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

by Renee Ahdieh

  She was predictable. Pleasant. Agreeable.

  Everything Shahrzad was not.

  All the same, Tariq kept his recurve bow at the ready.

  For whatever might lurk ahead.

  After half an hour of riding, they neared the well and the abandoned settlement where Tariq had first met Omar al-Sadiq several months ago. He briefly recalled the way the elderly sheikh had shrunk back from Zoraya’s flashing talons. For once, Tariq was glad to have left the falcon behind, as she would have undoubtedly given away their presence by now.

  Rahim and Tariq dismounted from their horses, concealing themselves behind one of the cracked stone buildings. They lingered in a pool of shadow while Irsa tied her steed to a post near the well.

  Despite all, Tariq had to admit he was somewhat curious.

  Who was little Cricket meeting?

  For Tariq could see no trace of Shahrzad anywhere nearby.

  Rahim inhaled through his nose. Even from an arm’s length away, Tariq could sense his friend’s budding apprehension as though it were his own.

  “Why are you so concerned?” Tariq whispered.

  Rahim eyed the slender figure of Irsa al-Khayzuran in the distance.

  Tariq smothered a smirk. “She’s not in any danger. Obviously she’s meeting someone she knows. Are you worried it might be another boy?”

  “Why would I care if she were meeting another boy?” Rahim shot back. “I only want to make sure she’s not in danger.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t care if it was another boy.” Tariq rolled his eyes. “That’s why you’re following her in the middle of the night, like a cuckolded husband.”

  A sound of exasperation rolled from Rahim’s throat. “We both know why we’re here, and it has nothing to do with—”

  Tariq cut him off with a hand to his shoulder.

  Two figures were approaching Irsa. One was easily recognizable. Tariq would know its shape anywhere. He’d spent the better part of his life memorizing its lines. Small and slight. With a messy braid, recently tousled by strong winds.

  The other was tall. Hooded. Male.

  Less easily recognizable.

  Yet Tariq knew—even before the figure pulled back the cowl of his rida’, even before his hand moved to the small of Shahrzad’s back—who it was.

  The hate flew to Tariq’s fingers. Coiled through his stomach. His own words echoed in his ears.

  “Make no mistake—the next time I see Khalid Ibn al-Rashid, one of us will die.”

  Tariq did not pause to reflect. He did not stop to reconsider.

  Love would not blind him to the truth.

  His fury rising, Tariq shoved away Rahim’s blind attempt to stop him—

  And reached for an arrow.

  Shahrzad did not like this place.

  When she and Khalid had first flown above the settlement surrounding the well, a strange sense of foreboding had washed over her.

  As they strode through it now, the feeling only worsened.

  All the buildings around them were abandoned. Many of the mud-thatched roofs had collapsed in on themselves, forming craters that lent an even greater sense of menace to the space . . . warning any and all who dared to tread near that time would not look kindly on those who lingered.

  Worse, despite all her sister’s earlier reassurances, Shahrzad could tell Irsa was nervous. Her sister paced in a tiny circle by the well, clutching a linen-wrapped bundle to her chest. Shahrzad watched as Irsa wore a smaller and smaller ring into the sand by her feet—

  Knowing she felt the same menace in the air about her.

  The only thing that gave Shahrzad the sense that all would be righted soon was the reassuring presence of the hand at her back.

  The warm, solid presence of the boy at her side.

  Khalid sees everything. He never fails to notice the most insignificant detail.

  He won’t let anything happen to Irsa.

  Shahrzad squared her shoulders. Soon, Khalid would destroy her father’s book. Then they could begin to right the many wrongs around them. And she would never have such cause to worry again.

  As they strode toward the well, a sudden breeze cut through the horseshoe of abandoned buildings, slicing through the stone hollow in a frenzy of air and sound.

  A familiar noise ricocheted in its wake.

  Shahrzad stopped walking.

  Was that a . . . horse?

  For a moment, she thought she’d heard the clatter of hooves in the distance.

  Beside her, Khalid paused as well. Then he moved past her, as though he were trying to puzzle it out. Irsa’s horse stood nearby, tethered to a post.

