The Wrath and the Dawn

  “No, you horse’s ass!”

  Shahrzad’s mouth fell agape. “Listen to me: we can either stand in the hallways of the palace and shout at each other, or you can let me have my way now and spare yourself the trouble. When I was twelve, my best friend and I were falsely accused of stealing a necklace. The shopkeeper’s fourteen-year-old son said he would let us go for a kiss each. I broke his nose, and my best friend shoved him in a trough of water. When we were confronted by his father, we denied the entire incident, and I had to sit outside our door for a whole night. It was the best sleep of my life.”

  “And your point is?”

  “I never lose, nor am I afraid to spill blood.”

  Despina stared down at her. “Fine! The Rajput is—he’s in a tournament. The men are having a swordsmanship tournament this afternoon.”

  A calculating gleam entered Shahrzad’s hazel eyes.

  “See! This is precisely why I didn’t want to tell you!” Despina groaned. “And you can’t go, anyway. If the caliph sees you there, he’ll—”

  “Is he fighting in the tournament?”

  “Of course.”

  Then there is no way you’re going to stop me.

  “He won’t do anything to me,” Shahrzad announced, though her voice was laced with uncertainty.

  “I can’t say the same for myself,” Despina retorted.

  “Fine. Is there a way to watch it so no one knows we’re there?”

  “Can we please just go to the bathhouse?” Despina pleaded.

  “Of course. After the tournament.”

  “Holy Hera. I’m going to die as your handmaiden.”

  • • •

  “This is, by far, the most asinine thing I’ve ever done in the six years I’ve lived at the palace,” Despina said quietly, as they crouched behind a wall of tan stone. The latticework at its top afforded them a vantage point from which to see the sand-filled expanse below.

  “You can blame me,” Shahrzad breathed back.

  “Oh, I will. Make no mistake.”

  “Have you ever seen one of these tournaments?”

  “No. They’re not meant for an audience.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe because—” Despina gasped as the first soldier stepped onto the sand.

  “That might be the reason,” Shahrzad joked with a slight hitch in her voice.

  He was clad in nothing but sirwal trowsers and a burgundy tikka sash. Barefoot. No qamis. No rida’. His bare chest glowed with sweat in the hot afternoon sun. In silence, he withdrew a large scimitar from his left hip. Its blade was narrow at the hilt and widened as it curved outward before tapering to a lethal point.

  The soldier raised the scimitar high.

  “Where is his opponent?” Shahrzad asked.

  “How should I know?”

  The soldier began swinging his blade in the air, performing an extended drill. He danced across the sand, the silver sword cutting arc after arc through the bright blue sky.

  When he was finished, cheers and whistles of approval emanated from the sidelines.

  “They must start with drills before they launch into fighting,” Despina decided.

  “Ever the smart Theban.”

  “If I push you over, you’ll look decidedly unqueenlike.”

  Several more soldiers showcased their drilling techniques before a hulking form materialized in the sand. His shoulders were immense, and every muscle appeared to strain beneath his copper skin.

  “My God,” Shahrzad said. “He could crush my skull with his bare hands.”

  Despina snickered.

  When the Rajput drew his talwar into the sun, he paused for an eerie moment, the sword poised above his head.

  Let’s see what it means to be the best swordsman in Rey.

  The second he brought the blade down was the last time Shahrzad remembered seeing it for the entire duration of the Rajput’s demonstration. The slender talwar whipped through the breeze, curling over its master’s arm as the Rajput stretched and dove into the sand.

  Then, near the end of the drill, he lifted his free hand to his mouth . . .

  And blew over his open palm.

  A stream of fire extended onto the sword.

  The talwar was ablaze.

  He whirled it over his head, slicing the screaming dragon of a weapon downward. With a final thrust into the sand, he extinguished the flames.

  The soldiers raised an earsplitting chorus on the sidelines.

  Shahrzad and Despina stared at one another in shared amazement.

  “I—I . . .” Shahrzad attempted.

  “I know,” Despina finished.

  Lost in their wordless conversation, it took both girls some time to recognize the next figure striding onto the sand. When Shahrzad looked down, she was dismayed by the instant tightening sensation in her chest. She knitted her brow and pressed her lips into a line.

  The caliph’s shoulders were tan and lean; each of the muscles in his trim torso shone, defined and well articulated in the afternoon sun.

  Despina sighed. “Despite everything, I have to admit I’ve always found him quite handsome. Such a shame.”

  Again, Shahrzad felt the strange reaction spike within her core.

  “Yes. It is a shame,” she spat.

  “There’s no need to be angry at me for admiring him. Trust that he’s the last man I’d ever have designs on. I don’t enjoy gambling with my own life.”

  “I wasn’t angry at you!” Shahrzad protested. “I don’t care if you or anyone else admires him!”

  Despina’s eyes danced with amusement.

  And then the caliph drew his sword.

  It was a unique weapon. Not as wide as a scimitar, nor as sharply curved. The blade was thin, and its point tapered to a more severe angle than all the other swords Shahrzad had seen so far.

  “Do you know the name of that weapon?” she asked.

  “It’s called a shamshir.”

