The Wrath and the Dawn

  Shiva.

  Khalid stayed resolute in his course. “I took her from you. Nothing I do, nothing I say will ever fix what I’ve done. If there has to be a choice between us, there isn’t one to make, joonam. Not for me.”

  My everything.

  Shahrzad rose to her knees and braced her palm against his chest.

  “And you expect me to make this choice?” she demanded.

  He nodded once, his eyes ablaze.

  She curled her fingers into the front of his qamis. “You honestly expect me to breathe in a world without air?”

  Khalid inhaled sharply as his hands tightened around her arms. “I expect you to be stronger than that.”

  Shahrzad’s features softened. “But . . . there is nothing stronger than this.”

  Her hold on the dagger was gone. It clattered to the floor. Shahrzad brought her palms to his chest. “Hate. Judgment. Retribution. As you said, revenge will never replace what I have lost. What you have lost. All we have is now. And our promise to make it better.”

  She wound her fingers into his hair. “There is no one I would rather see the sunrise with than you.”

  Khalid closed his eyes. She could feel his heart racing. When he was able to meet her gaze again, he slid his hands to her face, brushing his thumb across her cheek with the warm caress of a summer breeze.

  They knelt facing each other in silence. Studying each other. Truly seeing each other—without any pretense, without any masks, without any agenda. For the first time, Shahrzad allowed her eyes to linger on every facet of him without the fear of his sharp mind tearing through veils of gossamer and gold—

  And seeing the truth.

  The small, barely noticeable scar by his left eye. The darkly hostile set to his brows. The pools of liquid amber beneath. The perfect furrow in the center of his lip.

  When he caught her staring at his mouth, Khalid exhaled slowly. “Shazi—”

  “Be with me tonight,” she breathed. “In all ways. Be mine.”

  His eyes turned to fire. “I’ve always been yours.” He cupped her chin in his palm. “As you’ve always been mine.”

  She bristled and started to protest.

  “Don’t.” He returned her biting glare.

  “Your possessiveness . . . may present a problem.” She knotted her brows together.

  The corners of his lips curled upward, ever so slightly.

  Shahrzad took Khalid’s hand and led him to the bed. Though every part of her body remained acutely aware of the tall, solid presence behind her, she did not feel nervous. She felt calm. A remarkable sense of rightness.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stood before him.

  Khalid leaned his brow against her stomach. “I won’t ask for forgiveness, but I am so very sorry,” he said, with the simple brevity she was learning to expect.

  She pressed her lips into his soft, dark hair. “I know.”

  He looked up, and she eased onto his lap, with a knee at either side of his waist. Khalid pulled the hem of his qamis over his head, and Shahrzad skimmed her palms across the lean planes of his chest. She paused at a faint line of white along the length of his collarbone.

  “Vikram,” he explained.

  Her eyes narrowed. “The Rajput? He cut you?”

  “Why?” It was almost teasing in tone. “Does it bother you?”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  Khalid drew her closer. “It happens, from time to time. He’s better than I am.”

  “I don’t care. Don’t let him cut you again.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He tilted her chin upward. “What about this?” His thumb ran along an old mark at the underside of her jaw, sending a shiver down her back.

  “I fell off a wall when I was thirteen.”

  “Why were you on a wall?”

  “I was trying to prove I could climb it.”

  “To whom?”

  When she did not reply, Khalid tensed. “I see,” he muttered. “And the fool just watched you fall?”

  “I didn’t give him a choice.”

  A smile ghosted across his lips. “Against all odds, I feel a drop of sympathy . . . amidst a sea of hatred.”

  “Khalid.” She shoved his chest.

  “Shahrzad.” He caught her hand, his features abrupt in their intensity. “Is this really what you want?”

  She stared at him, surprised to see a flicker of vulnerability on his face.

  The mighty Caliph of Khorasan. The King of Kings.

  Her beautiful monster.

