The Rose & the Dagger

by Renee Ahdieh

  He needed the book to restore himself back to his former graces.

  Needed it to assist Reza with his efforts.

  Jahandar paced from one end of his tiny tent to the other, his mind a constant flicker of thoughts, the thoughts piling one on top of another, turning tinder to flame.

  There were only three people in the camp who knew of the book.

  One of them had prepared his tea last night—the tea that had likely brought about his unusually restful slumber.

  Another had been asking about the book for the past three days. Had asked to see the book, and learn of its contents. The book that had, until then, been of little import to anyone, save Jahandar.

  Jahandar stopped pacing.

  Had he been deceived by his own flesh and blood? Had his own children fleeced him? And then taken from him his one true chance to be a man of power and influence?

  A man worthy of consideration.

  Jahandar’s hands clenched tightly into fists. He reached for his cloak, the rage building. Passing into his arms and chest.

  Swirling through his mind in a storm of hot fury.

  The last of these individuals would help Jahandar get the book back.

  For this man had just as much to lose by its disappearance.

  Just as much to gain by its use.

  Jahandar may not be sure of much anymore, but of that he was certain.

  Just as he knew he would do anything to get the book back.

  Even beg, barter, or steal.

  Even murder.

  Shahrzad knew she should leave Tariq’s tent.

  She’d been inside almost all afternoon.

  Though her shoulder was still sore and her body still weak from the past night’s ordeal, it was time to return to her own tent. To proceed as though all were well. For if she spent another night in Tariq’s tent, someone was bound to take notice.

  And such a thing would not bode well for either of them, in the long run. Despite their feigned relationship.

  She rose to her feet and winced at the sudden flare of pain that shot down one side of her body.

  Her mouth and throat were parched. With a frown, Shahrzad reached for the tumbler of tonic by her bedside and nearly toppled over in the process. Cursing under her breath, she righted herself before taking a long swallow of the bitter liquid.

  If she never again drank anything steeped in barley or willow bark, it would be too soon.

  I cannot remain so weak. Especially since I will need to journey to Rey shortly.

  Fighting to stand straight, she squared her qamis and wrapped her shahmina to conceal the thick wrappings banded about her shoulder. For a moment, she thought to wait until Irsa returned to help. Her sister had, strangely, disappeared after bringing the tonic to her bedside over an hour ago, and Shahrzad had no intention of continuing to lounge about in idle solitude.

  “Shahrzad-jan?”

  She almost dropped the tumbler. Trying to maintain her composure, Shahrzad tugged the shahmina even tighter about her. “Uncle Reza.” She set down the tumbler, balling her hands into fists to conceal their sudden quaking.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He smiled with undisguised warmth, his brown eyes almost liquid in the afternoon sun shining from beneath the tent flap.

  “I wasn’t startled.” Shahrzad swallowed. “Are you looking for Tariq?”

  “No.” Reza eyed the rumpled bed pallet. “I was looking for you. May I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Actually, I was on my way back to my tent to meet Irsa. Is it a matter of import?”

  “Somewhat.” He stepped to one side. “I can walk with you, if you don’t mind. My tent is on the way.”

  Though she felt discomfited by his persistence, Shahrzad could think of no reason to demur. “Of course.”

  Reza held open the tent flap for her. A guard stood outside, only to trail behind them at a distance. Shahrzad tried to mask her unease at both the guard’s nearness and the lasting pain from her ordeal.

  How odd that Uncle Reza needs a guard with him at all times. Especially in his own camp.

  As though he cannot trust those around him.

  “What can I help you with?” she began, striving to sound lighthearted. Striving to tamp down how unnerved she felt. For it was clear Reza bin-Latief had known she was not in her own tent last night.

  Does he know anything more?

  Her heart hammered in her chest.

  Reza smiled patiently. “I’ve noticed you’re spending more time with Tariq.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything going well?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at him sidelong, unsure what he meant.

  “Then you are no longer ill?”

  Again, Shahrzad swallowed. “No.”

  “I’ve been worried about you of late. Word has reached me that you’ve been unusually tired during the day . . .” He trailed off, watching her all too circumspectly.

  Shahrzad grinned, then bit her lip, affecting a sheepish expression. “I think the past few months have simply taken a toll on me, Uncle Reza. It’s been a bit of an—adjustment here. But I’m much better now.”

  A single brow rose. “Truly? Your coloring leaves a great deal to be desired. Have you spoken with Aisha about your health?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t wish to trouble Aisha with such things. In any case, Irsa has already made me a tonic that has helped a great deal.”

  “Irsa?” He paused in consideration. “So Irsa knows how to brew tonics, then?”

  “Somewhat. I suppose you should try one first and then decide.” Shahrzad widened her smile.

  “I see.” He stopped near his tent, his expression still dubious. Reza then reached for her arm, his touch light, but nevertheless not to be ignored. “Shahrzad? I do so wish to trust you, but I noticed something rather troubling . . . and I can no longer remain silent on the matter.”

  Shahrzad pulled back. “I’m sorry?” Her heart began to trip about in her chest.

