The Rose & the Dagger

  Shahrzad fanned herself with both hands. “He’s drenched in sweat. We should change his wrappings and wash his face and neck.”

  Irsa poured water into an earthen bowl and removed clean strips of linen from her satchel. She bent to swirl the cloth in the cool water. “Are you going to tell Baba about the magic carpet? He would be so excited to learn he’s passed his abilities on to you.” Smiling to herself, Irsa wrung out the cloth.

  “Ba—Baba?” Shahrzad began. Shahrzad was leaning over him, looking perplexed. A flash of something passed across her face. Alarm?

  Irsa dropped the linen and swiveled to her father’s side. “What’s wrong?” Irsa asked. “Did he open his eyes?”

  Shahrzad shook her head. “I—no. I thought I heard something outside, but I must have been mistaken.” The ends of her lips turned into the beginnings of a smile. “I know the desert enjoys playing tricks on a weary mind. If you’ll start with Baba’s face, I’ll wash his arms.”

  “Are you quite certain?” Irsa pressed.

  “Quite.” It was a firm rejoinder, one that could not be ignored.

  And though Irsa set about working in silence with Shahrzad to cleanse their father’s skin of sweat and grime—

  She knew her sister was lying.

  “What happened?” Irsa whispered, the instant their father’s tent flap fluttered shut behind them. “Tell me the truth, Shazi, or I’ll—”

  Shahrzad wrapped a hand around Irsa’s wrist to pull her near. “I thought I heard something outside the tent,” she replied in a hushed tone. “And I didn’t want anyone to overhear us speaking about matters of import.”

  “You think someone is spying on us?” Irsa couldn’t imagine why anyone would care to listen to their conversation.

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  Tugging the strap of her satchel tight across her body, Irsa quickened her pace. Her gaze drifted from side to side. For the few weeks she’d been here, she’d never felt unsafe. Not even for a moment. She spent most mornings with Aisha and the children, and in the afternoons Rahim was teaching her to ride horses more proficiently.

  Who would threaten two young girls of common birth?

  As Irsa cut a sideways glance at her sister, she remembered.

  Shahrzad was no longer the mere daughter of a lowly keeper of books.

  She was the Calipha of Khorasan.

  An asset for any enemy of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

  Of which there were many.

  In the same instant the realization dawned on her, Irsa banished the thought.

  Shahrzad had been here for only a day. Her sister was being ridiculous. Paranoid. Clearly the result of living alongside a monster and fearing for her life on a daily basis.

  Irsa bent through the opening of their tent.

  A clammy hand grabbed her by the neck and flung her inside.

  She squealed.

  Long fingers gripped her by the nape. Hot breath washed across her skin.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be you,” a low voice rasped in her ear. “I’m sorry.”

  She blinked hard and fast, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  Spider?

  “What are you doing?” Irsa cried.

  “Let her go.” Shahrzad stood at the entrance, one hand on the jeweled dagger at her waist. Her features were impassive. But something savage moved deep in her eyes. As though she had expected such a threat.

  The thought chilled Irsa to the marrow of her bones.

  “Is that an order, my lady?” Spider spat in Shahrzad’s direction.

  “No. It’s a promise.”

  “A promise of what?”

  Shahrzad angled her head ever so slightly. “That, if you let my sister go, I’ll stay here with you. I’ll listen to your grievances. Whatever I can do to rectify them, I’ll do. I promise.”

  He blew another hot spate of air against Irsa’s neck. “I don’t believe you.” She could feel him trembling behind her.

  “You should.” Shahrzad took a step forward. “Because I wasn’t finished. It’s also a promise that, if you don’t let my sister go, you will be the one to hear my grievances. And mine are not of words, but of fists and steel.”

  Spider rasped a laugh. “Fitting. As you are the whore of a bloodthirsty monster.”

  Shahrzad flinched. And in that tiny flicker of pain, Irsa saw a wellspring.

  Outraged, Irsa began struggling against him. He banded his forearms tighter around her waist and neck. She started to choke.

  “Irsa!” Shahrzad held up her hands in surrender. “Let her go!”

  “Give me your dagger.”

  “Let her go, and I’ll give you my dagger.” Shahrzad removed the blade from her waistband.

  “Your dagger first!” Spider said, his fingers digging into the tender skin beneath Irsa’s ear.

  “Sha—Shahrzad!” Irsa croaked.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Shahrzad’s brow. “I’ll give it to you. Just let Irsa go. Your quarrel is with me.”

  “Drop it first, and she can leave. But if she goes to get help—if I so much as hear the White Falcon outside this tent—I’ll kill you.”

  “She won’t get Tariq.” The dagger plinked by her sister’s feet. “She won’t do anything.”

  Irsa felt him relax in the same instant her chest pulled tight from within.

  Shahrzad thought her incapable of anything.

  Completely and utterly useless.

  And, in truth, what had she done to prove otherwise?

  Spider loosened his hold on her neck. “Kick it toward me, and I’ll let her go.”

  Shahrzad gave Irsa a small smile of reassurance, then toed the dagger in his direction.

  He released Irsa and shoved her toward the entrance.