  As the caliph began his drill, Shahrzad found herself gripping the top of the wall, seeking a better vantage point.

  Like the Rajput, he slashed and arced so quickly it was almost impossible to discern the location of the blade. But where the Rajput’s superior strength granted him the ability to radiate menace without shifting a muscle, the caliph’s far more agile form underscored the subtle grace—the cunning instincts—behind every motion.

  Halfway through the drill, he placed both hands on the hilt of his shamshir and twisted the handle apart.

  The sword split in two, and he began swinging one in either hand. The blades tore through the air like a dust devil in the desert, whistling about his head as he made his way across the sand.

  Shahrzad heard Despina catch her breath.

  The twin shamshirs rained a shower of sparks as he struck them against each other and brought the drill to an end with a sword positioned in each hand at his sides.

  Again, a riotous cheer rang through the throng of soldiers standing witness to the spectacle. Whatever one’s personal feelings about the caliph, it could not be denied he was a masterful swordsman.

  Nor was he a king solely reliant on the protection of others.

  He would not be an easy man to kill.

  And this presents a serious challenge.

  “Well, does that satisfy your curiosity?” Despina asked.

  “Yes, my lady. Does it?” A gruff voice announced its presence behind them.

  Both girls scrambled to their feet, still trying to remain unseen by the soldiers below.

  The color drained from Shahrzad’s face.

  The Shahrban of Rey was standing across the way, his face a mask of false composure, and his eyes filled with . . . frustration.

  “General al-Khoury.” Shahrzad brushed the debris from her hands and her clothes.

  He continued studying her, some kind of war raging behind his eyes.

  When the battle was over, it was obvious Shahrzad had lost.

  “What are you doin
g here, my lady?”

  “I was . . . curious.”

  “I see. And may I ask who gave you permission to be here, my lady?”

  At this, Shahrzad’s indignation rose. He might be the Shahrban of Rey and a good deal older than she, but she had done nothing to warrant such disrespect. She was his queen, after all—not a child to be scolded for misbehaving.

  She strode forward. “I did not seek permission from anyone, General al-Khoury. Nor shall I seek permission from anyone in the future. For anything.”

  He inhaled carefully, his brown eyes, so like Jalal’s and yet so dissimilar, narrowing invectively. “I’m afraid we can’t allow you to behave thus, my lady. You see, it is my job to protect the king and this kingdom. And you—you conflict with my job. I’m sorry. I can’t let you continue to do this.”

  Does he—does he know?

  “I thank you, General al-Khoury.”

  “Excuse me, my lady?”

  “It’s never been a question of who is going to let me behave a certain way; it’s always been a question of who is going to stop me. I thank you for answering it.”

  The older gentleman leaned back onto his heels for a moment, staring down at the impudent girl with the flashing colors in her hazel eyes and the small hands positioned on her hips.

  “I am sorry, my lady. Sorrier than you will ever know. But threats against the caliph . . . must be eliminated.”

  “I am not a threat, General al-Khoury.”

  “And I intend to make sure it stays that way.”

  Oh, God. How does he know?

  A SILK CORD AND A SUNRISE

  THE SHAHRBAN OF REY SUSPECTS I MIGHT HARM the king.

  Shahrzad listened to Despina’s incessant chatter as they spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the warm waters of the palace’s newest addition, commenting where it was appropriate and jesting where it was not.

  But her mind refused to allow her a moment’s respite.

  What if he says something to the caliph?

  How much does he know? How did he find out?

  Now, many hours later, she sat on her bed in a darkened chamber . . .

  Back at the beginning.

  Staring at doors and fending away demons.

  She was dressed in wide silk trowsers and a fitted top stained a deep violet color, with thick straps that banded over each shoulder. The necklace and thin chain at her waist contained amethysts surrounded by tiny, pale pink diamonds. At her ears and along her brow were large teardrops of purple and gold. Her waist-length hair hung in shining waves down her back.

  Shahrzad willed the doors to open with the force of her unflinching stare. Met by the same stoic silence as always, she rose from the bed and began pacing.

  He’s usually here by now.

  Unwilling and incapable of leaving her fate in the hands of others, she walked to the doors and pulled one open.

  The Rajput turned in place, his hand resting on the hilt of his talwar.

  Shahrzad felt the fear leech its way onto her heart . . . felt it tug at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “Do you—do you know if . . .” she tried.

  She gritted her teeth.

  “Is he coming?” she asked.

  The Rajput merely stared down at her, a lethal statue of muscle and menace.

  “Can you tell me where he is?” she demanded, the tenor of her voice clearly trying to compensate for her waning courage.

  At this, Shahrzad saw the tiniest flicker of a response in his dark-as-night gaze.

  Pity?

  He . . . pities me?

  She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, her chest starting to heave.

  No.

  She stifled a sob.

  Enough. That’s enough.

  Shahrzad stood upright and walked, with her head high, to the bed. She fell back onto the silken pillows, her eyes still trained on the doors.

  “He’ll come,” she said into the darkness.

  I know it.

  As she clung to this last thread of hope, two words kept resonating in her mind, taunting her . . . plaguing her with a meaning she should not see.

