The Wrath and the Dawn

  Khalid poured water from the pitcher onto a strip of linen. He lifted it to her neck and began cleaning the wound.

  Shahrzad studied his face as he worked. The dark circles beneath his eyes were even more pronounced now. Lines of dried blood ran across his cheek and brow, marring his sun-bronzed skin. His features were set on edge, and he refused to meet her gaze. The angles of his profile remained obdurate. Unyielding. Like the edges of a rumpled scroll, demanding to be smoothed . . . or cast aside, once and for all.

  When he dampened another piece of linen, Shahrzad placed her hand over his and removed the cloth from his grasp. She raised the strip to his face and wiped at the dark blood of his enemy.

  Khalid’s tiger-eyes finally fell to hers. They roved across her in poignant silence as she washed away the remnants of death with steady, graceful fingers. Then he leaned forward, pressing his brow to hers, catching her hands in his. Stilling them both.

  “I want to send you away. To a place where none of this can touch you,” he began.

  Her heart shuddered, and she pulled back. “Send me away? As if I were a thing?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean, then?”

  “I meant that I cannot keep you safe. From anything.”

  “And your answer to that is to send me away?” Shahrzad repeated in a dangerous whisper.

  “My answer is not an answer. It is a willingness to do whatever it takes—even something as distasteful as sending you from my side.”

  “And you expect me to obey? To go wherever you command?”

  “I expect you to trust me.”

  Shahrzad narrowed her eyes. “You should know I will not take kindly to you treating me like a possession.”

  “I have never treated you like a possession, Shahrzad.”

  “Until you spoke of sending me away.”

  Khalid shifted his hands to her sides. “You’re my wife. They are hurting you because of me.”

  “They? Do you mean the Fida’is?” She hesitated. “Who are they? To whom do they pledge loyalty?”

  “To whoever can pay their price. Loyalty ebbs and flows with the tide; gold does not. The men who hire them have little to offer beyond that.”

  “And you think it will help if you yield to such men?”

  “I don’t care what they think as long as you’re safe.”

  “You should care. It’s time to start caring. You cannot continue to rule this kingdom in such a callous manner.”

  He smiled, bitter and unamused. “You speak as though you understand. As though you know.”

  “You’re right. I understand nothing. I know nothing. And whose fault is that?” Shahrzad pushed against his bare chest and stood from the bed, walking past him.

  “I’ve told you why.” Khalid rose to his feet. “It is not safe for you to know these things. To know—”

  “To know what?” She spun around to face him. “To know you? As if I could ever hope to achieve such a thing. Yet, like a fool, I’ve wanted to learn. To understand what pains you, what brings you joy. But I remain ignorant of even the most trivial of things. I don’t know your favorite color. What foods you detest. What scent brings to mind a treasured memory. I know nothing, because you fight me every step of the way.”

  He watched her as she spoke, his features careful, his composure deliberate, though his eyes revealed a deeper conflict he no longer fought to conceal.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Shahrzad. I only know I can’t give it. Not now.”

  “It does not have to be so difficult, Khalid-jan. My favorite color is violet. The scent of roses makes me feel at home, wherever I am. I do not enjoy fish, but will eat it to make a loved one happy, suffering through my smiles.”

  He remained stone-faced, the conflict in his eyes warring on.

  With a beleaguered sigh, she turned and strode to the entrance. “Good night.”

  Khalid was beside her in a few long strides, pressing his hand to the ebony door. Preventing her from leaving.

  “What do you want me to do?” he said in a low voice.

  She did not look up, though her heart thrummed in her throat. “Prove that a real man doesn’t make a show of what’s his. It just is.”

  “Is it? Are you mine?” Khalid asked with quiet solemnity.

  Her conviction wavered further. “I told you; don’t try to own me.”

  “I don’t want to own you.”

  She swiveled her neck to meet his gaze. “Then never speak of sending me away again. I am not yours to do with as you will.”

  Khalid’s features smoothed knowingly. “How right you are. You are not mine.” He dropped his palm from the door. “I am yours.”

