from Khalid’s plate. Holding Salim’s gaze, she popped the olive in her mouth and ate it. “His food seems fine to me, my lord. I’m not certain which inexplicable offense you might be referencing, but rest assured, his food is quite safe,” Shahrzad replied with a wink of her own. “Would you like me to taste your food as well, Uncle?”

  At that, Jalal began barking with laughter, and even the shahrban was forced to lower his grizzled chin.

  The suggestion of a smile tugged at Khalid’s lips.

  Across the way, a cup was set down on the table with unwarranted vehemence.

  Please, Tariq. Don’t make a scene. Don’t do anything.

  Salim grinned at Shahrzad. “Truly silver-tongued, my lady Shahrzad. I’d ask where you found her, Khalid-jan, but . . .”

  Khalid’s right hand clenched, and Shahrzad held back the desire to stab Salim in the eye with a utensil.

  “Why would you be curious as to where he found me, my lord? Are you in the market?” Shahrzad asked in a nonchalant manner.

  Salim’s brown eyes glittered. “Perhaps I should be. Have you any relatives, my lady? Maybe a sister?”

  He knows I have a sister. Is he . . . threatening my family?

  Shahrzad tilted her head to one side, tamping down a flare of concern. “I do have a sister, my lord.”

  Salim propped his elbows onto the table, studying Shahrzad with an amused yet predatory gleam.

  Khalid’s full attention was fixed on the Sultan of Parthia, and a taut band of muscle flexed in his forearm. His hand shifted in Shahrzad’s direction. Conversation around them had all but ceased in recognition of the growing tension in the air.

  “Am I not dangerous enough, Shahrzad?” Salim asked in a chillingly thoughtful tone. “Perhaps too forgiving of the women in my past? Too willing to let them live?”

  Several gasps emanated from around them, rippling across the hall like a rumor being passed through a square. Jalal released a pent-up breath followed by a low oath that garnered a look of warning from his father.

  Shahrzad swallowed her fury and then smiled with the brightness of the sun.

  “No, Uncle Salim. You are simply too old.”

  The room was as silent as a tomb.

  And then the huge man with the collection of rings on his fingers began to laugh, his oiled mustache twitching all the while. Followed by the nobleman who had arrived on the black-and-white-striped steed. Soon, others started to join in until a chorus of amusement echoed throughout the space.

  Salim’s robust laughter rose above the rest. Only those closest to him saw the venomous gaze he shot at the young Calipha of Khorasan. Only those who knew him well understood he was beyond enraged by the recent turn of events.

  And only those watching very carefully saw the Caliph of Khorasan lean back against the cushions and toy with the bangles on his wife’s arm.

  The boy with the silver eyes was one of them.

  A DANCE ON A BALCONY

  AS THE MEAL DREW TO A CLOSE, AN ASSEMBLAGE of musicians gathered in the corner by the raised dais. A heavily bearded man with a kamancheh slid the hair of his bow across his instrument, checking to see if it was in tune by tightening its ivory pegs, while a young woman adjusted the reed of her ney one last time. An elderly man settled the base of his tombak against his left hip and struck the drum’s taut surface . . . slow, then quick, quick. He began pounding out a driving rhythm, and the dulcimer melody of the santur joined in before all four musicians were lost to their music. Lost to the beat.

  Then, from the opposite side of the dais, a young girl appeared.

  A collective murmuring arose from the tables. A communal sigh of disbelief.

  Jalal groaned. Khalid looked away.

  For she was undoubtedly the most beautiful girl Shahrzad had ever beheld.

  She was dressed in a fitted top of fiery red silk that left little to the imagination and a matching flowing skirt with intricate embroidery along the hem. Her hair fell past her waist in spiraling curls of mahogany, with hints of auburn set aflame by the torchlight. Her face would have brought a painter to his knees—high cheekbones, flawless skin, arched brows, and a fringe of black lashes that fanned over obscenely large eyes.

  Of course, the girl began to dance.

  She moved like a snake, writhing across the black and white stones to the rising strains of the music. The curves of her body seemed inspired by the moon itself. Her hands and hips beckoned, beseeched . . . befuddled. She twisted and swayed in a manner that was altogether otherworldly.

  Altogether unfair.

  As the girl made her mesmeric way to the center of the tables, Shahrzad tensed in awareness.

  She’s—dancing for Khalid.

  It was obvious. The girl’s eyes were locked on the Caliph of Khorasan, her dark irises a host of the forbidden. With each slow spin, her rich mane of hair coiled about her shoulders, and the gems at her stomach flashed in wild abandon.

  When she smiled at Khalid as though they shared a lifetime of secrets, an ugly series of images flickered through Shahrzad’s mind—most of them beginning and ending with mahogany curls being torn by th
eir roots from the beautiful girl’s head.

  How could I be so childish? She’s just dancing.

  It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

  Shahrzad took a deep breath and averted her gaze. When Jalal started to laugh, she glowered at him, the heat rising in her neck.

  The brazen girl ended the dance a stone’s throw from the dais, her hands positioned above her head and her endless curls thrown into an alluring mass over one shoulder.

  Wonderful. Now go home.

  Instead, the girl sashayed toward them, her slender hips continuing to sway, even without music. She stopped right in front of Shahrzad.

  Then she grinned.

  “Hello, Khalid,” she said in a voice of silken sin.

  Khalid exhaled carefully before lifting his tiger-eyes.

  “Hello, Yasmine.”

  • • •

  Irritated would not be an apt word.

  Distressed?

  No. That wouldn’t be quite right, either.

  Furious?

  Shahrzad shook her head and smiled at the chattering nobleman before her, struggling to clear her mind so she could focus on their conversation.

  Yasmine el-Sharif. The daughter of that hateful man.

  As soon as Shahrzad had learned the beautiful girl’s identity—from Jalal, no less—she had smiled patiently through their formal introduction. Through the painfully obvious, lifelong connection between Khalid and the otherworldly Princess of Parthia. Then Shahrzad had risen from the table, stone-faced, to begin greeting all the noblemen in attendance.

  Without Khalid.

  She had been determined to carry on for a time without the Caliph of Khorasan at her side.

  Without the so-called King of Kings and his many, many secrets.

  And she had. But now she was . . . foundering.

  He should have told me about Yasmine. I looked like a fool.

  “Hello, Shahrzad. May I call you that?”

  “What?” Shahrzad said, shaken from her trance.

  Yasmine smiled, and it was so perfect that Shahrzad wanted to smear soot on her teeth.

  “Of course,” Shahrzad responded, cursing her internal pettiness.

  The nobleman whose name she had already forgotten beamed at Yasmine, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.