by Renee Ahdieh
“But I could not allow you to do all the work,” Tariq finished.
“See? I told you. He is quite the hero already.” Omar cackled.
“Part of being a hero is knowing when to be still,” Reza countered.
In response, Tariq said nothing, and Omar laughed heartily.
“So what did you learn in this foolhardy excursion to Rey?” Reza asked.
“I learned I have a great deal to learn.”
Reza passed Omar the pipe. “What else?”
“I learned the Caliph of Khorasan is dangerous, in addition to being a madman.”
“How so?”
“He’s smart, for a madman. Rather . . . surprising.”
“Madmen tend to be.” Omar’s eyes glittered in the shadows as streams of smoke emitted from his nostrils.
“What else?” Reza asked.
Tariq leaned back into the cushions. “He’s arrogant, and he has a quick temper.”
“What of weaknesses?” Reza prodded.
Tariq hesitated.
“Tariq?”
Before Tariq could respond, the flap of the tent opened once more, and Rahim stepped beneath its wing, with Jahandar al-Khayzuran in tow. The three men seated around the ghalyan gazed their way. Rahim shot Tariq an apologetic glance, and Jahandar cleared his throat with a cough.
“May—may I join you?” Jahandar asked.
Omar smiled brightly. “Of course! You are most welcome.”
Tariq rose from the table, trying his best to conceal his irritation as Jahandar crossed the carpets. He bowed his head with a hand to his brow. “Jahandar-effendi.”
“Tariq-jan.” Jahandar looked into the silver eyes, eager and hopeful. When he was met with nothing but steely judgment, his face fell to the soundless specter of shame.
Once everyone was seated again, Reza resumed his line of questioning. “You were speaking of the boy-king’s weaknesses?”
Tariq inhaled protractedly. “Yes, Uncle.”
Reza’s frown deepened at Tariq’s obvious discomfort. “Tariq-jan, what—”
“Shahrzad,” Tariq ground out. “He cares about Shahrzad.”
Reza’s face was expressionless. “A great deal?”
“I don’t know. I only know that he cares. And that I wish to take her out of there. Now.”
At this, Reza’s eyebrows arched. “Did something happen while you were there?”
“Every day she’s in that palace, she’s at risk. I cannot abide it any longer.”
“Such a hero.” Omar laughed softly.
Reza raised his glass of tea to his lips and took a sip. “I understand your concern, but—”
“Please, Uncle. Let me do this. Help me.”
Reza stared back at his nephew, calm in his assessment. “I’m sorry, Tariq-jan, but we are just beginning to gather our strength; we are nowhere near laying siege to a city like Rey. The Emir of Karaj has pledged seven hundred soldiers, as well as a large cache of weapons. They should be arriving soon. His friend from the north is sending two hundred more, and I am in contact with numerous other friends of mine—men of trade and means—who are weary of being ruled by a cruel tyrant. By a boy-king who kills without reason. They are willing to unite under the banner of the White Falcon. They are willing to fight for you.”
“Then, if you would give me a few—”
“No. If all of these men are willing to fight, it must be for something more than your love, Tariq. You cannot march into the biggest city in Khorasan with a fledgling army just to save one girl. Be a true leader. Be still. You must wait. When the time comes, your patience will be manifestly rewarded. Trust me.”
Tariq closed his eyes and clenched his fists, fighting to control a rising tide of emotions. “Omar—”
Omar sighed. “Ah, my friend. You do so prey upon my fondness for love stories. Alas, I am an old man without brothers or sons—the last of my line. I will not fight. It is too hard to wash away blood from an old sword. Know that I would gladly risk my lowly life for love. But the lives of my people and those who ride under my name? I cannot risk such a treasure. I’m very sorry, my friend.”
Tariq drank his tea in silence as Omar and his uncle moved the discussion along to other matters. Their words drifted around him, echoing in his ears, filtering up into the smoke . . . meaningless. When the tea grew cold, Tariq took his leave. The anger continued roiling within him like the water in the ghalyan, and each time he thought of the boy-king, he saw eyes that burned like the coal atop its tower.