  Shahrzad curled her fingers tight, forcing herself to recall a time when she meant nothing to him. A time when he meant less than nothing to her, and all that mattered was blood for blood.

  Alas, she no longer saw the same boy before her. Just light amidst a sea of darkness, and the unerring promise of something more. But she never saw the things she should see. The pain, the anger, the betrayal. These things always faded, and she despised herself for it.

  Before she could stop her hands, they reached for him, as though they existed for no other reason than to touch him. Her fingers brushed across his jaw with a feather’s caress before pulling away, and he closed his eyes on a soft inhale. Like the poison toying with its remedy, Shahrzad’s hands ignored her and took control, a mere taste of his skin not nearly enough. Never enough. They began at his brow and eased their way to his temples before sliding into his hair, smooth as silk, dark as night. She watched his eyes open and turn from liquid to fire under her fingers. Shahrzad ran her palms down to his neck, where she paused.

  “Why won’t you touch me?” she whispered.

  It took him a moment to reply. “Because if I start, I won’t stop.”

  “Who asked you to stop?” Her fingers traveled to his chest.

  “What if I can’t give you the answers you want?”

  Again, she returned to nothing.

  Yet there, in the warmth of his eyes, was everything.

  “Then give me this.” Shahrzad stood on her toes and brought her mouth to his. When he did not respond, she curved her tongue against his lower lip, and his hands drew across her waist in a slow burn. She thought he would push her away, but he dragged her against him. Khalid kissed her, melding nothing to everything. Shahrzad wrapped both arms around his neck, and he backed her into the ebony door until she was braced up against it, each of their breaths matched, measure for measure, beat for beat.

  “Khalid.” She gripped his shoulders as his lips brushed the delicate skin beneath her chin. Her heart was pounding so loud that she did not at first recognize the noise at the door.

  “Sayyidi.”

  “Khalid,” she repeated, catching his wrists.

  He swore softly. Then he reached for the bronze handle.

  “Yes.” His reply was low and irascible.

  The guard bowed through the crack in the door.

  “The shahrban wishes to speak with you. Captain al-Khoury may have determined how the intruders gained entry into the palace.”

  Khalid nodded curtly as he shut the door. He ran his palm along the side of his jaw before turning to Shahrzad once more.

  She was leaning against the ebony with her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Go,” she said softly.

  He paused in thoughtful scrutiny. “I—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay here.”

  “Thank you.” As he reached for the handle again, he lingered and smiled to himself.

  Her brows drew together. “What is it?”

  “It’s a fitting punishment for a monster. To want something so much—to hold it in your arms—and know beyond a doubt you will never deserve it.” Khalid pulled open the door and stepped over the threshold without waiting for a response.

  Shahrzad slid to the floor. The hands that had appeared st
eady against him now shook before her face. Proof that she was being equally punished for her own transgressions. Punished for desiring a monster.

  She offered silent thanks to the stars that dealt in fate—for her monster did not seem to know how all reason had left her for the space of a breath.

  How the guilt crashed down around her.

  And how the questions burdened her soul.

  “Someone who knows.”

  A SHADE OF WHAT I FEEL

  SHAHRZAD REMAINED IN THE WASTELAND OF HER thoughts, studying the prisms of light from the lamp of latticed gold. When she could no longer feel any sensation in the soles of her feet, she rose to a standing position. Her eyes wandered around the room, taking in her surroundings with the careful study of a predator to its prey.

  The floor was constructed of black onyx, and the walls were hewn from the same smooth alabaster as the corridor leading to the entrance of the antechamber. All the furniture was built of ebony, crafted in harsh lines. Every surface was stark and unobstructed. The bed lacked the bold surfeit of cushions Shahrzad had grown accustomed to in her own bed—that familiar, lush vibrancy, yearning to be lounged upon.

  Like its occupant, the room appeared cold and uninviting—unlikely to offer the slightest hint of clarity.

  This chamber is like a prison, once removed.