  Shahrzad leaned forward and took his lower lip between hers. She trapped his jaw between her palms and swept her tongue into sun-laved honey.

  As he said, there was never a choice in the matter.

  One of his hands slid to the small of her back, and she arched herself against him, molding her form to his. The laces of her shamla were tugged free, and cool air rushed across her body, followed by the welcome heat of his touch. The feel of his skin against hers.

  When his lips moved to her throat—to rest with care beside the wound made by the Fida’i dagger—Shahrzad made a decision.

  “I love you,” she said.

  Khalid lifted his head to hers.

  She placed a hand against his cheek. “Beyond words.”

  His eyes still fixed on her face, he lowered her onto the cushions. Then he covered her hand with his, brushing his lips across her inner wrist.

  “My soul sees its equal in you.”

  All that was before her melted into amber and truth.

  And, with a kiss, Shahrzad let herself fall.

  For the boy who was an impossible, improbable study in contrasts. The boy who burned her life to cinder, only to remake of it a world unlike any she had ever known.

  Tomorrow, she could worry about such a thing as loyalty. Tomorrow, she could worry about the price of such betrayal.

  Tonight, all that mattered was this.

  Their hands threaded above her head. His low whisper in her ear.

  Just one boy and one girl.

  This.

  Oblivion.

  • • •

  Shahrzad awoke to the scent of roses.

  To the scent of home.

  A golden sun streamed from between the carved wooden slats of the screens leading to her balcony. She winced at its light and rolled over.

  On the silk cushion beside her head was a pale violet rose and a folded piece of parchment. She smiled to herself. Then she lifted the rose and brought it closer.

  It was perfect. The circle of winding petals was flawless, and the color was the ideal balance of striking and subdued. Inhaling its heady fragrance, she reached for the piece of parchment and shifted onto her stomach.

  Shazi,

  I prefer the color blue to any other. The scent of lilacs in your hair is a source of constant torment. I despise figs. Lastly, I will never forget, all the days of my life, the memories of last night—

  For nothing, not the sun, not the rain, not even the brightest star in the darkest sky, could begin to compare to the wonder of you.

  Khalid

  Shahrzad read the letter four times, committing his words to memory. Her smile grew wider with each reading, until it stretched far enough to cause her pain. Then she laughed like an imbecile and quickly chastised herself for it. She placed the rose and the parchment on the stool by her bed and reached to the floor for her discarded shamla.

  Where is Despina?

  Tying her laces, she walked to the door of her handmaiden’s chamber and knocked. When no one answered, she twisted the handle and looked inside. It was dark and deserted. She frowned and turned back toward her chamber.

  Her frown deepening, she proceeded to bathe and dress in a sleeveless linen qamis of vibrant scarlet with matching trowsers. Tiny seed pearls and embellishments of copper and gold were embroidered at the cuffs and along the hem.

  As she finished tugging the ivory comb through the last of her strands, one of the double doors opened and slamme
d shut with a deafening bang.

  Shahrzad jumped through the air with a strangled cry.

  “Did you miss me?” Despina teased.

  “Where were you all morning?” Shahrzad glowered at her handmaiden, snaking her still-damp hair over one shoulder.

  Despina cocked her head to the side. “You must be joking, Brat Calipha. I would rather eat my fill of excrement than return to this chamber a moment too soon. Especially at the risk of incurring a king’s wrath.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Cease with the displays of false modesty. The entire palace knows about it.”

  A feeling of warmth crept up Shahrzad’s neck. “Knows about what?”

  Despina grinned. “The Caliph of Khorasan going into the gardens at dawn alone. And returning with a single rose.” She gestured toward the flower on the stool behind Shahrzad. “I think it’s safe to assume why.”

  The heat bloomed onto Shahrzad’s face.

  Despina groaned. “Are you going to deny it, then? How tedious.”

  Shahrzad paused. “No. I’m not.” She lifted her chin.

