The Rose & the Dagger

  Shahrzad stared at Khalid’s sleeping form in watchful silence. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her could almost lull her back into sleep, if she would but let it.

  Instead she set her chin on her stacked palms and continued her careful study.

  Khalid at rest was a fascinating prospect to behold. Awake, every shadow, every hollow appeared pronounced by the icy apathy he displayed for all things—the proud and petulant mask he wore to conceal the world of sentiments beneath. At rest, everything was softened. Molded as if from the finest clay. His lips were slightly parted. Begging to be touched. His eyebrows—usually set low and severe on his forehead—were smooth and without the looming threat of his judgment. His lashes were long and thick, curving darkly over the skin of his cheekbones.

  So very beautiful.

  “A painting would be better.”

  Her breath caught.

  Khalid’s lips had barely moved while he spoke. His eyes had remained closed.

  She cleared her throat. “I do not need a painting. Nor do I want one.” Though she strove to sound indifferent, the husky rasp of her voice betrayed her.

  Perhaps she could attribute it to the hour. Or to the recent ordeal.

  Or to any number of—

  “Liar.”

  The blood rising in her cheeks, she turned away from him . . . and gasped sharply.

  A searing pain bloomed from her shoulder and across her back. Shahrzad bit her lower lip hard.

  Immediately, Khalid’s eyes flew open. He caught her chin in one hand, his gaze skimming across her face. Then he reached for a tumbler beside the bed pallet and passed it to her.

  “What is it?” she asked, clearing her throat.

  “Something your sister left to ease any discomfort.”

  Shahrzad swallowed the liquid, its bitter taste coating her throat. She made a face. Though Irsa had obviously tried to mask the tonic’s unpleasant tang with honey and fresh mint, it still possessed a rather dreadful flavor.

  While she drank, something stirred from the shadowy corners of the opposite side of the tent. Tariq soon appeared, his hair mussed and his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Khalid replied. “Nothing beyond morning mulishness.”

  Shahrzad frowned. “No one asked you.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did ask him.” Tariq yawned through his words. “For I’d be much more likely to get an honest response from him than from you.”

  Shahrzad cut her eyes at Tariq, more than willing to battle with him, despite her condition. “So now you’re talking to him instead of trying to kill him?”

  “Be kind, Shazi,” Tariq retorted, the portrait of ease. “After all, I did let him sleep in my tent.”

  We’re in Tariq’s tent. And we managed to survive the night here.

  Shahrzad could scarcely believe it. Again she wondered if she might still be suffering from the aftereffects of last night’s ordeal. For surely there could not be a note of humor in Tariq’s voice. And she had yet to detect even a hint of tension in Khalid.

  It’s clear something of note happened between them.

  Beyond their attempts to murder each other.

  But Shahrzad could not be certain whether all was indeed as it appeared.

  Wariness settling between her shoulders, Shahrzad glanced from her husband to her first love. Then back again.

  What had made Tariq no longer wounded to the core by the mere existence of Khalid? And what had made Khalid no longer of a mind to destroy Tariq on sight?

  I will never understand men.

  But she would not question her good fortune. Not now, at least.

  “What is the hour?” Shahrzad asked, her voice still thicker than usual. It appeared the tea she’d consumed at Irsa’s behest was clouding her faculties. Or perhaps it was the tonic left by her bedside. Whatever the case, she could not fault either draught much. Whatever she’d consumed had lessened her pain, which should by all rights be considerable.

  Tariq studied the weak light filtering through the tent seams. “I believe it’s just near dawn.”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh.”

  “But I don’t think he should remain in the camp for much longer,” Tariq said in a thoughtful tone. For a moment, indecision seemed to hover about him. As though he himself were unsure of his course. “For I cannot continue to guarantee his safety, should anyone discover his identity. After all”—he turned somber—“this is not an army rallied in his support.”

  Shahrzad braced herself for one of Khalid’s blistering replies. Something low and curt that was sure to provoke Tariq.

  When Khalid said nothing, Shahrzad took the opportunity to answer with a quick nod. “He’s right. We should return to Rey with all haste, Khalid.” Biting back a gasp, Shahrzad shifted to one side, preparing to stand.

  “I can travel there myself,” Khalid replied.

  “No,” she said. “No one knows you left, and the shahrban will be incensed if he believes something has happened to you. Not to mention Jalal. We should return quickly.”

  And the magic carpet is the best way to do so.

  “My uncle will be angry with me regardless. And Jalal—will be unlikely to notice.” At the mention of his cousin, Khalid’s body tensed ever so slightly.

  “Of course he’ll notice.”

  “I would not be so certain.”

  The sudden tension—along with the hint of dejection in his voice—made Shahrzad turn back to look at him. Even in the early-morning shadows, the change in his disposition was unmistakable . . . provided one knew what to look for.

  What has happened between Khalid and Jalal?

  When she saw the look of warning Khalid passed in her direction, Shahrzad decided not to discuss the matter further. At least not in Tariq’s presence.

  Instead, she endeavored to sit straight, stifling a cry at the shooting pain that traveled down the length of her arm. The entire right side of her body was stiff. She clenched and unclenched her fist in an attempt to restore movement to her fingers.

