by Renee Ahdieh
“Please, my lady, I—”
Shahrzad sighed. “I suppose now is not the time to make this point.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“My name is Shahrzad.”
“I know, my lady.” The girl glanced away in discomfort before turning to assist with Shahrzad’s gilded mantle. As the two young women eased the weighty garment onto her glittering shoulders, Shahrzad studied the finished product in the mirror before her.
Her midnight tresses gleamed like polished obsidian, and her hazel eyes were edged in alternating strokes of black kohl and liquid gold. At the center of her brow hung a teardrop ruby the size of her thumb; its mate dangled from a thin chain around her bare waist, grazing the silk sash of her trowsers. The mantle itself was pale damask and threaded with silver and gold in an intricate pattern that grew ever chaotic as it flared by her feet.
I look like a gilded peacock.
“Do they all look this ridiculous?” Shahrzad asked.
Again, the two young women averted their gazes with unease.
I’m sure Shiva didn’t look this ridiculous . . .
Shahrzad’s expression hardened.
Shiva would have looked beautiful. Beautiful and strong.
Her fingernails dug into her palms; tiny crescents of steely resolve.
At the sound of a quiet knock at the door, three heads turned—their collective breaths bated.
In spite of her newfound mettle, Shahrzad’s heart began to pound.
“May I come in?” The soft voice of her father broke through the silence, pleading and laced in tacit apology.
Shahrzad exhaled slowly . . . carefully.
“Baba, what are you doing here?” Her words were patient, yet wary.
Jahandar al-Khayzuran shuffled into the chamber. His beard and temples were streaked with grey, and the myriad colors in his hazel eyes shimmered and shifted like the sea in the midst of a storm.
In his hand was a single budding rose, its center leached of color, and the tips of its petals tinged a beautiful, blushing mauve.
“Where is Irsa?” Shahrzad asked, alarm seeping into her tone.
Her father smiled sadly. “She is at home. I did not allow her to come with me, though she fought and raged until the last possible moment.”
At least in this he has not ignored my wishes.
“You should be with her. She needs you tonight. Please do this for me, Baba? Do as we discussed?” She reached out and took his free hand, squeezing tightly, beseeching him in her grip to follow the plans she had laid out in the days before.
“I—I can’t, my child.” Jahandar lowered his head, a sob rising in his chest, his thin shoulders trembling with grief. “Shahrzad—”
“Be strong. For Irsa. I promise you, everything will be fine.” Shahrzad raised her palm to his weathered face and brushed away the smattering of tears from his cheek.
“I cannot. The thought that this may be your last sunset—”
“It will not be the last. I will see tomorrow’s sunset. This I swear to you.”
Jahandar nodded, his misery nowhere close to mollified. He held out the rose in his hand. “The last from my garden; it has not yet bloomed fully, but I wanted to give you one remembrance of home.”
She smiled as she reached for it, the love between them far past mere gratitude, but he stopped her. When she realized the reason, she began to protest.
“No. At least in this, I might do something for you,” he muttered, almost to himself. He stared at the rose, his brow furrowed and his mouth drawn. One servant girl coughed in her fist while the other looked to the floor.
Shahrzad waited patiently. Knowingly.
The rose started to unfurl. Its petals twisted open, prodded to life by an invisible hand. As it expanded, a delicious perfume filled the space between them, sweet and perfect for an instant . . . but soon, it became overpowering. Cloying. The edges of the flower changed from a brilliant, deep pink to a shadowy rust in the blink of an eye.
And then the flower began to wither and die.
Dismayed, Jahandar watched its dried petals wilt to the white marble at their feet.
“I—I’m sorry, Shahrzad,” he cried.
“It doesn’t matter. I will never forget how beautiful it was for that moment, Baba.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. By his ear, in a voice so low only he could hear, she said, “Go to Tariq, as you promised. Take Irsa and go.”
He nodded, his eyes shimmering once more. “I love you, my child.”
“And I love you. I will keep my promises. All of them.”
Overcome, Jahandar blinked down at his elder daughter in silence.
This time, the knock at the door demanded attention rather than requested it.
Shahrzad’s forehead whipped back in its direction, the bloodred ruby swinging in tandem. She squared her shoulders and lifted her pointed chin.
Jahandar stood to the side, covering his face with his hands, as his daughter marched forward.
“I’m sorry—so very sorry,” she whispered to him before striding across the threshold to follow the contingent of guards leading the processional. Jahandar slid to his knees and sobbed as Shahrzad turned the corner and disappeared.
With her father’s grief resounding through the halls, Shahrzad’s feet refused to carry her but a few steps down the cavernous corridors of the palace. She halted, her knees shaking beneath the thin silk of her voluminous sirwal trowsers.
“My lady?” one of the guards prompted in a bored tone.
“He can wait,” Shahrzad gasped.
The guards exchanged glances.
Her own tears threatening to blaze a telltale trail down her cheeks, Shahrzad pressed a hand to her chest. Unwittingly, her fingertips brushed the edge of the thick gold necklace clasped around her throat, festooned with gems of outlandish size and untold variety. It felt heavy . . . stifling. Like a bejeweled fetter. She allowed her fingers to wrap around the offending instrument, thinking for a moment to rip it from her body.
The rage was comforting. A friendly reminder.
Shiva.
Her dearest friend. Her closest confidante.
She curled her toes within their sandals of braided bullion and threw back her shoulders once more. Without a word, she resumed her march.
Again, the guards looked to one another for an instant.
When they reached the massive double doors leading into the throne room, Shahrzad realized her heart was racing at twice its normal speed. The doors swung open with a distended groan, and she focused on her target, ignoring all else around her.
At the very end of the immense space stood Khalid Ibn al-Rashid, the Caliph of Khorasan.
The King of Kings.
The monster from my nightmares.
With every step she took, Shahrzad felt the hate rise in her blood, along with the clarity of purpose. She stared at him, her eyes never wavering. His proud carriage stood out amongst the men in his retinue, and details began to emerge the closer she drew to his side.
He was tall and trim, with the build of a young man proficient in warfare. His dark hair was straight and styled in a manner suggesting a desire for order in all things.
As she strode onto the dais, she looked up at him, refusing to balk, even in the face of her king.
His thick eyebrows raised a fraction. They framed eyes so pale a shade of brown they appeared amber in certain flashes of light, like those of a tiger. His profile was an artist’s study in angles, and he remained motionless as he returned her watchful scrutiny.
A face that cut; a gaze that pierced.
He reached a hand out to her.
Just as she extended her palm to grasp it, she remembered to bow.
The wrath seethed below the surface, bringing a flush to her cheeks.
When she met his eyes again, he blinked once.
“Wife.” He nodded.
“My king.”
I will live to see tomorrow’s sunset. Make no mistake. I swear I will live to see as many sunsets as it takes.
And I will kill you.
With my own hands.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Renée Ahdieh is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. In her spare time, she likes to dance salsa and collect shoes. She is passionate about all kinds of curry, rescue dogs, and college basketball. The first few years of her life were spent in a high-rise in South Korea; consequently, Renée enjoys having her head in the clouds. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband and their tiny overlord of a dog. She is the author of Flame in the Mist and Smoke in the Sun as well as the #1 New York Times bestselling The Wrath and the Dawn and its sequel, The Rose and the Dagger.
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