  “I saw the bloodied linen beside the bed pallet, Shahrzad-jan.” He placed a gentle palm on her forearm, as though he meant to comfort her. “You are clearly injured. I’d like to send for Aisha to take a look at it.” Reza turned to direct the guard behind them with a motion of his free hand.

  “Uncle Reza . . . truly I’m not.” She tried to pull away again, panic seizing her.

  “I insist.” He smiled, his grip tightening on her arm. If it were anyone else, Shahrzad would have felt beyond threatened. But this was her best friend’s father. A man Shahrzad had known for much of her life. A man she had long considered a second father of sorts. “I could not in good conscience let you leave without first knowing whether or not you are well,” Reza continued. “Please allow Aisha to care for your injury. If you don’t mind, I shall wait with you inside until she arrives.”

  “Uncle Reza—”

  “Shahrzad-jan”—his expression softened—“I’ve neglected you for far too long, and I was unjust when you first arrived. Though it was from a place of pain, there is still no excuse. Please allow me to make amends. Your condition is truly causing me a great deal of concern, and I cannot continue to go about ignoring it. Allow me this small indulgence. Please.” He motioned with a nod of his head for her to proceed into his tent.

  Reluctantly, Shahrzad made her way inside. For she could not see how best to extricate herself without drawing even further attention.

  The tent was dark. Dark enough that it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the layers of shadow. Then, from the edges of her vision, Shahrzad caught sight of a hulking figure looming by the entrance.

  It was the sentry she’d first met the day after she’d arrived at the Badawi camp. The one with the Fida’i brand seared into his forearm. The one who’d dealt her a rather rash judgment, only to be mete
d out one in kind.

  He came for her in a blur of grey streaking through the dark.

  Shahrzad spun back toward the entrance, a scream barreling from her lips. She looked to Reza bin-Latief for help. To Shiva’s father. To the second father she’d so long trusted.

  He watched, idly. A calm lethality about his gaze.

  As the Fida’i assassin grabbed her by the throat. As a nauseating sweetness clouded her senses.

  And everything went black.

  THE GREATEST OF ALL LIVING POWERS

  OMAR AL-SADIQ WAS AFRAID.

  It had been many years since he’d truly felt fear. He was far too old for fear. Far too at ease with life. Far too set in his ways.

  But he could not find the Calipha of Khorasan. He’d searched for her all afternoon. And Irsa al-Khayzuran was nowhere to be found, either.

  Omar had known something was afoot last night, when his most trusted sentry had come to him and reported that Shahrzad had not returned to her tent. Nor had that same sentry seen the calipha anywhere thereabouts this morning. Which was indeed cause for alarm. Before, when Shahrzad had disappeared each night, she’d always returned to her tent by dawn.

  And now Omar was certain his worst fears had come to pass.

  In truth, he’d known it was only a matter of time.

  Which left Omar with a decision to make. It was obvious Reza bin-Latief had lied to him about his intentions, as Omar had suspected Reza might do. But it broke his heart to know the truth with such unequivocal certainty, for Reza had become a friend. He’d been a good man once. A man who had loved his wife and daughter, and lived a life of simple desires.

  But suffering had changed all that. For it was easy to be good and kind in times of plenty. The trying times were the moments that defined a man.

  And love? Love was something that did much to change a person. It brought joy as it brought suffering, and in turn brought about those moments that defined one’s character.

  Love gave life to the lifeless. It was the greatest of all living powers.

  But, as with all things, love had a dark side to it.

  The darkness had overtaken Reza bin-Latief, as Omar had seen it would.

  Omar had seen its shadow descend upon his friend, just as Omar had known his own tribe would fall into the clash of two kingdoms. Would be caught between the warring nations of Khorasan and Parthia. One a sovereign land of plenty, besieged by recent misfortune. The other its lesser in all ways, save for ambition.

  The lands of the Badawi lay along the border between Khorasan and Parthia, and Omar had known it would be impossible for him to remain apart from any conflict that occurred between the two, however much he may have wished it could be so. His people were too close, his land too valuable.

  But Omar had not known how best to proceed.

  He had not known who would be his true enemy, and whom he could fashion into a friend. And Omar was not the type to choose sides without learning all he could first. Without seeing both faces of the coin.

  He had hoped Tariq—the young nobleman from Khorasan who possessed such a pure heart—would help to guide him. The White Falcon from Khorasan, who would guide his kingdom from the darkness back into the light.

  But now Omar was not so sure. For he’d not yet had the chance to speak freely on these matters with Tariq. And the boy’s heart had not seemed to be in the recent raids made on neighboring strongholds. Omar was not certain Tariq had chosen right in following his uncle. Not certain Tariq knew how best to choose between right and wrong.

  For Tariq had seen only one face of the coin.

  It was time for Omar to share with Tariq all he knew. All he had learned from all his quiet observance. All he had long suspected.

  It was time for Tariq to make a choice as well.

  For Tariq’s uncle had already made his. A path into darkness.

  And now the Calipha of Khorasan and her young sister were missing. Omar need only hazard one guess as to where they’d been taken.

  Which meant the two kingdoms were likely on the brink of war.

  Which meant the al-Sadiq tribe would ride again.