  She sighed to herself, and the sound susurrated back at her from the heights of the vaulted ceiling. Shahrzad paced around the perimeter of the room, her bare footsteps leaving imprints on the shining black onyx. Then, like a whisper of a suggestion, they vanished without a trace.

  The single lamp in the chamber’s center looked eerie and forlorn. It failed to provide enough light, rendering its flickering shadows more baleful than beautiful against the cool white alabaster.

  It was a sad place to call a refuge, with just as unyielding an aspect as its master.

  The more Shahrzad gazed at the chamber, the more she realized, and the less she understood. Everything had a specific place in this room—a designated order to its existence. The only things out of place were she and the bloodstained strips of linen at the edge of the platformed bed. Any evidence of life—or lingering emotions—did not belong.

  Shahrzad strode to the bed and discarded the bloodied linen. Then she gathered the unused strips, along with the small container of salve Khalid had removed from the ebony chest upon their arrival. Its immense cabinet door was still ajar. Shahrzad walked toward it with the clean linen and the tub of salve in her arms. She tugged on one of the bronze rings and peered inside. As with the room, its shelves were meticulous in their construction and organization. Two were lined with books in descending height order, and another was stacked with scrolls bound by wax seals. A shelf at eye level contained an assortment of jars in various shapes and sizes. The empty space for the container of salve was evident, and Shahrzad replaced it, along with the strips of unused linen, in their clearly demarcated positions.

  As she began to shut the door, her eyes fell on a leather sleeve filled with sheets of parchment, wedged like an afterthought between two massive tomes on a shelf high above her.

  It seemed out of place. Just like her.

  A small part of her knew she should leave it be. This was not her room. These were not her things.

  But . . . it called to her. This collection of afterthoughts whispered her name, as if from behind a locked door with a forbidden key. Shahrzad stared up at the sleeve of leather.

  As with Tala and her bluebearded husband’s ring of keys, the parchment pleaded for attention.

  And, like Tala, she could not ignore it.

  She had to know.

  Shahrzad stood on her toes and tugged on the leather sleeve with both hands. It slid from between the tomes, and she clutched it to her chest for a nervous beat before kneeling against the black onyx. Cold fear skittered down her back as she raised the fold. The sheaf of parchment was inverted and illegible, so she grabbed the stack and upended it with care.

  The first thing she noticed at the bottom was Khalid’s formal signature, composed in clear, neat script. When her eyes skimmed across the rest of the page, she rapidly discerned it was a letter—

  A letter of apology, addressed to a family in Rey.

  Shahrzad turned to the next piece of parchment.

  It was another letter of apology. Written to another family.

  As she leafed through the stack of parchment, her eyes began to swim in realization. In recognition.

  These were letters of apology to the families of the girls murdered at dawn by a callous hand and a silk cord.

  Each was dated. Each acknowledged Khalid’s sole responsibility. None offered any justification for the death. No excuse.

  He merely apologized. In a manner so open and full of feeling that it left her throat dry and her chest aching.

  It was clear they were written with no intention of being delivered. Khalid’s words were far too personal and introspective to indicate he ever meant for any eyes to see them apart from his own. But his unabashed self-loathing cut into Shahrzad with the effectiveness of a newly honed knife.

  He wrote of staring into frightened faces and tearful eyes, with the abject knowledge he was robbing families of their joy. Stealing their hearts’ blood from them, as though he had the right. As if anyone had the right.

  Your child is not a notion or a whim. Your child is your greatest treasure. And you should never forgive me for what I’ve done. As I will never forgive myself.

  Know that she was not afraid. When she gazed at the face of the monster sanctioning her death, she did not quail. Would that I had half her courage and a quarter of her spirit.

  Last night, Roya asked for a santur. Her playing drew every guard in the corridor to her door, and I stood in the garden and listened, like the cold, unfeeling bastard I am. It was the most beautiful music I have ever heard in my life. A music that rendered all thereafter dull and colorless in its memory.

  Tears began streaming down Shahrzad’s face. She turned the pages faster.