  These two words from a boy who was less than nothing.

  These two words that gave her the will to fight off the demons:

  My queen.

  • • •

  The groan of the doors opening brought Shahrzad out of a restless half sleep.

  And the light of pure dawn streaming through the wooden screens shot her to her feet.

  Standing at the threshold were four soldiers.

  Shahrzad straightened her rumpled clothing and cleared her throat.

  “Is it not customary to knock first?”

  They all looked past her without answering. Their eyes bore an air of grim detachment.

  Shahrzad clasped her hands behind her back, forcing herself to stand up straight. “What are you doing here?”

  Without a word, the soldier in front stepped into the room and moved toward Shahrzad, still looking to a spot beyond her . . .

  As though she had ceased to exist.

  Her heart. Her heart.

  “I asked you a question!”

  The soldier took hold of her shoulder. When Shahrzad reached up to smack his hand away, he trapped her wrist and grasped tightly.

  “Don’t—touch me!”

  The soldier nodded to his subordinates, and another grim-faced dragoon seized her by the arm.

  The blood flew through her body, soaring on a mixture of terror and rage.

  “Stop!”

  They began to drag her from the room.

  When she tried to wrench free and kick at them, they merely lifted her off the floor as though she were trussed-up game, caught for sport.

  “Where is the caliph?” she cried.

  Stop! Do not beg.

  “I want to speak to the caliph!”

  Not a single one of the soldiers even paused to glance at her.

  “Listen to me!” she screamed. “Please!”

  They continued half carrying, half dragging her struggling form down the marble halls of the palace.

  The servants they passed averted their gazes.

  They all knew. Just as the soldiers knew.

  There was nothing to see.

  It was then Shahrzad realized the inescapable truth.

  She was nothing. She meant nothing.

  To the soldiers. To the servants.

  She stopped struggling. She raised her head.

  And pressed her lips tightly together.

  Baba and Irsa.

  Shiva . . . and Tariq.

  She meant something to them. And she would not disgrace their memory of her by making a scene.

  Her failure was disgrace enough.

  As the soldiers pushed open the doors into the dawn and Shahrzad saw her death before her, it was this last thought that thrust its final weight upon her, breaking the dam.

  Shiva.

  Silent tears streamed down her face, unchecked.

  “Let go of me,” she rasped. “I won’t run.”

  The three soldiers looked to the first. After a wordless conversation, they placed Shahrzad on her bare feet.

  The grey granite pavestones felt cool to the touch, the warm rays not having seeped into their gritty surface yet. The grass on either side was blue from the silver light of an early morning sun.

  For a moment, Shahrzad considered stooping to run her hands through it.

  One last time.

  They filed to a covered alcove, where another soldier and an older woman stood waiting. In the woman’s hand was a long piece of white linen, fluttering in an all-but-dead breeze.

  A shroud.

  And in the soldier’s hand . . .

  A single stretch of silk cord.

  The tears continued their final trek down her face, but Shahrzad refused to utter a sound. She stepped to the soldier. His arms were thick and burly.

  I hope it will be quick.

  Without a word,
she turned around.

  “I’m sorry.” He whispered so softly it might have been the wind.

  Startled by his kindness, she almost looked back at her would-be murderer.

  “Thank you.” An absolution.

  He lifted her hair, gently, and brought the dark waves over her head—a veil, shielding her from the nameless witnesses.

  The ones who already refused to see her.

  The silk cord felt so soft at her throat, at first. Such an elegant way to die.

  Shiva died this way.

  The thought that Shiva died like this, surrounded by people who saw nothing, made the tears flow harder. Shahrzad gasped, and the cord tightened.

  “Baba,” she breathed.

  It cinched tighter . . . and she couldn’t stop her hands from flying to her throat.

  Irsa. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

  As her fingers battled against her pride’s directive, the soldier lifted her from the ground by her neck, pulling the cord as he did.

  “Tariq,” she choked.

  Her chest was falling in on itself. Silver stars ringed the edges of her vision.

  The pain in her chest grew. The silver stars were rimmed in black now.

  And her neck was on fire.

  Shiva.

  The tears and the pain all but blinding her, she forced open her eyes one more time, to a curtain of dark hair; to a waterfall of black ink spilling across the last page of her life.

  No.

  I’m not nothing.

  I was loved.

  Then, from the distant reaches of her mind, she heard a commotion . . .

  And the cord was released.

  She fell to the ground, her body striking the granite, hard.

  Sheer will to live forced air down her throat, despite the burning agony of each breath.

  And someone grasped her by the shoulders and took her into his arms.

  As her vision struggled to clear, the only things she saw were the amber eyes of her enemy, close to her own.

  Then, with the last dram of strength she possessed—

  She struck him across the face.

  Another man’s hand seized her forearm, yanking it back so hard she felt something pop.

  Shahrzad screamed, a harsh and anguished cry.

  For the first time, she heard the caliph raise his voice.

  It was followed by the sound of a fist against flesh.

  “Shahrzad.” Jalal grabbed her, enveloping her in his embrace. She collapsed against him, her eyes swollen shut by tears, and the burning sensations in her arm and throat almost unbearable.