by Renee Ahdieh
Dawn had arrived, in all its white-gold splendor.
And Shahrzad was certain the caliph was aware of it.
She blazed ahead, undeterred. “The emir lay gasping for breath. When he saw Agib, he reached for him. Agib knelt at his bedside and placed the ring on his finger. Through bloodshot eyes, the emir took in Agib’s bruises. ‘My son,’ he rasped, ‘I thank you. From the bottom of my heart.’ Agib began to weep. He started to confess his identity, but the emir stopped him. ‘I knew who you were the moment you came aboard my ship. Promise me that, for the rest of your life, you will not steal from your fellow man. But that you will work alongside him to better the lives of those around you.’ Agib nodded and wept harder. And then, clutching Agib’s hand, the emir died with a peaceful smile on his face. Afterward, Agib discovered the emir had willed his entire estate to him, passing along his title as though Agib were truly his son. Agib soon chose a wife, and the wedding of the new emir was a celebration the like of which Baghdad had not seen in many years.”
Shahrzad stopped, her eyes flitting to the sunlight streaming from the terrace.
“Are you finished?” the caliph asked softly.
She shook her head.
“At the wedding of the new emir was a guest from a faraway land—a magician from Africa in search of a magic lamp. But in truth, he was not really looking for the lamp. He was looking for a young boy. A young boy named Aladdin.”
A muscle rippled along the caliph’s jaw. “This is a new story.”
“No, it’s not. It’s part of the same story.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Shahrzad rose from the bed and grabbed her shamla. With shaking hands, she tied it about her waist.
“Shahrzad—”
“You see, Aladdin was an excellent gambler . . . a trickster of the highest pedigree. His father before him was—”
“Shahrzad.”
“It’s not a different story, sayyidi,” she said in a calm, quiet tone, fisting her hands against the fabric of her robe to hide their treachery.
He unfurled to his feet as another knock struck at the door, this one more insistent than the last.
“Come in,” the caliph instructed.
When four soldiers and the Shahrban of Rey entered her bedchamber, Shahrzad felt the floor beneath her begin to sway. She locked her knees and stood ramrod straight to prevent her body from betraying any sign of weakness.
Why is Jalal’s father here?
“General al-Khoury. Is something wrong?” the caliph asked.
The shahrban bowed before his king, a hand to his brow. “No, sayyidi.” He hesitated. “But . . . it is morning.” His eyes darted in Shahrzad’s direction. He paled, refusing to meet her gaze.
He can’t . . . he . . . does he want to kill me? Why would he want me to die?
When the caliph made no move to stop him, the shahrban motioned to the guards with his head.
They strode to Shahrzad’s side.
And her heart . . . her heart flew into her throat.
No!
A guard reached for her arm. When his hand closed around her wrist, Shahrzad saw the caliph’s features tighten. She yanked her arm from the guard’s grasp, as though it were a flame held too near her flesh.
“Don’t touch me!” she yelled.
When another guard seized her shoulder, she slapped his hand out of the way.
“Are you deaf? How dare you touch me? Do you know who I am?” A note of panic entered her voice.
Not knowing what else to do, she locked upon her enemy.
The tiger-eyes were . . . torn.
Wary.
And then?
Calm.
“General al-Khoury?”
“Yes, sayyidi.”
“I’d like to introduce you to the Mountain of Adamant.”
The shahrban stared back and forth between the caliph and Shahrzad.
“But, sayyidi . . . I don’t understand. You cannot—”
The caliph swiveled to face the shahrban. “You’re right, General. You do not understand. And you may never understand. Regardless, I’d like to introduce you to the Mountain of Adamant . . .”
The caliph glanced back at Shahrzad, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.
“My queen.”
THE BEGINNING IS THE END
TARIQ’S RIDA’ WAS COVERED IN A THICK LAYER OF dust. Sand clung to every exposed part of his skin. His dark bay stallion was sleek with sweat, and white foam was beginning to collect around the iron bit at its mouth.
Rahim’s grumblings grew louder with each passing hour.
But Tariq could see the city gates of Rey looming on the horizon.
And he refused to stop.
“By all that is holy, can we ease our pace for a spell?” Rahim yelled for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“Go ahead. Ease your pace. And then tumble from your saddle. You should be quite a feast for the crows,” Tariq shot back.
“We’ve been riding with fire at our backs for two days straight!”
“And, as a result, we’re nearly there.”
Rahim slowed his horse to a canter, rubbing the sweat from his brow. “Don’t misunderstand me; I’m just as concerned about Shazi as you are. But what use will you be to anyone, half starved and near dead?”
“We can sleep under a cloud of perfume once we reach Uncle Reza’s house,” Tariq replied. “We just have to get to Rey. I have to—” He spurred his horse faster.
“It will do you no good to worry so. If anyone can beat the odds, it’s Shazi.”
Tariq reined in his Arabian to match pace with Rahim. “She never should have had to try.”
“This is not your fault.”
“Do you think this is about guilt?” Tariq exploded.
