The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn)

by Renee Ahdieh

  Ever so cautiously, she shifted one hand from around his wrist. While Teymur contended with his inner demons, Shahrzad let her hand drop to search the ground for a potential weapon. A rock, a tumbler, a bowl, a stick, anything . . .

  As her fingers scrabbled for purchase, they fell upon—

  A piece of dried meat?

  Teymur remained lost in thought, his fingers loose at her throat, so Shahrzad let her gaze drift sidelong in one quick pass of the tent.

  Even in the dim light, she could see that several strips of dried meat had been slid under the bottom of the tent in her direction.

  They were the type of dried meat Tariq usually fed to Zoraya.

  Tariq can’t want me to bait his falcon . . .

  This did not seem at all like something Tariq would have devised. If Tariq knew what was transpiring within the tent’s walls, he would have ripped it from the ground and used its ropes to hang Teymur in the wind. Tariq—brash at every turn—would have been loath to drum up a stealth attack of any sort. And definitely not one involving Zoraya.

  If not Tariq, then who devised such a harebrained scheme?

  Shahrzad’s eyes combed the walls of the tent.

  And where is that accursed falcon?

  One thing was for certain: if this plan was intended to provide a distraction, it would prove to be an interesting one.

  Shahrzad curled her fingers around the strip of dried meat.

  Like a mongoose to a cobra, her hand shot up to the collar of Teymur’s qamis. She lodged the strip in the hollow behind his neck. Momentarily stunned, he released the dagger and slapped both his hands to his nape as though he were trying to quash a marauding insect.

  In a flurry of feathers and flashing talons, Zoraya came screeching through the entrance of the tent, straight for Teymur’s collar. He screamed and toppled sideways off Shahrzad. The falcon continued attacking him, her wings spread wide. Shahrzad seized another piece of dried meat while Teymur tried in vain to fend off Zoraya’s onslaught.

  Before Shahrzad had a chance to form a coherent thought, Rahim al-Din Walad burst into the tent with Irsa on his heels. Strips of dried meat were clasped in Irsa’s fists. Rahim grabbed Shahrzad by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

  “Go! Both of you.” He ripped his scimitar from its scabbard, his expression stern.

  “I will not,” Irsa replied, her voice surprisingly strong and steady. “Not until I know you and Shazi are safe.”

  Shahrzad, too, refused with a pointed glance. When Rahim began to protest, she turned a deaf ear his way. He muttered a curse and moved to one side, his scimitar held at the ready.

  “Zoraya. Stop this, at once!” The falcon ignored the command, so Shahrzad whistled softly.

  Zoraya squawked in reply, but ceased her assault. Stooping to collect her discarded dagger, Shahrzad stepped before a cowering Teymur. His neck and hands were scratched bloody, and the front of his trowsers was soaked. An acrid tang filled the air. Utterly indifferent, Shahrzad held the piece of dried meat before her. The falcon took it in her talons and landed beside Shahrzad’s feet, her blue-grey feathers spread in protective shadow.

  Shahrzad glowered down at Teymur. “If you ever touch me again, I’ll rip off your sorry excuse for manhood and feed it to the falcon.”

  Then she stepped closer, brandishing her unsheathed dagger.

  “But if you even look at my sister again, I’ll kill you outright.”

  A GATEWAY BETWEEN WORLDS

  SHAHRZAD KNEW SHE WAS DREAMING.

  Knew it and did not care.

  For she was home.

  Her bare feet trod upon cool stone as they made their way down the cavernous corridors toward the doors of her chamber. With her heart in her throat, she took hold of one handle and pushed it open.

  It was dark. A deep-blue dark. The kind that brought the cold with it, no matter the temperature.

  The marble floor was covered in a gently curling fog. It pooled waist-deep, like thick white smoke, from wall to wall. As she took a slow step forward, it parted around her like a ghostly sea, cleaved by the prow of a haunted ship.

  A warm light began to glow in the center of the chamber. It hung above her bower—a silent sentinel, surrounded by a veil of diaphanous silk.

