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

by Renee Ahdieh

  In the starlight, Shesha’s long silver whiskers trailed on either side of his pointed snout, like slender ribbons streaming in a soft breeze. His whiskers were whimsical in their bent, and his eyes were unnerving, for they glittered with the bloodred menace of the finest Hindustani ruby.

  Soon, Shesha swerved to the left, toward a snowcapped peak in the distance. This mountain was of the peculiar sort. Its west-facing expanse was sheared flat, as though a giant sword had cleaved down one side of it. The stone itself was a deep blue-grey. Under cover of a cloud-darkened sky, it appeared black. So black that it seemed to absorb all the light around it. Not a single stitch of snow clung to its smooth surface.

  As they rounded the strange mountain’s apex, Shahrzad saw that its east-facing side curved upward in jagged peaks, almost like a set of fingers fanning straight into the sky.

  Shesha veered toward the lowest outcropping, then dove suddenly, his leathery wings pulled tight against his scales. The magic carpet followed, and an icy wind whipped against Shahrzad’s face, all but stealing the very breath from her body.

  Between the thumb and forefinger of the mountain rose a tiered building, carved straight from the rock. Had she not known to look for it, Shahrzad would have missed it entirely. Its four gabled roofs were stacked one on top of the other in graduated height. A wooden sign in a language of golden slashes hung above the entrance.

  As they landed in the small courtyard before the building, a gust of wind riffled a set of brass chimes dangling from the timber eaves. The melody was of the eerie, doleful sort. The sort that clung to one’s bones, long after its notes were lost on the breeze.

  It was in step with the empty, ice-laden expanse around them. And the single stone bowl of fire lying squat in the middle of the courtyard. A sputter of blue and orange amid a stretch of black and white.

  “Charming, isn’t it?” Artan remarked as he tugged the fur-trimmed hood of his cloak over his bare head.

  “It’s . . . different.” Shahrzad pulled her own cloak tighter about her.

  “You should see it in winter.”

  At that, Shahrzad saw Khalid subdue a smile.

  The trio strode toward the entrance, leaving Shesha to slither toward the fire. A set of low doors with a high stone threshold stood before them. Artan removed his sandals, and Shahrzad and Khalid followed suit.

  Not a soul had come to greet them.

  Which did not bode well with Shahrzad.

  The floors were covered in a thick lacquered paper, polished smooth. Their surface was strangely warm. As though a fire burned beneath them. A faint scent of mint floated through the air. At least Shahrzad thought it was mint. Mint mixed with lemons. Or perhaps it was aloe wood?

  Artan moved through the narrow hallways with the swift ease of years past. Slender lanterns covered in waxy parchment lit the way before them. They proceeded up a set of stairs and into another set of hallways. As they entered a shadowy corridor—

  A creature sprang from the darkness, hissing at Artan.

  It was white and lizardlike. Around the size of a small jungle cat. With sharp talons and a smattering of dark spots across its back. The spiked fan along its spine was turned up, and its tail whipped about in warning. As it hissed, drops of saliva struck the lacquered-paper floor, burning holes through its surface. Thin trails of silvery smoke curled in their wake.

  “Get back, you tiny menace!” Artan threatened the creature with an upturned, outstretched palm.

  Though nothing happened, Shahrzad thought she heard the sizzle of a spark catching flame. The lizard continued spitting in Artan’s direction, its spine arching higher and its yellow eyes glowing.

  The soft sound of a woman’s laughter emanated from the other end of the corridor.

  “Has Tolu’s son finally returned?”

  The woman’s voice was not pleasant. But it was not displeasing, either.

  Shahrzad stepped closer to Khalid. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

  Artan snorted. “Relieve your pitiful excuse for a sentry of her duty, and I’ll tell you.”

  A harsh word Shahrzad did not recognize split through the gloom. The lizard retreated. But not without hissing once more at Artan, and spitting near his bare foot for good measure.

  “Is it safe for me to proceed, Aunt Isuke?” Artan said, his amusement still evident.