“I don’t know. All I know is that you feel a responsibility to fix it. And I feel a responsibility to you. And to Shazi.”
“I’m sorry,” Tariq said. “I have no right to yell at you. But I would have done anything to prevent this. The thought of her—”
“Stop. Don’t punish yourself.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes.
“I do feel guilty,” Tariq admitted.
“I know.”
“I felt guilty when Shiva died, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know what to say to Shazi after the death of her best friend. After the death of my cousin. I didn’t know what to say to anyone. My mother was a complete disaster. My aunt—well, I don’t think there was anything anyone could have done to prevent her death, in the end. And Shahrzad . . . was just so quiet.”
“That alone unnerved me,” Rahim recalled in a rueful tone.
“I should have known then. I should have seen.”
“Would that you were a seer of the future, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad,” Rahim sighed. “Would that we all were. Instead of being a useless third son, I’d be a rich man in the arms of a beautiful wife . . . with curves for days and legs for leagues.”
“I’m not joking, Rahim. I should have realized she would do something like this.”
“I’m not joking, either.” Rahim frowned. “You can’t foresee the future. And there’s nothing you can do about the past.”
“You’re wrong. I can learn from it . . .” Tariq dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks, and the horse shot forward, painting a dark smudge across the sand. “And I can make sure it never happens again!”
• • •
It was midmorning when Tariq and Rahim dismounted from their horses in the middle of Reza bin-Latief’s elegant compound, deep in the heart of Rey. A gleaming oval fountain of mazarine-glazed tile graced the center of the courtyard, and terra-cotta stones cut in an elaborate hexagonal fashion lined the surroundings. Green vines crept up each of the columned arches. At the base of every arch were small flowerbeds filled with violets, hyacinths, daffodils, and lilies. Torches of smelted bronze and iron adorned the walls, awaiting nightfall for the chance to sho
wcase their faceted grandeur.
And yet, for all the home’s beauty, there was an aura of sadness to the space.
A sense of tremendous loss no amount of splendor could ever fill.
Tariq placed Zoraya on her makeshift mews in the far corner of the courtyard. She squawked with discomfort at her new surroundings and the unfamiliar perch, but quieted as soon as Tariq began to feed her.
Rahim crossed his arms, and a cloud of dust puffed out around him. “The damned bird is fed before I am? Where is the justice in this?”
“Ah, Rahim-jan . . . I can see little has changed over the past few years.”
Tariq turned at the sound of this familiar voice.
Standing beneath the curtain of vines in a nearby archway was his uncle.
Both young men stepped forward and lowered their heads, pressing their fingertips to their brows in a sign of respect.
Reza bin-Latief walked into the sun with a sad smile on his face. The dark hair on his head had thinned out even more since the last time Tariq had seen him, and his neatly trimmed mustache was peppered with a good deal more grey as well. The lines at his eyes and mouth that Tariq had always associated with humor had deepened to reflect something decidedly incongruous—
The smile of a soul haunted by specters.
All a part of the masquerade put on by a grief-stricken man whose cherished seventeen-year-old daughter had died one morning . . . only to be followed by his wife, three days later.
A wife who couldn’t bear to live in a world without her only child.
“Uncle.” Tariq put out his hand.
Reza grasped it warmly. “You made it here quite quickly, Tariq-jan. I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”
“What happened to Shazi? Is she . . . alive?”
Reza nodded.
“Then—”
Reza’s sad smile turned faintly proud. “By now, the whole city knows about our Shahrzad . . .”
Rahim paced closer, and Tariq’s empty fist clenched at his side.
“The only young queen to survive not one, but two sunrises in the palace,” Reza continued.
“I knew it,” Rahim said. “Only Shazi.”
Tariq’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in two days. “How?”
“No one knows,” Reza replied. “The city is rife with speculation. Namely, that the caliph must be in love with his new bride. But I am not of the same mind. A murderer such as this is not capable of—” He stopped short, his mouth drawn in sudden fury.
Tariq leaned over, clasping his uncle’s hand tighter. “I have to get her out of there,” he said. “Will you help me?”
Reza stared back at his handsome nephew. At the determined lines and the set jaw. “What are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to rip out his heart.”
Reza gripped Tariq’s palm hard enough to hurt it. “What you’re suggesting—it’s treason.”
“I know.”
“And, to succeed, you’d have to break into the palace or . . . or start a war.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t do this alone, Tariq-jan.”
Tariq held Reza’s gaze in silence.
“Are you prepared to start a war for her? Regardless of whether or not she . . . continues to survive?” Reza asked in a gentle tone.
Tariq grimaced. “He deserves to die for what he’s done to our family. I won’t permit him to take anything else from me . . . or from anyone else, for that matter. It’s time for us to take something from him. And if it means seizing his kingdom in order to do it—” Tariq took a deep breath. “Will you help me, Uncle?”
Reza bin-Latief looked around at his beautiful courtyard. Ghosts tormented him in every corner. His daughter’s laughter lilted into the sky. His wife’s touch slipped through his fingers like a handful of sand.