  “Thank the gods. I thought I would have to suffer through another odious attempt at coyness.”

  “You’re one to speak on such matters.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Shahrzad positioned her hands on her hips and peaked an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of her handmaiden. “Did you have a nice evening, Despina-jan?”

  “Of course I did,” Despina said over her shoulder. “I slept quite well.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. Have you finally mustered the courage to tell the man you love the truth?”

  “The man I love? I think you may have hit your head. Perhaps too much unrestrained—”

  “Now who’s being odiously coy? Honestly, it galls me how both of you continue to play these games and ignore your feelings. He needs to know that you care about him. And he should definitely know about his child. Maybe I can—”

  “Shahrzad!” Despina spun around, her features contorted in horror. “You can’t! You mustn’t!”

  “Despina—”

  “You don’t understand! He can’t know—anything.” Despina’s hands shook as she brought them to rest above her stomach.

  Shahrzad shot her a gaze of bewilderment. “You’re right; I don’t understand. He’s a good man. He must—love you. Does he not?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” For the first time, the proud, haughty set to Despina’s posture faltered. Her shoulders sagged, and she moved to the foot of Shahrzad’s bed to lean against the platform. Without a word, Shahrzad sat down on the white marble beside her.

  “Anyway, he can’t marry me,” Despina said in a soft, defeated tone. “I’m—a handmaiden. He’s the cousin of the caliph. One day, he will become the next shahrban. His father married a princess of Khorasan. He has to marry someone from a good family. Not a handmaiden from Thebes.”

  “Even if he loves her?”

  Despina closed her cerulean eyes. “Even if he loves her.”

  “I think that’s absurd. Have you discussed it with him?”

  She shook her head. “He thinks I don’t love him. I’ve said as much.”

  “Despina!” Shahrzad glared at her handmaiden.

  “It’s easier that way. If he believes this is just a passing fancy, it will be far simpler for us both to carry on with our lives after the fact.”

  “Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you lie to him?”

  “I believe when you truly love someone, you want what’s best for that person.”

  “I find that not only absurd, but arrogant, as well.”

  “And I find that amusing, coming from someone as arrogant as you.”

  “I’m arrogant?” Shahrzad sputtered. “I’m not the one assuming to know what’s best for a grown man without consulting him first.”

  Despina smiled sadly.

  Shahrzad nudged Despina’s shoulder with her own. “I understand how difficult it is, putting your heart in someone else’s hands. But, if you don’t, how will you ever truly know a person?”

  Despina drew her knees to her chest. “His father will despise me. Everyone will think I trapped him into marriage. That I’m a scheming whore.”

  “I will personally beat senseless the first person to speak ill of you.”

  Despina arched a dubious brow.

  “Don’t sneer at me. I may be small, but, when pushed, I can strike out with a surprising amount of force.” Shahrzad sniffed. “If you don’t believe me, ask Jalal.”

  “You struck Jalal?” Despina frowned.

  Shahrzad shook her head, a smile playing at the edges of her lips.

  “Khalid.”

  “What?” Despina gasped. “You . . . struck the caliph?”

  “Across the face.”

  Despina’s hand shot to her mouth, and a bubble of laughter burst from her lips.

  The two girls remained seated on the floor talking and laughing until a knock at the entrance brought them to their feet. The double doors swung open, and Khalid walked across the threshold with Jalal at his side. A contingent of guards remained in the hall. The shahrban waited patiently amongst them.

  As always, Khalid moved with an air of imperious grace. His dark rida’ was fastened over an elaborate silver and gold cuirass. The hilt of his shamshir was looped through a black tikka sash slung across his narrow hips. He looked menacing and unapproachable—a thousand years, a thousand lives, a thousand tales away.

  But Shahrzad knew better.

  She met him in the center of the chamber.

  His eyes were warm. Her heart soared at the sight.