  When Irsa looked back at Shahrzad in hesitation, her sister spurred her onward with a warning glance.

  Irsa wanted to stay. Wanted to beg Spider to see reason.

  But she was afraid. She’d already cost Shahrzad her dagger and didn’t know what assistance she could provide beyond a poignant plea.

  So she burst into the desert sun, her heart clamoring in her chest and her pride laid waste at her feet.

  Frantic, she began searching for help. The eyes she most needed to find belonged to a tall boy with broad shoulders and the easy smile of a summer afternoon. A boy who had loved her sister since they were children.

  A boy who would thrash first and ask questions later.

  Tariq would know what to do. Tariq would wring Spider’s scrawny neck.

  Irsa stumbled through the sand toward Tariq’s tent, the blood roaring in her ears.

  “Irsa?”

  She tried to ignore the familiar voice nearby. The voice of the boy she most wanted to find. A boy whose kind face she found herself searching for time and again. No. Irsa did not need Rahim. She needed Tariq—a boy of determination and action.

  “Irsa?” Rahim fell into step beside her, his gait unfaltering. “Why are you running through—”

  “Where is Tariq?” she gasped.

  “On a scouting expedition to a nearby emirate.” He angled into her path, his eyes narrowing. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Irsa shook her head, her fear spiking in a hot flash. “No, I just—I need Tariq!” Her gaze darted every which way, frantic.

  “Why?”

  A rush of air flew from her lips. “Because I have to do—something.” She pushed past him. “You don’t understand. Shazi—”

  He took her by the shoulders, his touch strangely soothing. Strengthening. “Tell me what you need.”

  No. Neither of them was a leader. She’d always known Rahim to be a boy who followed. Just as she was a girl who ran. A girl who failed to do anything, save spare her own skin.

  She should ha
ve grabbed Shahrzad’s dagger. Or done something.

  The guilt clawed at her stomach. Irsa began to tremble, even beneath the sweltering sun. She felt Rahim’s grip tighten on her shoulders.

  Offering more strength.

  Irsa stood straight, clenching her fists.

  Shazi would not give up. She would not give in to fear. Nor would she waver in the sand, like a ridiculous ninny. She would take action. Fight to the death. And be smart about it, as only Shahrzad could.

  Though Irsa continued to shake, she kept her voice steady as she worked through the beginnings of a plan. “Did Tariq take his falcon with him?”

  “No.” A flicker of puzzlement passed across Rahim’s face. “Zoraya scouted the terrain in advance this morning, so he left her behind to rest.”

  “Rahim”—Irsa took a breath—“will you do something for me?”

  He did not even bother to reply. He simply held out his hand.

  And Irsa took it.

  AN INDELIBLE LINE

  SHAHRZAD REFUSED TO BE COWED BY THE GANGLY boy standing before her.

  In another world—in another life—she might have pitied him.

  But he’d threatened Irsa. An indelible line had been drawn.

  And, despite his best efforts to conceal it, she could see his fingers shaking around her dagger.

  Move slowly.

  “What is your name?” she began in a quiet tone.

  He sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ll be the one to ask the questions.”

  She stood still as he paced around her in a circle.

  His agitation was worsening.

  “How?” With every erratic footfall, streams of light bounded across his face, casting his patchy beard in sinister shadow.

  Shahrzad clasped her hands before her. “Pardon?”

  “How did you survive?”

  She chose her next words with care. “I told stories.”

  He halted midstep. His disdain was clear before he even spoke.

  “You told stories? You expect me to believe that monster kept you alive because you amused him?”

  Shahrzad leveled a withering stare in his direction. “Believe what you choose to believe. But the proof stands before you, all the same.”

  He made a sound of choked disbelief. She almost recoiled from its harshness. “Are you trying to provoke me? Are you truly that big a fool?”

  For the second time, Shahrzad lifted her palms in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to provoke you . . .” She waited patiently, hoping the boy would take the bait.

  “Teymur. My name is Teymur.”

  “Teymur.” Shahrzad curved her lips into a careful smile. “I’m not trying to provoke you,” she repeated. “I’m trying to understand you.”

  A poor choice of words. Shahrzad realized it as soon as they passed into comprehension.

  “Understand me?” Teymur snarled. “You couldn’t possibly understand me!”

  “Please just tell me—”

  He charged at her. Long fingers closed around her throat like a cuff. Shahrzad wrapped both hands around his wrist, trying to stay his grip. She stared back into his flame-filled eyes, determined not to flinch.

  She was not afraid. This boy—this skinny man-child—was far more afraid than she would ever be. The sweat fell in steady trickles down either side of his face.

  “How could you possibly understand?” He was shaking so hard it made his voice quake. “You’re alive. The monster let you live!”

  With his other hand, he placed the tip of her dagger beside her chin. The blade was still ensconced in its jeweled sheath.

  “Where did you get this?” Teymur examined the delicate etchings carved into the scabbard. He ran his thumb along the seed pearls and the tiny garnets embedded in the hilt. The emeralds at its base flashed with an evil light.

  “Teymur—”

  “Is it his?” His gaze moved from the dagger back to Shahrzad. “Did he give it to you?”

  She said nothing.

