The Rose & the Dagger

  “You have caused no trouble. Parissa and Masrur are on guard duty this evening. As usual, Mas would rather be asleep, but Parissa’s curiosity has won out over all else. She is quite fascinated, as she’s heard a great deal about you.” Musa laughed, and it crinkled the dark skin around his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy and girl in question.

  “I apologize for visiting in the middle of the night.” Shahrzad offered them a wary grin as she started up the steps, her hand finally falling from her dagger. Parissa held her tapers high, illuminating the path for Shahrzad, while Mas remained as drowsy as ever.

  “We suspected you were on your way.” Musa’s smile turned knowing. “The stars told Parissa to expect a visitor late this evening, and she relayed the message to me earlier.”

  Startled by this news, Shahrzad almost missed a step. “The stars?” Her eyes shot to the doe-eyed girl hovering on her left.

  She can read the stars.

  Shahrzad had heard of those who could do such a thing. But she’d never had occasion to meet someone with this rare ability.

  Parissa was no longer looking at her. She was studying the carpet lashed to Shahrzad’s back, with a troublingly covetous gaze.

  One that gave Shahrzad decided pause.

  “Why don’t you join us inside for some tea, and I will answer all of your questions,” Musa said, his voice quiet and soothing, like a brook weaving between uneven stones.

  Shahrzad tarried a beat, her foot coming to rest on the final step. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for tea. I must return before dawn breaks.”

  Before my absence is discovered.

  She swallowed, hoping to convey her need for discretion in nothing but a glance.

  “I see.” The sharply attuned magus nodded, though his eyes narrowed in question. “Is there something—”

  “I need your help, Musa-effendi.” She met him atop the staircase, squaring her shoulders without concern for pride or propriety. “For my father . . . and for Khalid.”

  Unseemly though it was to begin with demands, Shahrzad knew it could not be helped. She did not have time for anything more than complete candor.

  Neither did those she loved.

  Thankfully, Musa did not press further. He took her hand without the slightest pause. “What is it you need, my star?”

  At Shahrzad’s wordless behest, Musa relieved Parissa and Masrur of their posts and sent them to sleep. Mas gave her a grateful look, though Parissa appeared rather miffed. She eyed the magic carpet a final time before leaving, a trail of wax dribbling in her wake.

  Musa listened to Shahrzad’s story while sitting on the stone steps of the Fire Temple, his face stark. Only twice did his expression soften. Once when Shahrzad mentioned her father’s book. Then again when he heard her speak of Khalid. The moment Shahrzad confessed how much she’d come to care for Leila’s son—the son who’d watched his beloved mother die at the hands of a cruel father—Shahrzad suspected she had much more than an ally in the otherworldly magus.

  After Shahrzad finished her tale, Musa paused to ruminate on the dancing flames at the top of the marble column nearby.

  “Did you know these things would come to pass?” Shahrzad asked when she could stomach the silence no longer. “Did Parissa read the stars and reveal my future?”

  He shook his head, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “That is not the way of it. Your future is not set in stone, my dearest star. A coin turns on itself a number of times before it lands.”

  Shahrzad exhaled protractedly. “How I wish I believed that were true, Musa-effendi. But recent events have proven it is not. Khalid’s future appears to be set in stone. And with it, mine.”

  Musa leaned forward, his elbows settling upon his knees. “So you’ve come here in hopes I might break this fearful curse?”

  “Is it possible?” she whispered, gripping the fabric of her trowsers tightly.

  “Alas”—he gazed at her sadly—“magic in our world can be a mysterious gift. One not so easily controlled, and not without great cost. I have no notion of the magic that was used to enact this evil, and even if I did, there are not many powerful enough to fend off a curse. The most I could do is offer some kind of talisman to ward away Khalid’s sleeplessness for a short time. But I am not powerful enough to counteract a curse, dearest one. The only way I know to break a curse is to fulfill it.”

  Shahrzad’s face fell, the bleakness taking hold.