  And no one else knew where they were.

  The breeze died down. The whorls of sand fell to her feet.

  But all was not right. That much was evident.

  Shahrzad felt it on the air.

  Just as she saw the distinct shift of shadows near a building on the far right.

  And she knew. She knew with the same sort of paralyzing certainty as one who dangles from a precipice.

  For she’d trained in the art for years. Now was the perfect moment.

  The wind had just fallen. Down and to the left. She could almost feel the feathered fletchings between her fingertips. The twang of the bowstring as it was pulled tight.

  The snap as the arrow was loosed.

  Without a second thought, Shahrzad shoved Khalid aside.

  AN ARROW TO THE HEART

  THE ARROW ZINGED THROUGH THE DARKNESS, whistling past Irsa on its deadly trajectory.

  The world around her seemed to slow all at once.

  She saw her sister leap toward the Caliph of Khorasan, trying to push him aside.

  In the same instant, the caliph grabbed her, wanting to shield her with his body. Two stubborn lovers, protecting each other from the very same threat.

  Fighting the very same losing battle.

  He grabbed her as she pushed him. And all was lost.

  The arrow buried itself in Shahrzad’s back.

  Then, just as quickly as the world slowed, it sped forward in a sudden rush.

  Irsa watched the caliph catch Shahrzad tight against his chest. Though his face was blank, his eyes were a summer storm. A fiery sun besieged by churning thunderclouds.

  A belated cry of surprise escaped her sister’s lips.

  At the sight of the arrow quivering from Shahrzad’s back, Irsa screamed.

  The sound split the night sky in two.

  “Shazi!” Irsa rushed to Shahrzad’s side.

  Her sister’s fingers were wrapped in the folds of the caliph’s black rida’. Neither of them had yet to utter a word, their eyes fixed upon the other’s. Whatever silent conversation they shared was not one Irsa understood. They sank to the ground, the caliph still holding Shahrzad tight against him. Irsa knelt in the dirt nearby, her heart clamoring in her chest.

  “We—we have to do something!” she cried. “We need to—”

  A rush of movement behind them spurred the caliph to action. He passed Shahrzad to Irsa and stood in almost the same motion. Irsa held Shahrzad, frantically studying the blossoming wound on her sister’s shoulder, wondering what she should do, wondering what she could do . . .

  The grate of a sword being drawn from its sheath yanked Irsa from her tempest of thoughts. For the first time since the arrow blurred past her, she paused to truly look up at the Caliph of Khorasan.

  The madman of Rey. The murderous boy-king.

  Her sister’s husband.

  He was tall. Not as tall as Rahim, but taller than she’d expected. There may have been a time someone else would have found him attractive. But it was not now. Now his features were punishing in their severity. Ruthless in their intent. The only emotion Irsa could discern was fury.

  And the
promise of death hung in the air about him.

  He was truly terrifying.

  Truly a monster.

  The sight of him looming above her—his sword poised to kill—made Irsa want to cower in a corner, like the useless mouse she’d laid claim to in the worst of her nightmares.

  How could Shahrzad love him?

  Before Irsa could take in a breath to think, the caliph positioned the hilt of his sword between his palms and twisted it in two. Now he held mirror images of one sword in either hand. Twin weapons to wreak twice the destruction. His eyes never straying from their lethal task, he moved before Shahrzad and Irsa, shielding them from view.

  Beyond him, footsteps raced through the sand.

  “Shazi!”

  “Merciful God!”

  Irsa turned in shock at the sound of the two voices.

  Rahim and Tariq? What were they doing here, of all places? How had they—

  Shahrzad reached up to seize Irsa’s shahmina, her hands shaking.

  “Shazi?” Fending off her confusion, Irsa bent closer to hear what her sister was trying to say.

  “Irsa,” Shahrzad choked, her fingers winding around the thin fabric of Irsa’s shawl. Her lips had lost all color, and her voice was more breath than sound. “You have to stop him.”

  “What do you mean?” Irsa cried.