  “Answer me.” He shook her by the throat. “You promised me answers!”

  “Yes. He gave it to me.”

  “And if I kill you with it?” His voice drained to a whisper. “Like he killed my Roya.”

  Shahrzad swallowed thickly. She knew that name.

  One of so many. One in a sea of scattered letters.

  In a storm of remembrances.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize!” The tips of his fingers pushed into her skin.

  His pain radiated through Shahrzad, from his hand to her heart, touching an old wound that would never fully heal.

  Shiva.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked, her eyes squeezed shut, barring him from her pain, if only for a moment more.

  “The truth.”

  She swallowed again. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Where your loyalties lie. Do you matter to Khalid Ibn al-Rashid?” He spat the name as though it were a curse. “Does he care for you?”

  “I cannot speak to his feelings. He guards them well.” A half-truth. She could manage this, if pressed further. The blood returned to her clenched fingers in a rush.

  “Then speak to your own. Does the monster matter to you?”

  Lie.

  “No.” Shahrzad locked her jaw. “He does not.”

  “So you belong to the White Falcon still?”

  “I belong to me.”

  “Where is your heart, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran?” His voice was coarse in its insistence.

  In an alley by the souk. In a night of oblivion.

  In the promise of tomorrow.

  “With . . . Tariq Imran al-Ziyad.” The lie burned on her tongue. “Where it always will be.” She kept her eyes closed, knowing they might betray her.

  Teymur took in a harsh breath. It rattled in his chest, then filled the space between them, hot and fetid. In, then out. Twice more.

  At his silence, a sense of unease kindled within her.

  He pulled her close. Too close. His warm breath prickled her forehead.

  “Did the monster . . . hurt Roya?”

  In his sudden closeness, she understood his meaning.

  And was horrified by it.

  Her eyes flashed open. “He didn’t touch her.”

  He studied her in awful stillness. So very close. Her pulse ratcheted in her throat, pounding with a restless incessancy.

  “You told him stories. As you are telling me stories now.”

  His resolve firmed as he spoke. And Shahrzad knew she could no longer stand idle. Knocking his arm aside, she rammed into his shoulder and made to flee.

  With vicious precision, Teymur seized her tight, taking her feet out from under her and slamming Shahrzad to the ground. All the air was knocked from her chest. She gasped once, the pain in her side searing as she struggled to catch her breath.

  For the first time, a cold wave of fear coursed down her back.

  This skinny weasel of a boy was stronger than she. He was tall and wily. And she could not fight him off forever. Nor could she reason with him.

  But perhaps there was another way. A way of diversion and lies.

  A surge of fury chased after the fear. Shahrzad gripped the wrist at her throat, digging her nails into his skin.

  Whatever lingering pity she might have had for him melted in her rage.

  The indelible line had deepened to a chasm.

  He was preying upon the basest of fears. A fear Shahrzad had long held in the darkest recesses of her mind.

  “What are you doing, Teymur?” She fought to keep her voice steady.

  The two sides of the man-child battled for control as he glared down at her. He was so very afraid, blustering and shuddering through this hard-won triumph.

>   She would not lie here in silence as he warred with his convictions.

  “Are you going to rape me,” Shahrzad demanded, “or are you merely trying to frighten me with the thought? And what do you hope to achieve by such uninspired villainy?”

  Teymur winced at her boldness. Her nerve at bringing his shameful intentions to light.

  Shahrzad knew her taunts were foolish. Knew they might further provoke him. But she could not—would not—comply in the face of such cowardice.

  Not while there was still breath left in her body.

  For a moment, Teymur seemed to waver. Then he clenched his jaw, bracing himself above her. With surprising deftness, he unsheathed the dagger and positioned the blade beside her face again. “You must matter to him, or he wouldn’t have let you live.”

  The feel of the cold steel against her skin did not frighten her. She clung to rage instead. “Khalid Ibn al-Rashid values precious little in life. I amused him for a time. Do not seek reason beyond that. You said it yourself: he is a monster.” She spoke in clear tones, her barely leashed fury underscoring each syllable.

  “You’re still lying to me. Do you mean to tell me the Caliph of Khorasan would not care if harm were to befall you?”

  “As I said before, I cannot speak to his feelings.”

  Teymur sneered down at her. “You expect me to believe the mighty King of Kings wouldn’t be angry for what has transpired today?”

  No.

  Khalid would break every bone in your body for what you’ve done.

  Shahrzad stared up at him coolly. “If you think Roya would condone your actions in this moment, nothing I can do or say will matter.” She choked back the rising bile. “But I can’t imagine any girl with real love in her heart would ever approve of such a thing.”

  His hold on her neck flagged as his face fell to despair. Each of his features wilted into the next. In that instant, Shahrzad saw how much Teymur had loved Roya.

  How much he’d lost of himself when he’d lost her.

  But it was no excuse. There would never be an excuse for this.

  Successful in achieving a distraction, Shahrzad now sought to disarm him.

  Ever so cautiously, she shifted one hand from around his wrist. While Teymur contended with his inner demons, Shahrzad let her hand drop to search the ground for a potential weapon. A rock, a tumbler, a bowl, a stick, anything . . .