  But with whom?

  With a mysterious boy-king who had murdered all his brides without seeming cause? Or with a power-hungry tyrant who had paid mercenaries to bide their time amongst Omar’s people? The same power-hungry tyrant Omar suspected had allied himself with Reza bin-Latief long ago.

  For Omar had seen the trunks of gold being spirited away under cover of night. He had seen the brigands with their scarab brands. It was why he had asked Reza bin-Latief’s forces to relocate to the outskirts of his camp nearly a fortnight ago.

  But which of these two kings was the true villain of this story?

  For a story was only as good as its villain.

  Indeed, it was time for Omar to make a decision. To pry back the worn wool from the desert’s eyes.

  For the desert did indeed have eyes. Eyes Omar had put in place many moons ago. Omar had always known how to watch and listen. This desert was his desert. A desert his people had ruled for six generations.

  It was time for Omar to see if Tariq was made of more than muscle and mettle. To see if Tariq could handle the truth. Once Omar had confessed it to him, he would hear what the boy had to say. And his decision would be made.

  Whether it would make the boy his enemy or his ally remained to be seen.

  But Omar’s people came first. Despite how much he’d come to care for the boy. Despite how much Omar longed to see the boy achieve all he’d set out to achieve.

  How much he longed to see Tariq’s love story win out.

  Omar had said it to Aisha many times before. Though she’d harrumphed at him quite severely whenever she heard it, he knew it never ceased to make her smile.

  “Give me a meaningful love or a beautiful death!”

  Alas, Omar was a greedy man.

  He’d always hoped to have both.

  LIFE AND DEATH IN THE PAGES OF A BOOK

  KHALID RODE THROUGH THE DESERT UNTIL THE SUN dipped low on the horizon.

  It would take him two more days of hard riding to reach Rey. By that time, his uncle would undoubtedly be at his wit’s end. It would not matter that Khalid was the caliph and therefore entitled to his own freedom. In matters such as this, General Aref al-Khoury only saw an angry boy, alone in the shadows. The same boy he had quietly cared for these many years.

  Khalid could only hope the shahrban believed him occupied by one of his many excursions into the city. Or that Jalal had been willing to conceal Khalid’s absence for a short while.

  But Khalid doubted his cousin would be willing to do such a thing.

  For their exchanges over the past few weeks had been stilted at best.

  Downright hostile at worst.

  As it was, Khalid did not know how he would ever explain this particular disappearance to his cousin. And Khalid had been unable to find a trace of Despina or the Rajput. Anywhere.

  He continued riding at a brisk pace through the umber sands until only a hint of the sun’s warmth lingered across the sky. Then he dismounted from the borrowed steed and removed the pack of provisions from the saddle.

  With only a moment to catch his breath, Khalid pulled free the book from its place in the worn leather folds of the pack. The book was still wrapped in a length of coarse brown linen. Tucking it beneath his arm, Khalid strode away from the horse, his hand shifting toward the dagger at his hip.

  He did not know what to expect.

  Though the strange sorceress in the eastern mountains had warned that the book would scream—would fight back—Khalid still did not know what it might bring about.

  Nor did he trust her. Not in the slightest.

  Which was why he’d waited to do anything with the book until he was far away from anyone or anything.

 
No one else would die for this curse.

  Not if he could help it.

  Khalid removed the jeweled dagger from his sash. Then he placed the book on a rise of sand before him. Once he’d unwrapped it, he studied it for a spell.

  It was strangely unremarkable. Ugly, even. Bound in tattered, water-stained leather. Degraded at the edges. Rusted at the bindings. Sealed in its center by a tarnished lock Khalid felt certain even the most unskilled thief could open with a hairpin.

  Strange that something so commonplace could signify so much. Could do so much incalculable damage to so many lives. To entire cities. To so many families.

  Just a book. Merely scratchings on a page.

  Khalid smiled a bitter smile. The power behind words lies with the person. It had always been one of his mother’s favorite teachings. One of the more notable bits of wisdom Musa Zaragoza had ever imparted upon them both.

  He narrowed his gaze on the worn volume below.

  The words in this particular book would never give power to anyone again.

  And, if the sorceress had not lied to them that evening in the mountain fortress, her words would spare Khalid from a life rooted in the past.

  From a life spent atoning for his sins.

  Khalid removed the black key from around his neck. And unlocked the book.

  The pages sprang open. An eerie white light emanated from within. Sickly. The slashing text was indecipherable to him.

  When Khalid reached out to touch the pages, a sudden flare of heat shot toward him, burning the tips of his fingers. He swore. With the burn came another flash of light, violent and vivid and bright. Wickedly so.

  No more.

  Khalid unsheathed the dagger.

  The book pulsed in response. Rippled with a vital sort of menace.

  He drew the blade across his palm. Dripped his blood onto the metal. It began to glow a fiery red. Then he let his blood trickle onto the pages of the book.

  The book began to scream. A high-pitched, keening wail. For a moment, its pages seemed to scorch. The smell took on a presence, heavy and thick in the air. The drops of crimson blackened as they struck the book’s surface. Pale grey swirls rose above them, curling in sinister suggestion.