  In the middle of a platform of cushions sat a lone figure, shrouded in shadow.

  “Khalid?”

  Shahrzad moved through the fog at a quicker pace, her eyes squinting through the blue darkness and the gossamer veil—

  Struggling to catch a glimpse of the face she so longed to see.

  The figure shifted. Moved aside a swath of spider-silk.

  “No, Shazi-jan. I am not he. But I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion.” The figure smiled at her with the knowing smile of secrets past, present, and future.

  And Shahrzad stumbled, barely squelching a cry.

  A bubble of laughter burst from the jewel-toned cushions, so familiar and so full of light that it tore at Shahrzad’s heartstrings.

  How many times had she wished to hear that sound just once more?

  She’d been willing to kill for it.

  “Shiva?” Shahrzad whispered in disbelief as she rounded the foot of the bed and reached for the silk curtain.

  “Come!” Shiva said, patting the space beside her.

  Shahrzad’s hands shook as she pushed aside a pane of gossamer and knelt onto the cushions. As if in a trance, she stared at her best friend, waiting for her to disappear.

  Waiting for the crushing emptiness that was sure to follow.

  Shiva smiled, impish and full of life. A single dimple marred her left cheek, as perfectly imperfect as always.

  The image tore at yet another heartstring. For just as Shahrzad knew this to be a dream, she knew she would have to wake at some point.

  And face this for the lie that it was.

  The dimple appeared again as Shiva hooked a fall of dark hair behind an ear. “Silly goose. Just because we’re in a dream doesn’t mean this is a lie.”

  “So you’re in my head now?” Shahrzad retorted.

  “Of course! I’ve always been here.” Shiva rested her chin on one knee. “I’ve just been waiting until you needed me.”

  “But”—Shahrzad caught herself, surprised by a sudden wash of anger—“I’ve needed you so many times, Shiva.”

  “No, you haven’t. I’ve watched you. You’ve done splendidly on your own.” The edges of Shiva’s eyes crinkled with pride.

  “But I haven’t,” Shahrzad continued. “I’ve made so many mistakes. I fell in love with the boy responsible for your death!”

  “You did. And that was difficult to watch, at times. Especially the morning you almost died.”

  “I betrayed you.”

  “No, you goose. You didn’t betray me. I told you; I was here the whole time. And I have a confession to make . . .” Shiva’s eyes drifted sideways, sparkling with sly awareness. Filled with vibrant light. “The moment I saw him running toward you that morning, I knew you were going to save him, just as he saved you.” When Shiva reached a hand toward hers, Shahrzad jumped at its warmth.

  It felt so real. So achingly alive.

  Again, Shiva smiled, her slender shoulders easing forward with lissome grace. “It feels real because you remember me this way. And it’s lovely to be remembered as warm and perfectly imperfect.” Shiva laced her fingers through Shahrzad’s and held tight.

  For a moment, the tension in Shahrzad’s throat made it difficult to speak. “I’m—so sorry for loving him, Shiva-jan. So sorry for not being stronger.”

  “What a ridiculous thing to apologize for!” Shiva’s fine-boned features looked doll-like in her outrage. “You should know better. Never apologize for such nonsense again. You of all people should know what happens when you disobey me.” She shook a fist, laughing teasingly a
s she brought to mind their many childhood squabbles. Shahrzad could not help but join in her laughter, until its chorus filled the space around them.

  “I don’t want to wake up.” The laughter died on Shahrzad’s lips, its echo calling back to her from beyond the double doors. From a gateway between worlds.

  “And I don’t want you to wake up,” Shiva said. “Yet, when the time comes, you will wake up, all the same.”

  “Perhaps we should just stay here.”

  “I think not.” Shiva’s mouth crooked into a melancholy smile. “After all, you were not looking for me when you first arrived. You were looking for him.” It was not an accusation. Merely an observation. Shiva had always been like that—incapable of withholding the truth but incapable of cruelty. A rare kind of person. The best kind of friend.

