Odd that none of this mattered to her. At least, not yet.
The only thing she could think about—the reason for her scratched throat and knotted stomach—was Shahrzad.
Her stubborn tyrant of an older sister.
Her brave and loyal friend.
Again, hot tears welled in her eyes, even after she’d sworn not to shed a single drop more. Frustrated, she swiped at her already raw cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Is something wrong, miss?” the driver asked, his tone approaching sympathetic.
Of course something was wrong. But if they were to remain safe from prying eyes, he could never learn what it was. Shahrzad had been specific on this point. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Thank you for asking.”
The boy nodded before resuming his posture of disinterest.
Irsa thought instead of the journey before them. It would take three days of hard traveling before they reached Taleqan, the stronghold of Tariq’s family. She shook her head in bemusement; after all that had transpired, only Shahrzad would have the audacity to send them to the home of her childhood sweetheart. Every time Irsa stopped to think of Tariq and his family, her gamine features constricted with worry . . .
And remorse.
She heaved a weary sigh and stared down at the reins. Her spotted white horse flipped its mane as a gust of wind whipped through the alley.
“What’s taking him so long?” Irsa said to no one in particular.
As if on cue, the heavy wooden door to the side entrance of the library scraped open, and her father’s hooded figure stumbled into the night.
He was clutching something in his arms, pulled tight against his chest.
“Baba? Is everything all right?”
“I’m so sorry, dear. Everything’s fine. We can leave now,” Jahandar murmured. “I just . . . had to make sure all the doors were secure.”
“What is that?” Irsa asked.
“Hmm?” Jahandar made his way to his horse and reached for his satchel.
“What are you holding?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a tome I particularly enjoyed.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“Did we come all the way here for a book, Baba?”
“Just one, my child. Just one.”
“It must be a special book.”
“All books are special, dear.”
“What kind of book is it?”
Jahandar tucked the aging, leather-bound volume into the satchel with great care and swung into his saddle with infinitely less consideration. Then he motioned for the driver to proceed.
The small caravan made its way down the still slumbering streets of Rey.
Irsa directed her mount to walk alongside her father’s black stallion. When Jahandar gazed down at her with a kind smile, she reached for his hand, seeking the same reassurance she offered.
“All will be well, dearest girl,” he said, almost absentmindedly.
She nodded.
It did not escape Irsa’s notice that he had failed to answer her question.
THE MOUNTAIN OF ADAMANT
THE INSTANT SHAHRZAD BROUGHT HER PALM TO HIS, she felt a cool wash of dispassion take over. As though she had floated beyond her person and was now a mere witness to everything around her.
Thankfully, he did not try to kiss her.
Nor did the pain last; it was but a fleeting moment, lost in the welcome distraction of her thoughts. He did not appear to enjoy himself, either. Whatever pleasure he derived was brief and perfunctory, and Shahrzad felt a stab of satisfaction at this realization.
When it was done, he rose from the bed without a word and pushed aside the whisper-silk enclosing the platform.
She watched him dress with neat, almost militaristic precision, noting the light sheen of sweat on his back and the lean muscles that coiled and flexed with the slightest of movements.
He was stronger than she was. Of that, there was no doubt. She could not best him physically.
But I’m not here to fight. I’m here to win.
She sat up and reached for the beautiful shamla draped on a stool nearby. Shahrzad slid her arms into the lustrous brocade and tied the silver laces before moving to join him. As she rounded the edge of the bed, the robe’s delicately embroidered hem twirled about her like a dervish in the midst of sama.
The caliph strode to the low table in the corner of the chamber, surrounded by even more sumptuous cushions and plump pillows covered in an array of jewel tones.
He poured himself some wine, still standing in silence. Shahrzad stepped past him and sank onto the cushions encircling the table.
The tray was laden with pistachios, figs, almonds, grapes, quince chutney, small cucumbers, and an assortment of fresh herbs. A basket of flatbread lay wrapped in linen off to the side.
Taking pains to return his subtle disregard, Shahrzad plucked a grape from the tray and began to eat.
The caliph studied her for a torturous instant before lowering to the cushions. He sat and drank while Shahrzad dipped pieces of bread into the tartly sweet chutney.
When she could stomach the quiet no longer, she lifted a slender brow at him. “Aren’t you going to eat, sayyidi?”
He inhaled through his nose, the corners of his eyes tightening in thought.
“The chutney is delicious,” she remarked in an offhand manner.
“Aren’t you scared, Shahrzad?” he asked, so quietly she almost missed it.
She put down the bread. “Do you want me to be scared, sayyidi?”
“No. I want you to be honest.”
Shahrzad smiled. “But how would you know if I were lying, sayyidi?”
“Because you are not a gifted liar. You only think yourself to be.” He leaned forward and took a handful of almonds from the tray.
Her smile widened. Dangerously. “And you are not that good at reading people. You only think yourself to be.”
He angled his head, a muscle ticking along his jaw. “What do you want?” Again, the words were so soft, Shahrzad strained to make them out.
She dusted the crumbs off her hands, biding time to construct the next trap.