  Until she found the one addressed to the family of Reza bin-Latief.

  How does one begin to apologize for robbing the world of light? Words seem strangely insufficient in such a case, and yet I fall to their uselessness in my own inadequacy. Please know I will never forget Shiva. For the brief moment she stared into the face of a monster, she deigned to smile and forgive. In that smile, I sensed a strength and a depth of understanding I could never hope to fathom. It tore at what professes to be my soul. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. A thousand, thousand times. At your knees, and it will never be enough.

  Shahrzad sobbed, and the sound rang out in the chamber. The parchment shook in her hands.

  Khalid was responsible. Whatever the excuse, whatever the reason—he was the one. He had killed Shiva.

  He had robbed Shahrzad of this light.

  She had known it, all along. But now, clutching the undeniable truth between her fingers, she realized how much she had wanted it to be a lie. How much she had wanted there to be some kind of excuse. Some kind of ready scapegoat. That, somewhere along the line, she would discover it was not his fault.

  Even now she knew how ridiculous it sounded.

  But it was breaking her . . . slowly. The wall around her heart was crumbling, leaving behind scorched embers and bleeding wounds. Her sobs grew louder. Shahrzad wanted to hurl the leather sleeve across the room, shred its contents, and deny its pernicious truths, but she lifted the next page. And the next.

  So many.

  And not a single explanation.

  She continued scanning the parchment, searching for a semblance of purpose behind such senseless death. Clinging to this thread of hope, she labored on.

  Until finally, her eyes fell on the last page, and her heart faltered.

  It was addressed to her, dated for that fateful sunrise with the silk cord.

  Shahrzad,

  I’ve failed you several times. But there was one moment I failed
you beyond measure. It was the day we met. The moment I took your hand and you looked up at me, with the glory of hate in your eyes. I should have sent you home to your family. But I didn’t. There was honesty in your hatred. Fearlessness in your pain. In your honesty, I saw a reflection of myself. Or rather, of the man I longed to be. So I failed you. I didn’t stay away. Then, later, I thought if I had answers, it would be enough. I would no longer care. You would no longer matter. So I continued failing you. Continued wanting more. And now I can’t find the words to say what must be said. To convey to you the least of what I owe. When I think of you, I can’t find the air to

  The letter stopped short there.

  Shahrzad puzzled over it for the span of a heartbeat.

  Then a conversation from their past echoed around her, like a song from a distant memory:

  “And how will you know when you’ve found this elusive someone?”

  “I suspect she will be like air. Like knowing how to breathe.”

  The letter drifted to the floor, back to its scattered brethren. Everything around Shahrzad fell to shadow and silence. To the bitterness of knowledge and the brilliance of understanding.

  In a rush, she was taken back to that awful dawn and the feel of the silk cord around her neck. She forced herself to recall each part of it—the silver light as it crept across the blue blades of grass, the mist in the early morning sun, the penitent soldier with the burly arms, and the old woman with the fluttering shroud. The fear. The anguish. The nothingness. But now, as she closed her eyes, her mind conjured a parallel world of sorrow—of a boy-king at his ebony desk writing a letter to a dying girl, with the sun ascending at his shoulder. Of this boy halting in unexpected awareness, with his hand poised over the parchment. Of him racing down the corridors, with his cousin at his heels. Bursting into a courtyard of silver and grey, punctuated by black ink and burning agony—

  Wondering if he was too late.

  Swallowing a tortured scream, Shahrzad threw the sleeve and its contents across the shining onyx.

  Her own awareness had risen like the dawn at her back. Like a leaden sunrise veiled in a swirl of storm clouds. It was no longer enough to have answers for Shiva’s sake. Indeed, it had ceased to be about mere vengeance the moment Khalid’s lips touched hers in the alley by the souk. She had wanted there to be a reason for this madness, needed there to be a reason, so that she could be with him. So that she could be by his side, make him smile as she laughed, weave tales by lamplight, and share secrets in the dark. So that she could fall asleep in his arms and awaken to a brilliant tomorrow.