  “But I might be able to do more for your father,” Musa continued. “Especially with regard to the book he keeps with him. You said he has many burns on his hands? That this book gives off an unusual amount of heat?”

  “Yes, it nearly burned me when I came near it the other day.” Shahrzad’s mouth thinned as she recalled the peculiar wave of heat she’d felt whenever she’d drawn close to the tome in her father’s arms.

  “And he spoke in an unfamiliar language when you found him on the hill outside Rey?”

  Shahrzad nodded.

  Musa pressed a forefinger to his lips in momentary contemplation. “I know you are averse to involving anyone else in these matters, but I do feel as though we need to consult with another individual.”

  “Is there someone you know who might be able to help?” A thread of hope tugged at Shahrzad’s heart.

  “Perhaps. There is someone here who may know more than I. If my suspicions are correct, he would, at the very least, be able to answer questions about this book, though it may prove to be an . . . interesting task gathering answers from him.”

  Shahrzad shifted uncomfortably, her palms resting against the cool stone beside her. “Can I—can we—trust him? Save you, I have told no one about the curse, and I do not wish to tell anyone else. Such information would be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  “Trust is an interesting matter when it comes to Artan. He will not give it to those who do not offer it first. In any case, I leave the decision to you.” Bemusement washed across his features for an instant, then vanished in a burst of certitude. “But regardless of your choice, he will not betray you, of that I am sure.” He rose from the steps and reached out a hand to her. “Come with me, my lady.”

  Shahrzad trailed after Musa as he made his way down the steps, past the rectangular pool of water. Though she remained doubtful, she continued following the magus as he walked toward the edge of the promontory.

  When he made a sharp turn near the brink of the cliff, another set of stairs emerged before them, descending into utter darkness. Carved straight from rock, they were jagged and precarious. Without a railing. Without any handholds to speak of. She assumed they led to the stretch of sand below, but she could not see exactly where, as the trail vanished in another sharp turn a stone’s throw away.

  A staircase that gave new meaning to faith.

  One would think they’d have a torch nearby.

  Especially at a Fire Temple.

  Unperturbed, Musa smiled back at her. “Would you rather use the magic carpet?”

  “Or why not a bridge made of moonbeams?” she grumbled.

  He laughed heartily and held out his hand for hers. Without a word, she let him lead her down the perilous stone steps into the cavernous void below.

  The sound of crashing waves grew louder as they neared the shoreline.

  At first, Shahrzad could not fathom why they were crossing a dark beach in the dead of night. The shafts of moonlight dancing off the waves did not indicate the presence of any other besides her and the colorfully robed magus before her.

  But as they crossed the ripples of sand, Shahrzad noticed a small outcropping of rocks jutting into the sea.

  Stretched across a flat stone in its center was the lone figure of a young man.

  A small wave struck the base of the stone, bursting white spray into the air, drudging seawater onto his trowsers. Yet the young man did no
t stir from his spot.

  Musa came to stand near the edge of the lapping water, a few paces from the boy. The magus proceeded to wait, assuming a stance of serene silence.

  After a time, Shahrzad grew impatient. The boy on the rocks was being quite rude to Musa-effendi. For he had to know they were there. The half-moon behind them cast their shadows onto his face, long and lean and unmistakably present.

  She coughed twice.

  Still, the boy did not move a muscle, save to blink. And to sigh.

  Which, of course, meant he was not dead.

  Scapegrace.

  Musa took in a great breath of briny air. “Artan?”

  The boy propped a foot on one knee and placed a hand beneath his head. Then he yawned loudly. Prodigiously.

  “Artan Temujin,” Musa tried again. It was not a forceful entreaty. Clearly, the magus had the patience of twenty men. And the serenity of many enlightened souls.

  By contrast, Shahrzad was tempted to shove the boy off the rock. To watch the waves toss him about for a while.

  But there was a possibility she would need his help.