  Despina bowed to Khalid and proceeded without pause toward her small room by the entrance . . . where Jalal stood against the wall, the portrait of casual ease.

  It was a vain attempt at indifference, on both their parts.

  For Shahrzad bore silent witness to the truth. It was only for an instant, and they never glanced at each other. Yet, she wondered how anyone could miss it—the subtle shift in Jalal’s shoulders, and the telltale tilt to Despina’s head.

  Shahrzad smiled knowingly.

  Khalid waited until the door leading to Despina’s chamber sealed shut.

  “Did you sleep well?” His low voice brought to mind memories of whispered words in the dark.

  “I did.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Thank you for the gifts. They were perfect.”

  “Then they were fitting.”

  She quirked a slender brow at him, and a corner of his mouth rose.

  “I have something else for you,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Give me your hand.”

  “Does it matter which one?”

  He shook his head.

  She held out her right hand, and he slid a band of muted gold onto its third finger.

  It was the mate to his.

  Shahrzad ran her left thumb across the embossed standard of two crossed swords. The reigning al-Rashid standard.

  Her standard.

  As the Calipha of Khorasan.

  “Do you mind wearing it? It’s—”

  “The best gift of all.” She looked up to meet his gaze.

  And he smiled a smile to shame the sun.

  Behind him, the troop of guards stirred.

  “Sayyidi?” Jalal interrupted with an apologetic glance at Shahrzad. “You should leave soon.”

  Khalid nodded once in acknowledgment.

  “Where are you going?” Shahrzad asked, her forehead creasing.

  “A small force is gathering at the border of Khorasan and Parthia under a new banner. The emirs in that region are nervous and wish to discuss strategy, should an altercation arise.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Two, maybe three weeks.”

  “I see.” Shahrzad chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to remain silent.

  His smile returned. “Two wee
ks, then.”

  “Not three?”

  “Not three.”

  “Good.”

  He regarded her with steady amusement. “Again, I’m glad.”

  “I’d rather you be careful than glad. And return safe.” She dropped her voice. “Or you’ll be met with a platter of figs.”

  His eyes gleamed gold. “My queen.” He bowed with a hand to his brow before shifting it over his heart.

  Respect. And affection.

  As he made his way toward the entrance, disappointment began eking a hole in Shahrzad’s spirits.

  It was not the kind of good-bye she wanted.

  “Khalid?”

  He pivoted to face her.

  She ran to him and grabbed the front of his rida’ to pull him down for a kiss.

  He froze for a moment, then reached a hand behind her waist to pull her closer.

  The guards in the hall shuffled nervously, their swords and armor jangling together. Jalal’s soft laughter echoed from beside the double doors.

  Shahrzad did not care.

  For this was a kiss of definition. A kiss of understanding.

  For a marriage absent pretense. And a love without design.

  Khalid’s palm pressed against her back. “Ten days.”

  Her grip on his cloak tightened. “Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  ONE ELEMENT OF A STORM

  JAHANDAR RODE THE DAPPLED MARE TO THE TOP of a hill overlooking Rey.

  The sky above was dark and starless.

  Perfect.

  He took a deep breath and swung from the saddle. Then he reached into his leather satchel and withdrew the battered, ancient tome from its depths.

  It pulsed at his touch.

  With careful reverence, he knelt before a small grouping of rocks and set the volume on a flat surface. He lifted the black key from around his neck and inserted it into the rusted lock in the book’s center. As soon as he raised the cover, a slow-spreading silver light emanated from the pages.

  He was thankful they no longer burned his hands.

  Jahandar turned the well-worn vellum until he reached the spell. The words were already committed to memory, but the book’s magic assisted him in channeling the power for such a daunting task. He closed his eyes and let the silver light wash across his face and palms, imbuing him with soundless strength. Then he withdrew the dagger from its sheath and ran its tip across the newly formed scar on his left palm. As soon as his blood dripped onto the blade, the metal started to glow a white-hot blue.