  “He’ll kill them.” The trembling had progressed from Shahrzad’s limbs into her core. Her sister’s body had begun to quake, and Irsa’s hands felt sticky from Shahrzad’s blood.

  “I—what do I—”

  “Make them stop,” Shahrzad gasped. “You have to make them stop!”

  Rahim had drawn his scimitar to take position before Tariq. A quiver of arrows dangled from Tariq’s shoulder.

  Tariq had fired an arrow at them? Tariq was responsible for this? But he must have been aiming at the caliph! Only to strike Shahrzad. Merciful God! How had this happened?

  How was she supposed to stop them? It had taken her weeks to get her own sister’s attention! How was she to stop a brash boy like Tariq, armed to the hilt with dreams of blood and glory?

  Much less stay the hand of a cold monster like the Caliph of Khorasan.

  “P-please,” Irsa cried. A mouse’s call to arms. “Don’t!”

  Tariq’s face had taken on a greyish hue. “Is she dead?” he asked the caliph, tugging his fingers through his hair in anguish.

  It was then that Irsa realized Tariq was defenseless, save for the quiver of arrows lashed to his back. No bow to speak of. No scimitar at his side. Not even a dagger tucked in his sash.

  Utterly useless to fight a monster wielding two swords.

  Alas, Irsa knew this did not matter to Tariq. Not in the slightest.

  For it was as clear as rain he was beyond all rational thought.

  The Caliph of Khorasan said nothing in response. He merely brandished both swords in punishing arcs of precision. Arcs that only too well demonstrated his intent.

  He stepped forward.

  Without a word, Rahim moved to defend Tariq.

  Irsa shrieked as the caliph raised both weapons against Rahim. She felt her sister struggle to catch her breath, struggle to sit upright, struggle to protest . . .

  “Is she dead?” Tariq’s grief caused his voice to crack through the blue darkness. “Just answer that question, you bastard, and you may do as you please with me.”

  “Why would I do anything for you?” the caliph replied, low and vicious.

  “Because if she’s dead, I don’t care what happens to me!”

  “Then we agree on at least two things.” With that, the caliph shifted his attention toward Rahim, his swords glinting on a moonbeam.

  “Please!” Irsa screamed. “Please don’t—”

  “Irsa.” Shahrzad yanked her closer, still struggling, her face contorted, her words a ragged whisper. “You have to . . . yell at Khalid. Get up. Make him stop! Do something.”

  Irsa shook her head. He was the Caliph of Khorasan! Could a mouse even dare?

  “Irsa!”

  The clash of swords rang out in the desert, the ring of metal on metal pulsing through the air.

  Yet Irsa remained motionless with fear. As though every cogent thought within her had been swallowed in a breath.

  It was over in four strokes. There was no contest to be had. The Caliph of Khorasan was a demon, trained to wield blades forged in the Bluefires of hell itself.

  Rahim tumbled into the sand, scrambling for his lost sword.

  Irsa’s heart flew into her throat.

  Every part of her tingled with awareness. With inescapable realization.

  It would not be enough for the caliph to disarm Rahim. Not in his current state. The monster of Rey would kill Rahim to get to Tariq.

  To destroy Tariq for what he had done to Shahrzad.

  And Irsa could not live in a world—refused to live in any world—where she had let such a thing come to pass.

  So in the end, it wasn’t the pleading whispers of her sister. It wasn’t the fear that coursed through Irsa’s blood. No. It was never the fear. It was so much more than that.

  It was older than the desert, this feeling. And it forever put an end to the mouse’s reign. Once and for all.

  “Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” Irsa roared. All eyes whipped back in her direction. “Stop this immediately. For if you do not, I promise Shahrzad will never forgive you!”

  Her chest heaved as her gaze fell on the boy lying in the sand.

  The boy who always asked the right questions. The boy who made her feel better than beautiful. The boy who gave her the strength to be a lion.

  “And if you hurt Rahim, I will never, ever forgive you,” Irsa finished, truth imbuing her words with a steel no sword could strike down.

  Even the very grains of sand seemed to yield to her. Seemed to sigh back in relief.