  What happened next all but caused Shahrzad to fall face-first into the waves herself.

  The boy lifted a hand into the air above his chest. He twisted his fingers, and a spinning ball of fire the size of a fist appeared above his open palm. He flicked the rapidly rolling blaze higher, so as to see Shahrzad in a better light. Then he tossed the fireball into the waves with a flip of his wrist. It fizzled in the sea before disappearing in a whorl of white smoke.

  All the while, Shahrzad could barely suppress a gasp.

  I will not be impressed by this scapegrace. No matter how impressive he may be.

  When the boy sat up, she noticed him sway to one side. He slid from the rock with a splash into knee-deep waters—

  Before tipping over altogether with a wry chortle.

  He’s drunk!

  Shahrzad folded her arms, curbing her indignation. She glanced at Musa, who did not seem at all disturbed by the boy’s condition. He seemed resigned.

  As though he’d expected as much.

  When the boy sat back and lifted his face into the starlight, Shahrzad detected many things of note.

  Like Musa, the boy’s head was completely bald. The lobes of both ears were pierced with small gold hoops. His skin was a light sable color, and his eyes were sloe-shaped and elegantly hooded, distinctly of the Far East. He was not classically handsome, but he was striking in his own way. For his beauty lay in the sum of his faults—an all-too-prominent jaw, a nose broken and healed in several places, a diagonal scar through his lower lip. From where she stood, the rest of his skin looked as smooth as the surface of a looking glass. He wore no shirt, and slender pants that had been fine many moons ago. Now they appeared tattered and without a care.

  Just like the boy who wore them.

  Once he found his footing, Shahrzad discovered he was not much taller than she, though his torso was wide—he was barrel-chested and strong.

  “She’s pretty,” the boy slurred with a slight accent. His mouth tugged to the side in a cutthroat grin.

  Without thinking, Shahrzad returned one in kind.

  He let out a wild laugh. “But not pretty enough.”

  “How fortunate your talents lie elsewhere. And that you are not a judge of beauty,” she said with another biting smile.

  “Ah”—he held up a long forefinger—“but I am. I happen to be the preeminent judge of beauty this side of the Shan K’ou river. There was a time I had to choose which of four enticing virgins was the most—”

  “Artan.” Musa tsked, canyons of disapproval forming around his mouth.

  The boy laughed again, falling back into the water. He proceeded to float on an idling current, his arms outstretched and his legs spread wide.

  “He’s drunk,” Shahrzad murmured through pursed lips. “And a liar.”

  “That’s true.” The boy didn’t flinch. “They weren’t virgins.” He winked at her. “Though liar is a bit of a stretch. I merely enjoy embellishing the truth.”

  Musa rubbed a hand across his face. “Please sit up for a moment. As a favor to me, act in a manner befitting your heritage.”

  At that, the boy let out another overly emphatic round of laughter.

  “I’m sorry, Musa-effendi . . . but he is not in a state to provide us with any help. And I do not have time to wait.” Shahrzad turned on a heel, frustrated she’d even hoped to gain assistance from such a lazy, rude boy.

  “Shahrzad-jan—

  The boy lurched to his feet in a squelch of seawater. “That cheeky snipe is the Calipha of Khorasan?” It was the first sign of a frank reaction to anything they’d said thus far.

  He knows who I am?

  Shahrzad turned back to the boy. “And just who are you?” she asked, her fists on her hips.

  “Artan Temujin.” Though he nearly toppled over in the process, the boy gave her a taunting bow.

  She hooked a slender brow at him, trying to invoke some restraint. “Who is that exactly?”

  “Give me your hand and I’ll tell you.” Sly treachery laced his every word.

  “I’d sooner kiss a snake.”

  “Smart girl!” He laughed. “But you’ve kissed a murdering madman . . .” Beads of water rolled down his barreled chest. “Is that not the same thing?”

  “You—” Shahrzad started after him, no longer able to contain herself.