  “Shazi”—Tariq started toward her, concern marring his face—“I don’t think you should—”

  “Don’t presume I care what you think.” She glared at him while waving him off with her uninjured arm. “Especially since you’re to blame for this.”

  Tariq winced. “I’ll not protest on that score. And though it’s a feeble thing to say, I am sorry. More sorry than I can put to words.”

  “I know you’re sorry. We’re all very sorry any of this ever had to happen,” she said in a peevish tone. “But now is not the time to tell me what to do, especially in the face of all your mistakes.” With a cutting glare, Shahrzad returned to her task of restoring movement to the right side of her body, despite the searing ache behind each motion.

  “Are you not going to stop her?” Tariq said to Khalid, his exasperation all too evident.

  “No,” Khalid replied in an unruffled manner, still lying on the bed pallet in studious silence. “I’m not.”

  Shahrzad shot Tariq a triumphant look.

  “But will you lend me a horse and enough provisions to journey to Rey?” Khalid said to Tariq, rolling to standing with unaffected grace. Almost mocking Shahrzad for her inability to stand straight.

  “Khalid!”

  He swiveled to face her. “I won’t stop you from doing as you please. Just as you will not stop me.”

  Tariq grinned, clearly more than a little amused to see Shahrzad thwarted. “I’d be happy to lend you a horse and provisions. But I expect full repayment in the future. With interest, for you can undoubtedly afford it. Also don’t expect to take my horse. Not this time.” He paused. “Or ever again, for that matter.”

  “I agree to your terms.” Khalid stood before Tariq, the former half a hand shorter than the latter, yet t
he two appearing to be on strangely equal footing.

  A king on par with his nobleman.

  Nodding at Khalid with an almost affable expression, Tariq glanced back at Shahrzad. “I’ll gather the necessary provisions and wait for you both outside.” Then, with nothing more than a striking smile to shroud a lingering sadness, Tariq slipped through the tent flap.

  He left us alone.

  Tariq left to give us time alone together.

  Either he had fully come to terms with the situation or Tariq was putting on a show worthy of Rey’s finest street performer.

  Could it be possible he was giving her his tacit approval?

  Tariq was giving Khalid a chance to prove him wrong?

  Momentarily shocked into silence, Shahrzad sat still on the edge of the raised bed pallet while Khalid moved to the nearby basin to wash.

  “What happened between you and Tariq?” Shahrzad began without preamble. She dropped her voice. “And who has my father’s book?”

  “Tariq fired an arrow at you,” Khalid intoned without pausing in his task. “And lived to tell the tale.” He looked back at her. “As to the book, you needn’t worry about it any longer. You’ve dealt with more than enough.”

  “Khalid.”

  Swiping his damp hands across his face and neck, Khalid remained silent for a time. “Tariq Imran al-Ziyad and I have come to a sort of understanding.” He lifted the lid off a small wooden container beside the basin and shook a measure of ground mint and crushed rock salt onto his palm to cleanse his mouth of sleep.

  “Then I should not worry?”

  Finally Khalid turned to meet her gaze. “For Nasir al-Ziyad’s son, I can make no promises. But for me, you should not worry. I promise.”

  The last word hung in the air with palpable meaning.

  Shahrzad took in a slow breath.

  Khalid would not seek reprisal for what had happened last night. Which hopefully meant he did not harbor any hidden resentment toward Tariq for trying to kill him. Nor did he wish him harm for injuring Shahrzad in the process.

  The hope of reconciliation she’d dreamed of by the fire began to take shape once more.

  “Will you not let me take you to Rey?” Shahrzad asked, seizing upon this newfound sentiment.

  “No. I will not.” He finished his ablutions without another word on the matter.

  Shahrzad wrinkled her nose in frustration as Khalid wiped his chin of excess water. “I wish you would not be so stubborn.”

  “And I wish you had not jumped before an arrow last night. But wishes are for genies and the fools who believe in such things.” The hint of anger in his words brought a rash of heat to her skin.

  Surely he’s not angry with me for doing such a thing.

  “Do you think I meant to be shot with an arrow?” she accused. “You can’t possibly be angry at me for this, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. I certainly did not intend to—”

  “I know.” Khalid knelt before her, his hands coming to rest at her sides. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But”—he stopped short, the harsh lines on his face melting away—“you cannot do that again. I—cannot watch such a thing again, Shahrzad.”

  Her throat swelled tight at his pained expression. And her mind drifted back to the memory of a boy who had watched his mother die before his eyes.

  Khalid brought a palm to the side of her neck, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “Do you know how close that arrow came to your heart?” he whispered. “To killing you in an instant?”

  “If I hadn’t pushed you, Tariq would have killed you,” she replied, lifting her hand to cover his. To press the whole of his touch into her skin.

  “Better me than you.”

  Her gaze hardened. “If you’re asking me if I would do it again, I would. Without question.”

  “Shahrzad, you can never do that again.” His words were muted and harsh. “Promise me.”

  “I can’t promise that. I will never promise such a thing. Not as long as I live. As you once said, there isn’t a choice in the matter. Not for me.”