  Her low laughter resonated once more. “As safe as you’ll ever be, son of Tolu.”

  After exchanging a wary glance, Shahrzad and Khalid followed Artan into a large room with teakwood beams running across its ceiling. A floor of woven rushes extended before them. Seated near a low table in its center was a slender woman who reminded Shahrzad of a bird. Not a bird of song or a bird in flight.

  But rather a bird of prey.

  Her back was as straight as an arrow, and her eyes were two pieces of flint. Her hair was long and hung about her shoulders like a cape of polished pewter. One thin braid fell behind an ear. Threaded through it was a string of colorful glass beads. Her tunic was trimmed in fur and tied across her chest with a leather cord.

  She did not smile when she saw them. She merely quirked her head with interest. Her sloe-eyed look was alert and unwavering.

  “You’ve brought friends.” Her gaze drifted to Khalid first. When he remained stone-faced, Isuke turned toward Shahrzad, her eyes lingering.

  “I think of them as friends.” Artan grinned. “They may not.”

  “The girl agrees,” Isuke confirmed. “The boy does not.” She sniffed the air as though she could discern their thoughts through scent. “Yet.”

  “I gathered as much.” Artan laughed.

  “Then again”—Isuke cocked her chin in the other direction—“the boy cannot have friends. He does not permit himself the luxury.” She blinked slowly. “For he is shrouded in darkness.”

  Khalid’s hand tightened around Shahrzad’s. She swallowed, her eyes meeting Artan’s.

  “Don’t be so impressed, little snipe,” Artan teased. “I could have told you these things within a moment of meeting your king. He hates smiling and never laughs. It’s not a stretch to assume he lacks friends.”

  “Why have you brought them to me?” Isuke demanded. “Are they an offering?”

  At that, Shahrzad placed a hand on her dagger, readying to bolt, while Khalid unsheathed his shamshir without hesitation.

  Artan sighed loudly.

  “Don’t bother, boy,” Isuke said to Khalid, her tone imbued with sinewy softness. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. You came in the company of my nephew. That alone makes you worthy of interest. But the girl has a mystic’s blood in her veins, and you have a black cloud around your soul. I would hear you out before I make a decision as to what to do about you.”

  When Khalid still did not lower his sword, Artan turned to look him in the eye. “I promise no harm will come to Shahrzad while we’re here.” Solemnity hardened his expression. “On my father’s grave, I swear it.”

  Isuke’s shoulders stiffened.

  Artan’s promise had offended her. Or intrigued her. Shahrzad could not be certain. But neither possibility gave her much reassurance.

  Yet it appeared Khalid was not of the same mind. He returned Artan’s unflinching stare for a time, and—just when Shahrzad had decided the situation had taken a turn for the worse—Khalid relaxed. The muscles along his jaw ceased to ripple.

  His sword fell to his side.

  “Why have you brought them, son of Tolu?” Isuke’s voice had gone even softer. Dangerously so. The flint in her eyes darkened to obsidian. “And why are you making such promises on their behalf?”

  “The boy is cursed, Aunt Isuke. They want your help to rid him of it, as well as to find a means to restore her father’s health.” Artan paused. “I would consider it a favor to me if you would hear them out.”

&nbs
p; “A favor?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are that important to you?” Isuke glanced back at Shahrzad with renewed interest.

  “I told you: they are my friends.” Artan hesitated for the barest of instants. “And they may possess . . . knowledge of my parents’ misdeeds.”

  Though it was carefully worded on Artan’s part, Shahrzad started at this revelation. Khalid eyed Artan, his expression darkening.

  A strange flash of emotion passed across Isuke’s face. It was gone before Shahrzad could place it. “Very well. As a favor to you, I will hear them out.” Her features hardened. “But I expect the same courtesy when I make a request of you in the future.”

  Artan gave her a curt bow in response. Then Shahrzad took a position on the woven rushes opposite Isuke, with Artan kneeling to her left. She glanced up at Khalid expectantly, and he finally sat beside her, his shamshir close.

