by Renee Ahdieh
“Do you truly believe the emir will punish him for what he did today? He won’t. And now I have no idea where Teymur is. For I doubt that fiend was sent away to be dealt with, as you’d so like to believe. He’s gone and, with him, all sense of justice!” Tariq threw his arms wide, his face marred by exasperation. “Did you know Teymur was set to marry into the emir’s family? It’s possible the emir even put him up to the task.”
“You will not seek revenge on my behalf, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. I forbid—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “I will do as I damned well please, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran!” His voice was raw in its torment. “I denied myself what I wanted once out of principle, and not a day goes by that I don’t regret that decision with every fiber of my being!”
The sound of his anguish spiraled up into a desert night, across a vast spread of tiny stars.
Through Shahrzad’s very skin.
Without a word, Shahrzad took his hand and led him into the desert, far beyond the enclave of tents. When she finally turned to face him, Tariq appeared to have aged a decade in a matter of moments.
They stared at each other across a small sea of glittering sand. Across years of friendship and trust, seemingly lost in an instant.
“Do you ever think about that night?” Tariq could not meet her eyes as he posed the quiet question.
For a time, she was unsure how to respond.
“You did the right thing,” Shahrzad said, studying the infinite grains as they slid around her toes. “I put you in an impossible situation. An inappropriate one.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She lifted her gaze. “Yes. I’ve thought about it.”
He shifted from one foot to the other, this boy who was never awkward, hurting her heart with his uncommon awkwardness. “May I ask why you came to my room that night?”
Tariq deserved her honesty. For all those stolen kisses in shadowed corners. For all those years of unfailing love.
For starting a war to save her.
She held his gaze, though the ache in her chest made her want to run far and fast.
“Because I wanted to feel.”
“Shahrzad—”
“I wanted—no, needed—to feel something.” There was a gentle resolve to her words. “I thought that, if I lost myself in your arms, I might feel something again. Then I could mourn for Shiva and move on. But you were right to turn me away. I never resented you for it. Please believe me when I say that,” she finished in a soft tone.
Tariq was silent for a long while. She watched the pain in his eyes fade, replaced by bitter resignation. “I believe you. It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve resented myself almost every day since.” He took two steps toward her and stopped, hesitant.
Shahrzad sensed his indecision. Her fingers gripped the folds of Irsa’s shahmina.
He’s waiting for me to ask him why.
And he’s afraid of what will happen when I do.
Her toes curled within her sandals, grinding the silt against her skin. “Why have you resented yourself?”
Tariq pressed his lips into a thin line. The muscles in his neck leapt out as he swallowed hard. He appeared to be arranging his words before speaking, again so uncharacteristic of her first love.
Then his eyes found hers and held them, fierce in their conviction. “Because I know that, had I given us both what we wanted that night, you would be my wife now, instead of his.”
Her head snapped back, aghast. “Is—is that what you thought I was doing?” Shahrzad managed to sputter. “That I went to your room as the daughter of a poor librarian, planning to leave as the wife of a future emir?” She glared up at him, propping her arms akimbo. “It was not my intention to force you into marriage, you arrogant ass! Had I shared your bed that night, I would never have expected you to propose marriage the following day!”
“My God, is that what you think I’m saying?”
“What else am I supposed to think when—”
He shot forward, covering her mouth with his hand. Silently pleading for a stay of execution.
After a beat, Shahrzad nodded, though her indignation hummed through the air. Tariq removed his palm and she detected the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. A trace of the boy she’d always known. And greatly missed in the past few days.
With a deepening frown, Shahrzad seized the edges of Irsa’s shahmina and folded them across her chest. “Well, then, what did you mean to say?”
“I meant to say,” he began anew, “that if you’d stayed with me that night, I would have gone to see your father the next morning—”
She opened her mouth to protest, and he resumed his silent entreaty.
Then he stepped closer. “But it would not have been because I felt obligated to go,” Tariq said, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders, tentatively at first, then with a decisive weight. “It would have been because I did not want to wait a single day more . . . and it would have been wrong. My cousin had been murdered a fortnight before. My aunt had thrown herself from her balcony three days later. How could I go to your father—to my parents—and ask to marry you?”
His features had softened while he spoke, though his voice had lost none of its intensity. In that moment, Shahrzad was reminded of how all eyes managed to stray toward him in a room, unbidden. Of how he took up too much space and never seemed to notice.
His hands fell loose at his sides as he waited for her to collect her thoughts and speak.
When she did, it was her turn to feel awkward and at a loss. “I—would never have expected you to do such a thing.”
Again, a trace of amusement flashed across his face. “You continue to wound me, you awful girl. Because I know. Had I spent a single night with you, I would never have wished for us to be parted from that day forward.”
Shahrzad wanted to stop him from speaking further. From saying anything he might regret.
What can I do to spare him any more pain?