  Khalid’s chest rose and fell on a deep inhale. “I wish you would not be so stubborn.” He echoed her earlier words as his thumb grazed her cheek.

  As his eyes rippled with unfettered emotion.

  Shahrzad smiled. “Are you a genie or a fool?”

  “A fool. As I’ve always been when it comes to you.”

  “At least you can admit it.”

  “At least twice.” One side of his mouth curled upward. “And only to you.”

  Shahrzad shifted both hands to Khalid’s face. His stubble dragged across her skin as her fingers caressed his jaw. His eyes fell shut for an instant.

  It was not the right time. Alas, it was never the right time.

  But it did not matter.

  Even the heaviness of the tonic did not dull the fire racing through her blood. She pulled him toward her, slanting her lips to his.

  He tasted of water and mint and everything she ever hungered for in all her moments of remembrance. He smelled like the desert in the sun and the faintest trace of sandalwood. The palace at Rey and the billowing Badawi sands, coming together in perfect concert.

  His touch was silk over steel. It made her hot and cold all at once. His kisses were the perfect mix of hard and soft. Practiced and unrestrained.

  When she tried to tug him closer, Khalid was careful. Too careful.

  As always, Shahrzad wanted more. She wound her fingers in the front of his borrowed qamis, wordlessly telling him so. He stilled her, capturing her face between his palms.

  Shahrzad sighed, silently cursing her injuries. “I hate that I’m not going with you.”

  “And I hate that I’m leaving you behind. Leaving you amongst all this—chaos.” Khalid’s features tightened at the edges.

  The reminder brought back another equally pressing matter she’d nearly lost sight of.

  Her eyes drifted about the room. “Where is it, Khalid?”

  Her father’s book. The reason for so much death and chaos.

  Khalid reached beneath the bed pallet, then lifted the small bundle her sister had been clutching by the well. “Irsa left it with me last night,” he said quietly. “I kept it within arm’s reach, along with my sword and your dagger.”

  “Irsa?” Shahrzad almost smiled at the familiarity. “She gave you permission to call her that?”

  “In a fashion,” he murmured, tucking her hair behind an ear.

  “You once said you had no intention of being beloved by your people, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. Yet you’ve managed to win over several of your harshest critics in a single evening.” Shahrzad grinned without reserve.

  “Irsa was one of my harshest critics?” He arched a brow.

  “She’s my sister. Of course she was.”

  The hint of a smile touched his lips. Shahrzad’s heart warmed at the sight.

  From beyond the tent, the loud bleating of a goat brought them back to the present.

  “I should go.” Khalid pushed aside the bloodied bandages on the floor to reach beneath the bed pallet a second time. He collected his sword and her dagger, placing them with her father’s book, still wrapped in a length of coarse brown linen.

  “And the key?” Shahrzad whispered.

  Khalid tugged the silver chain from around his neck. The black key hung over his heart, alongside the jade talisman. The very sight of both sent a shiver down Shahrzad’s spine.

  She brought her hand to Khalid’s chest to cover the cold metal. “Destroy it as soon as you can. Tonight, if possible. Waste no time.”

  He nodded once. “I’ll ride through the day and destroy it as soon as the sun sets.” Khalid rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll return for you as soon as I can.”

  “No. I’ll come to you.”

  Khalid smiled before pressi
ng another heart-stopping kiss to her throat. Then he tucked the dagger into his tikka sash and disappeared beneath the tent flap.

  An unexpected chill fell over the tent.

  And Shahrzad realized how very dark it still was.

  It was the cold that woke Jahandar.

  He could not recall the last time he’d felt so cold.

  His mind was battered and waterlogged, as though he’d been tossed about at sea. His throat felt as though it had been stuffed with silk thread. Dry-mouthed and disoriented, Jahandar reached for the book atop his chest, seeking its reassuring warmth.

  But it was not there.

  In a sudden panic, his eyes flew open.

  He sat up in his bedroll, his useless blankets peeling away like an onion’s skin. His tent was still shaded in the cloak of night. Dawn had barely broken through the tent seams, trickling down in fractured beams of light.

  Jahandar passed his palms across the bedroll. Then across the floor beside him. Then farther into the darkness.

  Still he could not find the book.

  His panic mounting, he reached for the key around his neck.

  It, too, was gone.

  Realization came crashing down on him in a flash of light.

  Someone had stolen the book and key from him. His sluggish head and his swollen tongue were proof positive that someone had drugged him with a mind to pilfer his most prized possessions.

  Someone had fooled him and fleeced him.

  In a fit of rage, Jahandar bolted to his feet, kicking aside the brass lamp positioned next to his bedroll. The oil dripped from its innards in a slow dribble, filling the air with its pungent aroma.

  Reminding him of the power lying dormant in the most innocuous of things.

  Indeed, with a mere snap of his fingers, Jahandar possessed the power to set fire to the whole of this camp.

  Or, rather, had possessed the power.

  For he did not yet know the toll the storm had taken on his abilities. Nor did Jahandar know the full price he’d been forced to pay to wield such awesome ability.