  With a satisfied smirk, Artan yanked her into the water beside him. Torn off her feet, she caught herself on his left arm.

  Several things stunned her all at once.

  He was overly warm, as though he were quite fevered, despite his recent stint by the sea. Up close, the skin of his palms was rough and calloused, and one of his forearms was monstrously scarred—

  Just like Baba’s hands.

  But the most startling thing of all was the jolt that raced through her blood at his touch. Almost akin to the sensation of the carpet. A crackling around her heart that flashed through the whole of her.

  “Well, well, well . . .” Artan paused, his dark eyes boring holes into hers. “It appears you were not wrong, Musa-abagha.”

  Shahrzad thought she heard the magus sigh behind them.

  “Take your hands off me,” she bit out at Artan, determined not to show how unnerved she felt. When he failed to relinquish his hold, she shoved his chest. He tilted to the side before grasping her wrists in one of his hands.

  “What a temper!” He laughed appreciatively. “I should warn you, little snipe: the last girl who tried to thrash me into submission found her sight quite addled the next day.” Artan beckoned her closer, as though she had a choice. “I made her eyes point in two different directions.”

  “Ha!” Shahrzad snorted. “In order to achieve such a feat, would you not need to stand straight first?”

  “You should truly be afraid on the days I can stand straight. Why, there was a time I put to rout an entire fleet of—”

  “Enough!” Shahrzad pushed him away. “I tried to be patient with you, since Musa-effendi said you might be of assistance, but I no longer believe that to be possible. Just answer this one question, and I’ll leave you in peace. Do you or do you not know anything about a book that burns to the touch?”

  Artan blinked, taken off guard. “What—does it look like?”

  “Old. Battered. Bound in rusted iron and dark leather.”

  “With a lock around its center?” He cleared his throat, still fighting for focus.

  “Yes.”

  He paused. When deep creases appeared across the even skin of his forehead, Artan seemed almost . . . fierce. Dangerous. “Has someone opened it?”

  Under his abruptly severe gaze, Shahrzad suppressed the need to shudder. “I think my father may have.”

 
“Does your father speak Chagatai?”

  “I—don’t know.”

  “That must wound your pride to admit,” Artan said, his tone derisive.

  Shahrzad looked away, a flush creeping up her neck.

  I should accept his criticisms. For now.

  “Is your father an idiot?” he continued.

  “No!” Outraged into temporary speechlessness, Shahrzad merely stared at him.

  “Only an idiot would open a book like that,” Artan said, cold and merciless. “It’s old, dark magic. Blood magic. The kind you pay for, many times over . . . if your idiot father hasn’t paid already.”

  Shahrzad turned to Musa. “Why would this horrid boy be—”

  “My ancestors wrote that book,” Artan interrupted without a trace of the smugness Shahrzad would have expected from such an admission. “If your father is in trouble, my family are among the only ones who will know what to do.”

  Her heart shuddered to a stop.

  Holy Hera. He may actually be of help.

  Shahrzad worried the inside of her cheek.

  She might have pressed her luck too far already with Artan Temujin.

  Khalid was right. My mouth never ceases to cause me woe.

  Shahrzad knew she had to try to win this scapegrace over, despite her behavior thus far. When she glanced at the boy standing across from her, he was watching her with a distressingly keen air about him, especially for someone so addled by drink.

  It was a face marred by indolence. Riddled by insolence.

  But an interesting face. That she could not deny.

  “Would you—could you take me to see your family?” she asked, trying her best to affect an air of humility. In such a situation, perhaps even begging was not beyond her.

  “No, Queen of a Land I Care Nothing About.” Artan laughed at his own joke. “I won’t.”

  “Artan, son of Tolu . . .” Musa Zaragoza’s sonorous voice rang out from along the shore.

  It was not loud, nor was it demanding.

  Nevertheless, Artan rubbed his nose with the back of one hand, frowning with frustration. He groaned, the sound much louder than the situation warranted.