  The sorceress listened as Shahrzad relayed the sad tale of Ava and Khalid. Of their arranged marriage and the heartbreaking loss of their child. Of Ava’s desolation and eventual death. Of Ava’s father luring Khalid to his home, where he took his own life in exchange for the dark magic to enact the curse upon Khalid.

  When Shahrzad finished, she turned to Khalid. In a terse voice, he recited the curse’s terms, sharing how he had begun to fulfill it, but could no longer be subjugated to the whims of a vengeful madman.

  The entire time, the sorceress’s only reaction was the same birdlike tilt of her head. When they were done, she removed a sheaf of papers from her desk with calculating slowness.

  “A curse is payment for a debt owed—a deal made, however unfairly,” Isuke began. “In this case, a man’s life was given as payment for its magic. If the magic is to be rendered powerless, an offering of equal weight must be made.”

  “Then . . . I must die.” Khalid spoke as though he were resigned.

  As though he had expected it.

  Every muscle in Shahrzad’s body pulled tight. A litany of protests formed in her throat.

  Isuke’s mouth curved downward in what she must have considered a smile. “No. I did not say that. If it were that simple—a life for a life—this curse would have ended many dawns ago. Curses are rarely that simple.” She placed an oval mirror the size of two hands on the table. Then she laid both palms beside it.

  The mirror seemed to rise of its own volition. It turned to reflect Shahrzad and Khalid before it began to spin very slowly, as though it were hanging from the ceiling on an invisible string.

  “I am saying,” Isuke continued, “that magic mirrors itself, both in power and intent. Like every mirror, all magic has a dark side. A side that can be tricked into seeing what it wishes to see.” For a moment, she seemed amused by her own words. “In magic and in life, deceit is often the best way to defeat one’s enemies.”

  The mirror spun. Slowly. Lazily. It flashed silver as it met Shahrzad’s face, before catching Khalid’s reflection. Then the mirror’s dark side passed, whirling around in another play of light and shadow.

  Shahrzad blinked. When she glanced to her right, she noticed Khalid’s brow had furrowed in concentration. As though the mirror had become a complex riddle he intended to solve.

  Isuke’s voice faded to a languid drone. “Thus, if you wish to determine an appropriate counterpoint for this curse, you must delve beneath its surface.”

  I don’t . . . understand.

  The revolving mirror caught Shahrzad’s attention once more. Flashing before making another slow turn. Light and dark. Shahrzad, then Khalid. Again. And again.

  Shahrzad grew dizzy. The scent of lemons and mint filled her nostrils and spread into her chest. Her eyelids began to droop. A heaviness slid around her like a second skin, as though she were on the verge of falling asleep. Or drifting in that space between dreams, where she was aware of what was happening around her, but had no control over it.

  In that moment of suspended weightlessness, an unwanted presence entered her mind.

  It was as though a hooded figure had ambled into the haze of her bedchamber, rummaging through her things like a thief in the night. When it failed to find what it was looking for, it turned in her direction.

  Shahrzad gasped.

  It did not have a face. Where there should have been features was instead a blank oval of ivory, like a polished eggshell. The faceless intruder glided toward her, then led her into a misty corridor, glancing through open doors to its left and right.

  The rooms within were filled with Shahrzad’s memories. All the times she’d fought with Shiva or Irsa. Made a point to return Rahim’s good-natured grumbling. Listened to her mother recite stories. Disappeared for a stolen embrace with Tariq. Read books alongside her father. Cried alone in her room.

  The intruder dwelt on some of the moments she’d shared with Khalid. Many of the nights she’d told him tales by lamplight. Contended with him over matters of the heart, while tearing bread into tiny pieces. All the times she’d kissed him—in darkened alleys and behind veils of shimmering gossamer. The interloper lingered for a spell on their first kiss in the souk.

  As though it had come to the same understanding as they had in that instant.

  Her intruder soon developed a keen interest in any memory of her father. It watched without eyes as Jahandar presented Shahrzad with the single budding rose from his garden, the afternoon she’d first come to the palace at Rey. It leaned in closer—eager—while Jahandar coaxed the rose to life, only to bring it past death with an unwitting turn of his wrist.