“I’m to die at sunrise. Correct?”
He nodded once.
“And you wish to know why I volunteered for this?” she continued. “Well, I’d be willing to—”
“No. I won’t play games with you. I despise manipulation.”
Shahrzad snapped her lips shut, swallowing her nerve-riddled fury. “Perhaps you should spend less time despising the game and more time building the patience necessary to win.”
She held her breath as his upper body froze. The knuckles in his hands stretched white for a harrowing instant before he released his grip.
Shahrzad watched the tension leave him, a swirl of emotions colliding in her chest, wreaking havoc on her mind.
“Brave words for a girl with hours left to live.” His tone was edged in ice.
She sat up straight and twisted her fall of dark hair so that it hung over one shoulder. “Are you interested in the rules of the game or not, sayyidi?”
At his silence, she chose to barrel ahead, concealing her trembling hands in the folds of her shamla. “I’m willing to answer your question, sayyidi. But before I do so, I wonder if you would be willing to grant me a small request . . .” She trailed off.
A hint of callous amusement darkened his countenance. “Are you trying to barter for your life with trivia?”
She laughed, the sound dancing around the room with the airy quality of chimes. “My life is forfeit. You’ve made that clear. Perhaps we should move past that issue and get to the matter at hand.”
“By all means.”
She took a moment to steady herself. “I want to tell you a story.”
“Excuse me?” For the first time, she saw a distinct emotion ripple across his features.
Are you surprised? Rest assured, it won’t be the last time, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.
“I tell you a story. You sit and listen. Whe
n I’m finished with the tale, I’ll answer your question.” She waited for his response.
“A story?”
“Yes. Do you agree to the terms, sayyidi?”
He leaned back on an elbow, with an unfathomable expression.
“Fine. I agree. You may begin.” He pronounced the words like a challenge.
And I accept it, you monster. Willingly.
“This is the tale of Agib, a poor sailor who lost everything he possessed only to gain the knowledge of self-discovery.”
“A tale of morality? So you are trying to teach me a lesson.”
“No, sayyidi. I am trying to entice you. I’ve been told a good storyteller can trap an audience with a single sentence.”
“Then you have failed.”
“Only because you are being unnecessarily difficult. And also because you did not let me finish. You see, Agib was a thief—the best thief in all of Baghdad. He could steal a solid gold dinar from your hand, right before your eyes, and pick the pocket of the wariest traveler with the stealth of a shadow.”
The caliph inclined his head in consideration.
“But he was arrogant. And, as his escapades grew ever more daring, so did his arrogance. Until one day, he was caught stealing from a wealthy emir and barely managed to escape with his life. In a panic, he tore through the streets of Baghdad, seeking refuge. Near the docks, he happened upon a small ship about to leave port. The captain was in dire need of a final crewmember. Certain the emir’s soldiers would find him if he remained in the city, Agib volunteered for the journey.”
“Better.” A trace of a smile graced the caliph’s lips.
“I’m glad you approve, sayyidi. May I continue?” She shot him a pointed grin, warring with the urge to splash the remainder of his drink in his face.
He nodded.
“The first few days on board the ship were difficult for Agib. He was not a seafaring man and had very little experience traveling in this manner; consequently, he was sick for long stretches of time. The other crewmembers mocked him openly and gave him the most menial tasks to accomplish, solidifying his status as all but useless. The respect Agib had amassed as the best thief in Baghdad was meaningless in this world; after all, he could not steal from his shipmates. There was no place to run and hide.”
“Truly a conundrum,” the caliph remarked.
Shahrzad ignored his quiet jab. “One week out to sea, there was a terrible storm. The ship was lashed about on immense waves that threw it far off course. Alas, this wasn’t the worst calamity to befall them: when the waters finally stilled two days later, the captain was nowhere to be found. The sea had swallowed him in its salty midst.”
Shahrzad paused. As she leaned forward to select a grape, she shot a furtive glance over the caliph’s shoulder to the decorative screens leading to the terrace. They were still shaded in the cloak of night.
“The crew began to panic. They were stranded in the middle of the sea and had no way of guiding the ship back on course. Arguments arose as to which sailor would assume the role of captain. Consumed in this struggle over power, the crew failed to realize a speck of land had appeared on the horizon. Agib was the first to point it out. It looked like a tiny island with a mountain at its center. At first, the crew rejoiced at the sight. But then an older sailor muttered something that ignited the panic anew.”
The caliph listened, his amber eyes focused squarely on Shahrzad.
“He said, ‘God be with us. It is the Mountain of Adamant.’ When a general outcry ran through the others at the truth behind these words, Agib asked what made this mountain so terrifying that grown men quailed at its sight. The old sailor explained that the Mountain of Adamant possessed a dark magic that pulled ships toward it by virtue of the iron in their hulls, and once a ship was fully within its grasp, the Adamant had such power that all the nails would be drawn out of the vessel, thereby sinking it to the bottom of the sea and sentencing all its occupants to a watery grave.”
“Instead of wasting time lamenting their predicament, perhaps they should try to sail in the opposite direction,” the caliph suggested drily.