  The Caliph of Khorasan gazed at her for an unblinking moment. His features lost a measure of their severity. He stood straight.

  And lowered his swords.

  Then, as though nothing of import had occurred, the caliph strode back toward Irsa, restoring his blades to a single sword as he walked. Rahim clambered to his feet and retrieved his scimitar before carefully following in the caliph’s footsteps, with Tariq in tow.

  The caliph knelt beside Shahrzad and tried to lift her. She grimaced, the tension banding across her face. Her coloring had worsened considerably, her skin sallow, her forehead damp with sweat.

  “We—have to take her back to the encampment,” Irsa said, determined to remain calm despite the recent tumult. “For I don’t think it’s wise to remove the arrow here. The wound does not seem to be terribly deep, but she’s still losing a great deal of blood, and Tariq uses—”

  “Obsidian arrowheads.” The caliph’s eyes rippled with the remnants of a passing fury.

  Irsa nodded. “It’s likely to worsen the more she moves. We have to do something. Soon.”

  “Shazi?” The caliph reached for Shahrzad, and his suddenly gentle disposition had a strangely disquieting effect on Irsa. It was as though another person had settled into his skin. “I have to separate the shaft from the arrowhead before we move you.”

  Her sister nodded once into the fabric of Irsa’s shahmina.

  The caliph paused. “It will hurt.”

  Shahrzad licked her lips. “Simply do it and stop talking about it, you lout,” she muttered in a barely audible tone.

  Irsa was almost as astonished by her sister’s fearlessness as she was by the sight of the caliph’s mouth tugging upward with shadowed amusement. He drew Shahrzad closer, again with great care. With a quick snap, the caliph broke the shaft of the arrow as near to her skin as he could manage. Shahrzad muffled a cry against him, and her shaking continued with renewed vigor.

  “She’s unlik
ely to remain conscious for long,” the caliph said to Irsa in a quiet voice. “Seasoned soldiers have been known to quail long before this.”

  “S-s-stop talking about me as though I weren’t here,” Shahrzad rasped through chattering teeth.

  “We’re only a short ride from our encampment,” Irsa said. “If we—”

  “Take one of our horses,” Rahim said from behind them. “Then ride back to the Badawi camp with Tariq. No one will question you if you return with Tariq, so long as your face is covered. I’ll ride back with Irsa.”

  The caliph glanced over his shoulder at Rahim. Rahim did not flinch from his cool appraisal. After a beat, the caliph stood with Shahrzad in his arms. He did not say a word as they waited for Tariq to retrieve the horses. When Tariq moved to help with Shahrzad, Rahim stayed him with a hand to his chest before assisting the caliph himself. Soon, the caliph sat astride a dark bay stallion with Shahrzad’s pale figure tucked before him.

  Still in complete silence, the caliph pulled the hood of his rida’ low onto his head and directed the horse forward, as though he intended to proceed without them. Then he swiveled Tariq’s horse back in their direction. His eyes glowed down at them like embers in a fire.

  “Tariq Imran al-Ziyad?” the caliph began, his thinly veiled anger giving the name the rancor of an oath.

  Irsa saw Tariq’s fists clench tight.

  “Lead the way . . . before I rethink the matter and kill you outright.”

  A BROTHER AND A HOME

  IRSA DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF HER SISTER’S husband.

  He was a confusing mixture of extremes, cloaked behind a black rida’.

  With everyone else, he was chipped ice on a mountain. With her sister, he was a summer breeze across the sea.

  Alas, this did little to change the fact that Irsa remained terrified of him. For she was quite certain he’d almost killed Tariq no less than three times since returning to the Badawi camp.

  The first incident occurred not long after they arrived at Tariq’s tent. Though on that score, Irsa supposed the caliph’s enmity was somewhat warranted.

  As soon as they concealed themselves within the tent, Irsa tried to remove Shahrzad’s bloodstained qamis, so as to better see the wound in question. Of course it was not appropriate for Tariq to assist her with this. Especially in the presence of Shahrzad’s husband. Surely Tariq could not have thought it was. Irsa was not quite certain why he’d even attempted to do so.