A madman with a temper and a penchant for death—
And Shahrzad’s face at peace in his arms.
“Tariq-jan?” A meek voice called out from behind him.
“What?” Tariq whirled around.
Jahandar backed away, his mouth agape and the ends of his wispy beard curling in the balmy night breeze.
Tariq exhaled with care. “I’m sorry, Jahandar-effendi. Forgive me.”
Jahandar shook his head. “No, no. I apologize for disturbing your thoughts.”
“It’s fine.” Tariq gritted his teeth. “I should learn to control them better.”
Jahandar nodded. He gathered his hands before him, fidgeting with the front of his tikka sash.
“Is there something you wish to discuss with me?” Tariq asked.
“Yes.” Jahandar swallowed. “Yes, there is.” He straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands still. “Are—are you willing to do whatever it takes to save my daughter?”
Tariq’s gaze widened. He took a step forward. “You know I am.”
Jahandar’s eyes shone in the surrounding torchlight.
“Then let me help you.”
SOMEONE WHO KNOWS
IT WAS THE MUTED GROAN OF THE DOOR THAT WOKE her. Shahrzad could recognize it, even in her sleep.
But this time, something was different.
Something was in her room. Something brash and unafraid.
Eyes watched her. Unwanted eyes. Tiny pinpricks ran down the back of her neck, and the blood coursed through her body, ignited by fear.
The hush of footfall nearby forced her to make a sudden decision.
Shahrzad opened her eyes and screamed, filling the darkness with sound and shock. Footsteps rushed at her, and she scrambled across the cushions in an effort to escape. She yanked the gossamer aside, cursing its pointless existence.
Her heart clamored in her chest at the sight of Despina’s door cracking open across the chamber. “Shahrzad?”
Hulking shadows began to move about her room—shadows cloaked in more than night.
Oh, God. Despina!
Shahrzad grabbed the stool next to her bed and screamed again, trying to draw them away from her handmaiden. If Despina could make it past the door of the chamber . . .
When a hand reached for Shahrzad, she swung the stool in its direction.
“Shahrzad!” Despina cried.
“Go!” Shahrzad yelled.
Despina rushed for the double doors as two shadows converged on her. She managed to yank one open and race into the marbled hallways of the palace. A single, terror-fueled word echoed in her wake:
“Jalal!”
The shadows descended on Shahrzad, and one seized her from behind. When it pulled her closer, a pair of angry male eyes glittered at her from above a black mask. She pitched the stool at his head. He caught it with a whispered oath and struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand.
Shahrzad reeled to the marble, her eyes tearing at the burgeoning sting. When another shadow tried to haul her to her feet, she reached out and snatched the cloth off his face. He lifted her by the throat and shoved her against the wall.
“Who are you? What do you want?” She kicked and scratched at him.
More footsteps pounded down the corridors outside her room.
Both doors were shoved aside in doleful protest, revealing a lone figure and the silhouette of a sword.
Khalid.
Her captor began to laugh, low and cruel, as he
cinched his hold on her neck.
Khalid did not ask questions. He did not try to negotiate. His shamshir flashed in the darkness, and a shadow near the door fell with a gurgle and a series of sickening thuds. A moment later, Jalal burst across the threshold with the Rajput on his heels.
“Take Khalid out of here!” Jalal shouted to the Rajput.
With a dismissive shove, the Rajput pushed past Jalal and raised his talwar.
Khalid brandished his sword and moved forward. The shadows congregated in his path. There were at least eight of them, including the one pinning her to the wall.
The sound of blades being drawn from their sheaths rippled through the chamber, and the man grasping Shahrzad by the throat pulled her back against him, wrapping a forearm of corded muscle around her neck.
The Rajput engaged the vanguard of shadows, and Khalid and Jalal flanked him on either side. Weapons clashed against one another, metal to metal, and death sliced through the air, leaving behind blood and vengeful wrath.
The shadows were losing.
Shahrzad’s captor began dragging her to the open screens leading to the terrace. His hold loosened, and she managed to twist an arm free. She swung a haphazard fist at his face. It caught him in the jaw, and she spun around to bolt. He lunged at her, snagging a shoulder in one hand and the back of her neck in the other.