  Shahrzad averted her gaze. “I—don’t know that I can ever look for him again. Not with the curse—”

  “Then you must break it,” Shiva interrupted. “That is beyond question. What remains is how you intend to go about doing so. Have you made a plan?”

  Though Shahrzad had intended to seek Musa Zaragoza soon for this exact purpose, she could not answer Shiva. She wasn’t yet sure how to proceed. Even as a child, she’d gone through much of life on instinct. That and sheer nerve.

  It was Shiva who had been the planner. Shiva who had always thought ahead of what was to come.

  “See?” Shiva said, her forehead smoothing. “This is why I came to you tonight, my dearest love. You’re lost. And it simply will not do.”

  Shahrzad watched as the fog spread toward the ceiling, wrapping its wraithlike arms around the platform and curling about the single taper above. “I don’t know where to begin,” she admitted, her voice fading into the fog.

  “Why don’t you start by saying aloud what it is you wish for?”

  Could she even dare to say such a thing? After all the death and bloodshed and senseless destruction, it seemed like the worst kind of selfishness.

  To build her world upon a bower of bones.

  “So tiresome.” Shiva nudged her in jest. “This is your dream, you goose! If you cannot say what it is you desire in your own dream, then where can you dare to say it?”

  Shahrzad saw herself reflected in Shiva’s gaze.

  It was a shell of the girl she knew. A girl hunched forward, reticent. A girl absent—from life, and of life.

  She squared her shoulders. “I want to be with Khalid. I want my father to be well. And . . . I want the curse to be broken.”

  “There she is,” Shiva said, amusement leavening her tones.

  “But are such things possible?” Shahrzad countered. “For they do not seem so.”

  “Then how does one go about making the impossible, possible?”

  Shahrzad shrugged, her expression morose. “You’d have better luck asking me how to make a goat fly.”

  “Very well, then.” Shiva nodded, an air of solemnity about her. “How does one make a goat fly?”

  “Tie it to a very large kite.”

  “It wouldn’t get far, as it’s tied to a string.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I’m very serious!” Shiva laughed, letting the sound carry beyond the encroaching fog and past the silent sentinel above. “What if you were to put the goat on your floating carpet? Perhaps it would fly then?” Her eyes shone with a suspicious light.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It was just a thought.” Shiva waved a hand through a whorl of white smoke. “But, if you ask me, the best way to go about flying is to cut the strings tying you down . . .” Her words began to sound muffled, as though she were underwater, yet her smile continued to burn bright.

  “Cut the strings, Shazi. Fly.”

  Shahrzad woke with a start.

  Their tent was awash in black. Her sister’s breaths had long ago lapsed into the rhythm of a deep sleep, and the sound of a lulling desert wind buffeted the stitched walls.

  Her throat was dry, but her heart was full.

  She waited for the crushing emptiness to follow when she realized her dream had ended with so many things left unsaid.

  It never came.

  For the first time since she’d fled the city of Rey nearly a week ago, she didn’t feel lost and quite so alone. She had found a means to achieve her purpose. And her purpose had a weight she could bear.

  Something she could truly fight for.

  “Cut the strings, Shazi. Fly.”

  Thank you, Shiva.

  Careful not to disturb Irsa, Shahrzad stepped into her sandals to take in some air. She stole her sister’s shahmina and draped the long triangle of cloth over her head to shield herself from a chilly desert night. Then she made her way to the entrance of the tent, securing its flap shut behind her—

  Before sprawling across the body lying in wait outside.

  “Uff!” Shahrzad rolled into the sand.

  Strong hands grabbed her, pinning her down. A vision of a hooded soldier flashed through her mind. An angry soldier with a scarab brand and a weapon meant for war.

  She struck out against a wall of muscle. Slapped at a face hewn from stone. Stared back into eyes the silver of sharp knives.

  Tariq’s heart pounded over hers.

  “Get off me!” she said, dismayed to feel her cheeks flush.

  He pushed to his feet, taking her with him in one lithe movement.