“And this is exactly what Agib advised. Every oar was manned, and immediate action was taken to foil the mountain’s nefarious plot, but it was too late. For once the great blackness looms in the distance, there is little that can be done. By then the mountain already has you in its grip. Sure enough, in spite of all their efforts, the ship drifted closer and closer, faster and faster, into the shadow of Adamant. Soon, a terrible groaning could be heard from the depths of the ship’s hull. It began to shudder and shake as though the weight of the world were perched on its bow. In horror, the crew watched as nails ripped and spun from the wood around them. The ship started to break apart and collapse in on itself like a child’s plaything underfoot. Agib joined in the shrieking and the sorrowful wails of his fellow crewmen as they were thrown into the sea and left to fend for themselves.”
Shahrzad lifted her glass and reached for the wine. She hid her surprise when the caliph filled her cup without a word.
The very edge of the screen behind him was beginning to lighten.
“Agib scrambled onto the stern of the ship—the last part of the boat still intact. In the melee, he noticed a heavy iron pot sliding past him in the direction of the mountain. Using the deft hands of a master thief, Agib snatched the pot and clung to it for dear life as he was pitched over the side and into the vast waters of the sea. The pot weighed him down terribly, and he fought to stay afloat, searching for something to cling to. The sound of his fellow sailors drowning around him only made his search all the more desperate. When he found a broken piece of the main mast, he flung his free arm around it, still clutching the pot with a frantic kind of fierceness.”
The caliph’s sharp features softened in understanding. “It’s quick thinking on Agib’s part. He is hoping the pot will direct him to the island.”
Shahrzad smiled. “Precisely. After many hours, Agib’s instincts led him to land. He stumbled onto the shining black coastline of Adamant, exhausted and trembling with fear. He passed out in the shadow of the mountain and did not awaken for many hours. When dawn broke, he stirred and began the search for food and water before realizing this was truly a place of death and destruction—no life stirred anywhere around him, and water was as scarce as hope on this desolate wasteland. He collapsed against a pile of rocks in despair, realizing his demise was, once again, upon him. As the rocks behind him shifted, a small metal chalice slid out from between the cracks. It was old and worn, beaten around the edges.”
A faint blue light crept higher up the screen, sliding between its beautifully carved slats, bringing the designs from haunting silhouette to life.
“Agib studied the chalice. It was caked with sand and mud. He staggered to the water’s edge to clean it. When the dirt floated away beneath the surf, he realized the cup was covered in markings, the like of which he had never seen. He raised it into the sunrise, but drops of water still marred the surface, so he swiped his sleeve across the cup to dry it . . .”
Now the very edges of the screen were tinged in the glowing white of dawn. The rays of light streamed through the slats onto the marble floor like veins of raw gold stretched thin in the heat of the early morning sun.
Shahrzad’s heart threatened to burst from her throat.
“And the chalice started to tremble. From its hollow depths, a smoke the color of a clear midday sky began to swirl and grow until it became a flameless plume. In terror, Agib dropped the chalice and fell backward against the hard black pebbles of Adamant’s shore. The smoke grew in size and density until a shadow formed in its center.”
The caliph bent forward.
“The shadow solidified . . . and began to laugh.”
Shahrzad stopped.
Dawn had arrived behind the caliph, in all its horrifying glory.
“Why did you stop?” he asked.
She twisted her eyes in the direction of the terrace. The c
aliph followed her gaze.
“You may finish the story,” he stated.
Shahrzad inhaled with care. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, sayyidi.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have only just begun the tale.”
His eyes narrowed to ochre slits. “Finish the story, Shahrzad.”
“No.”
He unfolded to his feet in a ripple of grace. “So was this your plan all along?”
“What plan would that be, sayyidi?”
“A trick. A tactic to stay your execution . . . to begin a tale you had no intention of finishing.” His voice was deathly low.
“I have every intention of finishing it—tomorrow night. Whether or not that happens is entirely up to you.” She stared up at him, clenching her fists within her shamla.
“You said you understood; your life is forfeit. That was clear from the very beginning.”
Shahrzad rose to her full height. She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her elfin chin.
When she spoke, she matched the biting softness in his tone.
“All our lives are forfeit, sayyidi. It is just a question of when. And I would like one more day.”
He glared at her, the sharp cut of his profile even more menacing with the haze of anger coloring its surface.
A single knock struck the door of the chamber.
“Just one,” she whispered.
The tiger-eyes raked up and down her, gauging their adversary, weighing their options.
A heart-stopping minute passed.
I will not beg.
Another quiet knock at the door.
Shahrzad paced forward, her hazel orbs trained on the caliph.
He took a slow step back before striding to the doors.
No. Please. Stop!
As he reached for the handle, he paused without turning to look at her.
“One.” He pronounced the word like a soundless epithet before he stalked through the doors.
When they thudded shut behind him, Shahrzad sank to the floor and pressed her flaming cheek against the cool marble.
Even the release of tears involved too much effort.
DESPINA AND THE RAJPUT
THE TRAY SLAMMED ONTO THE TABLE WITH A CLATTER and a bang.