“I’ll kill you for that,” he spat in her ear.
“Says a dead man,” she rasped.
“Not just yet.” He slid his hand from her neck into her hair and coiled his fingers through to the roots, positioning her as a shield before him. Shahrzad bit back a gasp as her eyes began to water.
“Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” he bellowed.
When her vision cleared, Jalal and the Rajput stood a body’s length away, with their weapons at the ready.
Khalid slashed his sword a final time, and the blood of his opponent spewed across his bare chest and face in lines of dark red. Then he crossed the room, his eyes awash with rage, and the silver of his sword dripping crimson.
The marauding shadows were silent and motionless now.
As Khalid stalked closer, the hand in her hair tightened its grasp. Her captor pulled up sharply, and it tore a cry from her lips.
Jalal swore an oath, and the blade of his scimitar gleamed white on a moonbeam.
Khalid halted in his tracks.
Her captor laughed, and it was like stone against metal. With his other hand, he positioned a small dagger to her throat.
“Not a single plea?” he whispered in Shahrzad’s ear.
“I don’t beg,” Shahrzad retorted. “Especially to dead men.”
“And the mighty Caliph of Khorasan?” her captor said into the night. “Does the King of Kings have any pleas?”
Again Khalid stalked toward them in brutal silence, raising his shamshir across his body.
“Don’t move, you bastard son of a whore!” her captor exploded. “Or I’ll slice a maggot hole across her throat. You can watch her die, just like your mother.”
Khalid froze in time. Then Shahrzad watched his face shatter. The eyes of molten amber faded to dull memory. Faded to ruin. His raw anguish seared her soul and robbed her of breath. The bloodstained shamshir fell to his side.
“I will kill you for that,” Shahrzad choked over her shoulder.
His laughter was a vicious rumble against her back.
“What do you want?” Khalid asked quietly.
“Drop your weapon.”
The shamshir struck the marble with a sharp clang. Without the slightest hesitation.
Her captor sneered in triumph. “Tell them to drop their weapons.”
“Stop it!” Shahrzad cried.
Look at me, Khalid. Please! Do not listen to this animal.
Her captor withdrew his hand from the back of her head and seized Shahrzad’s chin, angling her jaw higher. Pressing his dagger closer.
“Jalal. Vikram. Do as he says.” Khalid’s voice was heavy. Mired in acceptance.
“Khalid!” Shahrzad despaired. “Don’t do this. Jalal, don’t listen to him. You can’t—”
“Say one more word, and I’ll make certain it’s your last.” He shifted his hand from her chin to her mouth.
Shahrzad bit down on his flesh as hard as she could. The taste of salt and sweat rushed onto her tongue. Her captor bellowed, slackening his hold. She rammed her elbow into his midsection, and his dagger slid back across her throat, leaving behind a white-hot trail. Then a pair of strong arms yanked her aside, pulling her into a bloodstained chest.
Khalid’s heart thudded around her, loud and fast. It raced against her cheek, each beat an unspoken promise.
And, for a breath of time, it was enough.
The Rajput slammed her captor to the floor. Jalal shoved a knee into his torso and smashed a jeweled hilt across his jaw.
“In what world did you think you could get away with this?” Jalal seethed. “To my cousin? To my family?” His gleaming hilt continued its punishing onslaught.
“Enough!” Khalid pronounced the word with such force, such unmitigated fury, that it stilled all sound within the chamber. He reached down for his shamshir, and the blade dragged across the marble in a threatening skirr.
Without further prompting, Jalal stepped back from the man and strode to Shahrzad’s side. The Rajput melted into the shadows nearby, his huge hands wrapped around his talwar, and his bearded features coldly feral in the moonlight.
Khalid walked forward.
The man was lying on the floor, blood coursing from his mouth and his nose. When he saw Khalid looming above him, he began to laugh in a broken rasp.
Khalid positioned the end of the blade to the man’s throat. “She was right. You are a dead man. But I’m willing to discuss degrees of pain.”