  After that, the intruder searched with purpose through the misty hallways for Jahandar al-Khayzuran. Soon, it came across the memory of the day before, when Shahrzad had pressed her father for information on what had transpired the night of the storm in Rey.

  On what Jahandar had done to his hands. To his hair. To Irsa’s horse.

  To the very storm itself.

  His eyes aflame, Jahandar had shown her the book he’d kept pressed to his chest all this time. He’d removed a black key from around his neck.

  And unlocked the tome . . .

  To shine a slow-spreading silver light upon his face.

  From beyond the white haze, the faceless intruder reached a cold hand to tightly clench Shahrzad’s wrist.

  Tightly enough to draw pain.

  Shahrzad stifled a cry.

  “Aunt Isuke!” Artan thundered. “That’s enough!”

  The sound of broken glass scattered the weightless drift in Shahrzad’s mind, bringing everything back into stuttering focus.

  Her eyes flashed open. She was brought out of a world of hazy white smoke.

  The first thing she noticed was the imprint of a hand on her wrist. Red and throbbing and real. Shahrzad blinked hard. When she glanced up, her heart plummeted into her stomach.

  Both Khalid and Artan were on their feet.

  Khalid’s sword had been hurled across the room. It was embedded in a far wall at an odd angle, its jeweled hilt still shuddering from impact.

  Isuke’s ominous mirror was in pieces around them.

  Shahrzad knew Khalid had shattered it. Somehow, he had managed to break whatever control the sorceress had over him and had destroyed her mirror in an attempt to stop her. In response, the sorceress had flung Khalid’s sword far out of reach.

  Now Artan stood between Khalid and his aunt.

  He did nothing while his aunt stole into my mind. Where do Artan Temujin’s loyalties lie?

  She initially thought Artan had stepped between Khalid and his aunt to prevent Khalid from attacking her.

  But Shahrzad realized she might have been mistaken. Artan seemed inclined to side with them, not with his aunt. His back was to Khalid, and only a fool would turn his back on his enemy. Artan was not a fool. At this moment, his expression revealed a complicated mixture of resolve and remorse. As though Artan kne
w he had erred.

  So Artan had not stepped before Khalid to stop him; he had stepped before him to save him.

  He had chosen to side with a boy he barely knew over his own family.

  But why?

  Shahrzad’s gaze drifted to the sorceress seated across from her.

  It’s clear Isuke meant to rob me of my thoughts. To what purpose?

  The sorceress remained with her back as straight as an arrow and her hands upon the table. Unapologetic.

  “You promised,” Artan said, his voice laden with accusation. “You promised it would be nothing more than a search for the book. You prom—”

  “I did not make any promises.” Isuke’s reply bordered on serene, despite its biting undertone. “You did. In any case, the girl is not hurt.”

  “You’re lying,” Khalid replied in a savage whisper. “She cried out.”

  “I’m not hurt. I was . . . startled,” Shahrzad said. “But I demand to know—”

  “Your demands are of little consequence to me,” Isuke interrupted. “But the book your father has—he cannot be allowed to keep it.”

  Confusion settled across Shahrzad’s brow. “I don’t understand. Is it the reason my father—”

  “Your father’s wounds will heal in time. But he has unleashed something much more destructive on your world.” The only change in the sorceress’s affect was a shift in eye color, from flint to obsidian, then back again. “If you destroy the book for me, I will lift the curse from the boy you love so dearly. I will render its debt repaid.”

  Though Shahrzad longed to ask all the questions collecting in her mind, she chose the most pressing one. “Why must the book be destroyed?”

  Shahrzad had to know the sorceress’s reasons, for she did not trust her motivations. Nor did she have any intention of trusting someone who knew everything about her and had yet to offer anything in return.

  Isuke paused in consideration of her. “That book offers nothing but tragedy to its bearer. You should be proud to bring about its demise.”