But Tariq took her by the chin, resolute in his course, tipping her gaze to his.
“Ever since the afternoon I watched you fall from the battlements at Taleqan, you’ve felt inevitable to me. That’s how much I love you.” His words were effortless. Just as always. “But you can no longer say the same about me, can you?”
She could not look him in the eye.
“Please answer me, Shazi,” he said. “It’s time I heard the truth. I . . . deserve to hear it.”
When Shahrzad studied his face, she realized that—over the course of the last few days—he’d been bracing himself for this moment.
Though it would not make it any easier for either of them.
She exhaled slowly.
“I do love you, Tariq.” With great care, Shahrzad settled a palm against his cheek. “But . . . he’s where I live.”
Tariq covered her hand with one of his. Nodded once. The only acknowledgment beyond this was the smallest movement of muscle along his jaw. A staving-off of emotion that betrayed him far more than any onslaught of tears ever would.
“I’m so sorry for hurting you,” Shahrzad whispered, the ache in her chest flooding into her throat. She pressed her free palm to his other cheek, conveying her regret through touch. Silly, she knew, but she could not fathom how else to make amends for such betrayal.
Tariq eased back, his expression oddly distanced. “I knew you were in love with him when I saw you together in Rey. But . . . I’ve been a fool, clinging to misbegotten hope.”
“Please know—” Shahrzad pressed her lower lip between her teeth, certain she would draw blood. “I never meant to cause you pain.”
“My pain was my own fault. Rahim told me what you said to Teymur today—that your heart was with me, as it always would be.”
The taste of copper and salt struck her tongue. “I—”
“You lied to save yourself. I understand,” he said in a flat tone. “But you must know that Teymur will tell the Emir of Karaj, and the rumor will spread.”
She blinked at him, bewildered by this sudden change of tack. Gone was any sign of vulnerability. In its place was a severe brow and a set demeanor.
An abrupt return to the distance of before.
“You’ll be safer in this camp—especially among the butcher-king’s enemies—if we keep up appearances,” he finished.
Though she had little intention of staying at the camp for long, Shahrzad knew she should say something. If not in defense of herself or of Khalid, then at least in defense of Tariq.
She shook her head, gripping the shahmina even tighter. “I can’t ask you to do that. I won’t ask you to do that. It isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tariq agreed. “But you have yet to ask me to abandon this war.”
Her eyes went wide in surprise. “Would you do that? Is such a thing even possible?”
“Even if it were, I would not.” Tariq did not hesitate in his response. “When I set out to do something, I do not go about it lightly. And shirking my responsibility would not only be a failure to those around me, but a failure to myself.”
“To those around you?” Anger flared within her, sudden and bright. “Do you know what kind of men are around you, Tariq?” She thought of the sentry outside the tent that morning. Of the Fida’i brand seared into his skin. “You’ve surrounded yourself with mercenaries—hired outlaws and assassins from all walks of life—in an attempt to overthrow a king you know nothing about! Khalid is not—”
“Hired outlaws and assassins?” Tariq laughed caustically. “Listen to yourself, Shazi! Do you know who your husband is? Have you not heard the stories about the Caliph of Khorasan? The murdering madman? Did he or did he not kill Shiva—your best friend?” He drew out the last two words, enunciating their meaning.
Articulating her treachery.
She bit back her retort. “The truth is not that simple.”
“Love has blinded you to the truth. But it will not blind me,” Tariq said, though his eyes pooled with feeling. “There is only one remaining truth of import: Is he responsible for my cousin’s death?”
Shahrzad stared at him in injured silence. “Yes.”
For no matter the tale, it was the truth.
“Then it is that simple.”
“Tariq, please.” She reached for him. “You said you love me. I beg you to reconsider—”
He backed away. Trying so hard to conceal his pain. “I do love you. Nothing will change that. Just as nothing will change the fact that he killed my cousin and stole the girl I love from me.” Shahrzad watched in horror as his hand fell to the hilt of his scimitar, gripping it tight.
Though he nearly tripped in his haste to retreat, Tariq’s voice did not waver.
“Make no mistake—the next time I see Khalid Ibn al-Rashid, one of us will die.”
WILLING TO LEARN
HE HAD MADE MISTAKES. THIS HE KNEW BEYOND ALL doubt.
Mistakes in judgment. Mistakes in planning. Mistakes in understanding.
Perhaps it could be said that he was guilty of mistaken pride.
Foolish conceit, even.
But Jahandar had not meant for things to transpire as they had.
When he’d first called upon the power of the book, he’d thought he could control it. He’d thought he was its master.
That had been the first of his many mistakes.
For the book had no intention of being controlled. And every intention of forcing its will upon Jahandar al-Khayzuran. Alas, its will remained veiled behind the poetry of an ancient language, sealed shut with a rusted lock and key.