The man’s wheezing laughter grew louder.
“Who sent you?” Khalid continued in a savage whisper.
“Someone who wants to see you suffer.”
“Tell me, and I will spare you a measure of the pain you greatly deserve.”
The man coughed, and streaks of crimson spurted from his swollen mouth. “Do you think I fear you, boy?”
“I will ask one last time. Then the answer will be torn from your lips.”
“You think to thwart the hands of fate? No matter how long you try to fight it, you will pay the price, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.” The man’s eyes shot to Shahrzad with irrefutable significance.
“We are now past words.” Khalid eased his sword into the man’s neck, drawing a thin stream of blood. “In this, I am definitely my father’s son.”
The man’s laughter turned maniacal. “You wish to know who sent me, mighty King of Kings? I’ll tell you,” he gasped, starting to choke. “Someone who knows.”
With that, he dragged his own throat across the edge of the blade.
Jalal grabbed Shahrzad and tucked her face into his shoulder. Her hands shook against him, and he pressed his palm to her cheek in an effort to soothe her.
The Rajput crouched beside her captor’s body. He ran his depthless black eyes across the man’s motionless form. Then he pulled back the dark sleeve covering the man’s right forearm. In the pale light of the moon spilling from the terrace, Shahrzad saw a faint mark seared into his skin: the outline of a scarab.
“A Fida’i dog,” the Rajput grumbled like distant thunder.
Khalid regarded the brand in silence before turning away. With a low curse, he heaved his shamshir across the room.
“What?” Shahrzad asked Jalal.
“The Fida’is. Hired mercenaries. Assassins.”
Shahrzad inhaled sharply, the questions massing at the top of her throat.
Jalal peered at her neck. “My God. You’re bleeding.” He shoved aside her hair.
Before she had a chance to react, she was lifted off her feet. Khalid dismissed her protests as he carried her away from the carnage, with Jalal and the Rajput following close behind. When they crossed the threshold, the lifeless b
odies of the two Royal Guards positioned outside her door stared up at her with glassy eyes. Their throats were slashed to gaping maws. She stifled a gasp.
“They’re all dead,” Khalid said without looking at her. “Every guard in this corridor is dead.”
She tensed her grip around his neck as he continued down the hall. Once they rounded the corner, soldiers burst through the doors, led by General al-Khoury.
“Is she hurt?” the shahrban demanded in an urgent voice.
“I’m fine,” she replied, momentarily taken aback by his concern. “Really, I am.”
“She’s wounded,” Jalal clarified.
“It’s not bad,” Shahrzad countered. “Put me down. I can walk.”
Khalid ignored her.
“I can walk, Khalid.”
Again, he refused to look at her, much less respond.
They moved down the hallways with guards lighting their path, encircling them in a gleaming bastion of steel and torchfire. Deciding to cede this particular battle, Shahrzad leaned against Khalid, closing her eyes to the glare for an instant, and his hold on her tightened.
They turned down another, smaller corridor Shahrzad had never seen before. It was lined in stone with an arched ceiling of smooth alabaster. Soon they halted before a set of double doors made of polished ebony, hinged in bronze and iron.
“Guards are to stand post here and at the doors leading to my chamber until further notice,” Khalid commanded. “Be advised—if there is the slightest breach at either entrance, you will answer to me.”
A guard nodded briskly before pulling on one of the bronze handles. Khalid walked through the huge, ebony doorway with Shahrzad in his arms. He did not put her down. Instead, he crossed a pitch-black antechamber to another set of doors identical to the first. Once they passed this threshold, they entered a vast room with a vaulted ceiling lit in its center by a single lamp of latticed gold. Khalid set Shahrzad on the edge of a platformed bed covered in dull silk. Then he strode to an immense ebony cabinet positioned against the back wall, where he removed strips of spun linen and a small, round container before collecting a pitcher from atop his desk.
He knelt before Shahrzad and brushed her hair over her shoulder to look at the wound.
“I told you,” Shahrzad said. “It’s not bad. It can’t be much worse than a scratch.”