He could never let them go. Their memories, no matter how faded and broken, were the only things he had left. The only things worth fighting for.
Reza glanced back at the Emir Nasir al-Ziyad’s son—the successor to the fourth-largest stronghold in Khorasan. With a lineage of royalty.
Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—a chance to right a wrong . . .
And make his memories whole again.
“Come with me.”
THE SHAMSHIR
GET UP.”
Shahrzad moaned and drew the pillow over her face in response.
“Get up. Now.”
“Go away,” Shahrzad grumbled.
At that, the pillow was unceremoniously snatched from her grasp and slammed against her cheek with a force that shocked her.
She sat upright, sheer outrage eclipsing her exhaustion.
“Are you deranged?” she shouted.
“I told you to get up,” Despina replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
Not knowing what else to do, she pelted the pillow back at Despina’s head.
Despina caught it with a laugh. “Get up, Shahrzad, Brat Calipha of Khorasan, Queen of Queens. I’ve been waiting all morning for you, and we have someplace to go.”
When Shahrzad finally rose from the bed, she saw yet again that Despina was flawlessly garbed in another draped garment and polished until every facet of her pale skin was artfully rendered in the light flowing from the terrace.
“Where did you learn—that?” Shahrzad asked with begrudging admiration.
Despina positioned her hands on her hips and peaked an eyebrow.
“The clothes, the hair, the—that.” Shahrzad raked her fingers through her tangled mane as she clarified.
“At home in the city of Thebes. My mother taught me. She was one of the most famous beauties in all of Cadmeia. Perhaps in all of the Greek Isles.”
“Oh.” Shahrzad studied Despina’s glossy curls and then proceeded to toss back the snarled mess in her hands.
“I wouldn’t.” Despina smirked.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Attempt to bait me into complimenting you.”
“Excuse me?” Shahrzad sputtered.
“I’ve encountered your kind many times before—the effortlessly lovely ones; the green sylphs of the world. They flail about, without concern for their charms, but they suffer the same desire to be liked that we all do. Just because you don’t know how to make the best of your many gifts does not mean they go unnoticed, Shahrzad. But I could teach you, if you like. Although it seems you don’t need my help.” Despina winked. “Obviously, the caliph appreciates your charms as they are.”
“Well, he’s not a very particular man. How many wives has he had in the past three months alone? Sixty? Seventy-five?” Shahrzad retorted.
Despina quirked her mouth. “But he hasn’t gone to see them at night.”
“What?”
“Usually, they’re chosen at random, he marries them, and . . . well, you know what happens the next morning.”
“Don’t lie to me, Despina.”
“I’m not. You were the first bride he sought out after the wedding.”
I don’t believe her.
“In case you were wondering, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Despina admitted.
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe I just want you to like me.”
Shahrzad gave her a long, hard look. “If you want me to like you, help me figure out what to wear. Also, where’s the food? I’m starving.”
Despina grinned. “I already laid out a long qamis and matching trowsers. Get dressed, and we can leave.”
“But I haven’t bathed! Where are you taking me?”
“Do you have to spoil everything?”
“Where are we going?” Shahrzad insisted. “Tell me now.”
“Fine!” Despina exhaled. “I’ll tell you while you’re getting dressed.” She shoved the clothing at Shahrzad and directed her behind the privacy screens.
“So,” Despina began, “last winter, the caliph went to Damascus to visit the Malik of Assyria and, while he was there, he saw the malik’
s new bathhouse . . . it’s this huge pool of water they keep warm with these special heated stones. The steam is supposed to do wonders for your skin. Anyway, the caliph had one built here, in the palace! They just finished it!”
“And?”
“Obviously, I’m taking you there.” Despina rolled her eyes.
“Obviously. I just don’t understand why this is such cause for excitement.”
“Because it’s amazing. And new. And you will be one of the first ones to try it.”
“So he wants to boil me to death?” Shahrzad said acerbically.
Despina snickered.
“I’m ready.” Shahrzad emerged from behind the screens clad in simple pale green linen with matching jade earrings and pointed gold slippers. She plaited her hair in a single braid down her back and strode to the door of the chamber.
The Rajput was nowhere to be found.
“Where is he?” Shahrzad asked.
“Oh. He was dismissed for the day.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re going to the bathhouse. He can’t very well accompany us there, can he?”
Shahrzad pursed her lips. “No. But . . .”
As Despina pulled the doors shut, Shahrzad saw her chew on her carmine-stained lower lip.
As though she were concealing something.
“Despina. Where is the Rajput?”
“I told you. Dismissed.”
“That’s fine. But where does he go when he’s dismissed?”
“How should I know?”
“You know everything.”
“I don’t know this, Shahrzad.”
Why is she lying to me? I thought I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without the Rajput. Where is she really taking me?
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where my bodyguard is.”
“By Zeus, you are a nuisance, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran!” Despina cried.
“It’s good you know that. It will save you time. Now, answer my question.”
“No.”
“Answer me, you wretched Theban!”