  “What are you—”

  “What the hell—”

  She shoved away from him, crossing her arms.

  He knocked the sand from his hair with a vicious swipe of a hand.

  “You first,” Tariq said in a sullen voice that brought to mind a much younger version of himself. One with a lazy smile and a penchant for pranks.

  One Shahrzad much preferred at that moment.

  “That’s quite gallant of you. After you’ve ignored me for the better part of a week, like a boy half your age with twice your charm.”

  His lips stayed poised between silence and speech for the span of several breaths.

  “You—are awful, Shazi. Just awful.” He rubbed a palm across his face, but not before Shahrzad saw the look of aggrievement he failed to mask.

  She squeezed her elbows, refusing to reach out and comfort him. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter how natural it felt to comfort the boy she’d loved for so long.

  “I know I’m awful. So it begs the question: Why are you here?”

  “I’ve asked myself that same question, several times . . . especially as I lay in the cold sand, keeping watch over an awful girl. One with little sense of gratitude and no sense of loyalty.”

  It was as though he’d doused her with icy water.

  Fending off a fresh wave of guilt, she whirled away, her cheeks aflame.

  Tariq chased after her, taking hold of her arm.

  Shahrzad threw him off. “Don’t touch me, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad! Don’t you dare!” She was horrified to feel the sting of tears behind her eyes. Not once had she cried in the past few days. Not when they’d found her father’s huddled figure on a cloud-darkened slope. Not when she’d turned to take in a final glimpse of her burning city behind her.

  Not even when she’d learned Tariq had promised Jalal never to bring her back.

  Tariq drew her close without a second thought.

  “Stop it.” She splayed both hands against his chest as angry tears began to well. “I don’t need you!”

  You deserve someone who will feel you at her side without needing to see you.

  And I’ve only felt that way about one boy.

  “Stop trying to hurt me, you awful girl,” he said grimly. “It won’t work. At least not in the way you hope it will.”

  Hot tears slipped down her face. Yet she refused to lean on him. Refused to succumb to such weakness.<
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  With a weary sigh, Tariq wrapped his arms around her.

  They felt solid, certain, safe.

  They felt like everything she’d ever loved about being young and free. The scent of sand and salt on his skin; the wild feeling of falling and knowing someone would always be there to catch her or, at the very least, tend to her wounds; the newness of all things . . . and of love, especially.

  “Rahim told me what happened.” Tariq’s fingers shifted to the nape of her neck as they had so many times before, so many years past. He lowered his voice; it rumbled, rich and resonant against her, almost decadent. A luxury she no longer needed nor deserved. “I’ll beat that boy bloody for even thinking such things.”

  No.

  Shahrzad pushed away from him. “It isn’t your place. I’ve already spoken to Teymur. He won’t pursue the matter further.”

  Tariq’s eyes flashed. “My place?”

  “I’ve handled the matter, Tariq. Do nothing, as it would serve no purpose, save to shed more blood. And I’ve had enough of that.” She shouldered her way past him.

  He cut her off, his jaw jutting forward, his fists at his sides. “Would you shackle the boy-king in such a manner?”

  “Don’t compare yourself to Khalid. It’s childish and beneath you.”

  Tariq winced, but stood his ground. “Answer me, Shazi. Would you tell him it wasn’t his place to rage against this boy for what he did to you?”

  She paused. “Yes.”

  “And he would listen to you?” His brows gathered in disbelief.

  “He . . . would listen.”

  Then do exactly as he pleased.

  “You’re lying,” Tariq scoffed. “I don’t believe for a moment that butcher you call a husband would let that boy see another dawn after what he did to you.”

  “What Khalid would do is none of your concern.” She was dangerously close to shouting. “And I’m finished discussing this incident and my butcher of a husband with you!” Shahrzad sliced a hand through the air with finality.

  “So now you think it’s your place to control what happens in this camp?” Tariq said. “Is that why that sniveling boy was returned to his people, like a child to be scolded? Did you honestly think—”