A part of Jahandar knew that by all rights the book should be destroyed.
Anything capable of the destruction he’d witnessed that fateful night of the storm should not be allowed to exist in the world of man.
And yet . . .
Jahandar curled his fingers tightly around the book. Its warmth seeped into his skin, pulsing at the blisters on his hands.
The living heat of a beating heart.
Perhaps he could control it now. Now that he knew what kind of creature it was.
Was it the height of foolishness to think such a thing? Further evidence of his misplaced conceit?
Perhaps.
He could try. Only something small, at first. Nothing like the mistakes he’d made on the outskirts of Rey. He knew better now.
Now that he’d seen what it was capable of, he’d wade into the book’s waters with greater care. With far more consideration than he’d espoused on the hilltop.
The night he’d witnessed the book put an entire city to ruin.
He shuddered as he recalled the bolts of lightning that had sliced across the sky and struck at the heart of Khorasan’s most prized gem.
The city where Jahandar had raised his daughters and curated his beloved library.
The city where he’d buried his wife after watching her fall to a wasting disease.
The city of his most resounding failures.
He recalled the many times he’d proven powerless to those around him—powerless to prevent his wife from succumbing to her illness; powerless to keep his post as a vizier following her death; and powerless to prevent his daughter from striding down the palace halls toward certain doom.
Powerless to effect any change at all. A casual observer to life.
Useless.
Again, he clutched at the book, grateful that both his children had escaped the storm unscathed . . .
When he suspected so many others had not.
Jahandar cracked open his eyes in the stifling dark of his tent.
As it had when they’d arrived the night before, guilt crushed his chest, making it difficult to breathe. His nails dug into the cover of the book as he struggled to take in air. To stanch the flood of remorse welling in his eyes.
To drown out the memory of the screams in his ears.
It wasn’t his fault!
He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d only meant to provide a distraction. Rescue his beloved daughter. And perhaps find his true calling—
As a man of power. A man to be respected. A man to be feared.
But Jahandar could fix it. He knew how to fix it.
He’d passed along his gifts to his daughter.
Irsa had said as much today, when she’d mentioned a magic carpet. It had taken all his self-control to lie still when he’d heard the words. To keep silent in the face of such possibility.
Shahrzad was special. Just like Jahandar.
And she was strong. Even stronger than he was. He had felt it whenever Shahrzad’s hands had brushed the book; it had welcomed her presence.
It had acknowledged her capacity for greatness.
His chance for redemption.
Once he regained full use of his body, Jahandar would return to his studies.
This time, he would master the book. Become truly worthy of its power. He would not permit it to control him again.
No. Never again would he make such mistakes.
He would teach his daughter to use her powers. Then, together, they would put right all that had gone wrong.
For a mistake was only a mistake if it was left to remain so.
And Jahandar was a lifelong scholar.
It was the one thing he had always prided himself on being—
Willing to learn.
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BRUTE
KHALID DID NOT LIKE SURPRISES.
Even as a child, he had been wary of them.
He could not recall a single time when he’d been pleased with a surprise. In his experience, surprises were often a prelude to something much more insidious. Like a slow poison masked by a
fine wine. Served in a bejeweled cup.
No.
He hated surprises.
Which was why, when Khalid walked into Vikram’s chamber and found Despina sitting at his bodyguard’s bedside, he was most displeased.
How had she managed to learn of the Rajput’s recovery so soon? Khalid had received word only at dawn, less than an hour ago.
Indeed, the handmaiden’s eyes and ears were quite vast. They were among the chief reasons she had always made such an excellent spy. No doubt it came from her ability to make friends and gain confidences with the ease of a butterfly. As she’d made friends with those of influence around the palace.
As she’d made friends with Shahrzad.
The handmaiden rose to her feet and bowed, pressing the tips of the fingers of her right hand to her forehead. “Sayyidi.”
“I’m impressed.” Khalid remained at the foot of the bed, his features tight.
Despina smiled, her eyes sparkling even in the weak light filtering between the window slats. “Forgive me for saying so, sayyidi, but you don’t look it.”
A single cough emitted from Vikram’s lips, meant to conceal what, in the Hindustani warrior, passed for amusement.
Khalid turned to him without preamble. “Your shoulder?”
There had never been a need for formality between them. They’d trained together for years. Bled together. Fought together. The Rajput had been his bodyguard since the day Khalid had been crowned king. His friend since before that.
Vikram did not answer. His black gaze held fast to a nondescript corner above while Khalid took in the reddened bandages and the foul-smelling poultices wrapped around the copper skin of his left shoulder. When Vikram sat up to reach for the tumbler of water on the low table beside him, he could not suppress a twinge of pain. Despina bent to assist him, ignoring his deepening scowl.
“You just missed the faqir, sayyidi,” she said as she replaced the tumbler on the low table. “He came to say—”