The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (11 page)

The stars in Rey were never so bright.

For a moment, Shahrzad was reminded of something her father used to say:
“The darker the sky, the brighter the stars.”

Just as she began to drift into thoughtful solitude, a burst of nearby laughter jarred her into awareness.

The young women sitting beside the
ghalyans
were being entertained by a host of young men with pitchers of spiced wine.

“Despite the old sheikh’s request tonight, it matters not where we set up camp. What matters is that we’re close to laying siege to Rey,” an inebriated young man proclaimed. “And, when we do, I will be the first to piss on the grave of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” He lifted his pitcher skyward.

The girls tittered. One stifled a cackle. The other young men joined in the toast, their pitchers raised high and their voices raised even higher.

Their shared joy was like the tip of a cold blade against Shahrzad’s spine.

“That monster doesn’t deserve a grave,” another young man chimed in. “His head belongs on a pike. He’ll be lucky if we offer him a dram of water before we sever it from his body.” A rousing chorus of approval. “After he murdered those innocent young girls, a clean death is too good for him. I say we tear him apart and leave him for the carrion crows. Better still if he continues to draw breath while the crows pick at him.”

At this next cheer, the group of men grew in number, as more were drawn to the clamor like bees to nectar.

The blood roared through Shahrzad’s body. The tiny hairs on her skin stood straight up.

Khalid.

With nothing but their drunken threats, these foolish boys had managed to burn brutal images onto her mind. Brutal images that would not soon be forgotten.

Her strong, proud king. Her beautiful, broken monster.

The boy she loved beyond words—

Torn to pieces.

She would
never
let them near Khalid.

She would say whatever lie needed to be said, exist beneath hate-filled waters forever . . .

Until she drowned in their enmity, if need be.

It was not fear that drove her to such reckless thoughts.

It was fury.

I will destroy the next one who dares to speak. The next one to utter his name.

She could feel Tariq’s eyes on her. Like the eyes of the wolves about the fire.

He pulled her close. Tried to shield her. Not simply out of concern.

But out of pity.

She knew it the instant she felt his hand in her hair, smoothing it from her face, silently assuring her of—

“Let’s ask the White Falcon!” The first young man turned to Tariq. “The
supposed
leader of our host.” The men around him did not even bother to hide their amusement at the slight. “How would you like to see the monster meet his end?”

Tariq stiffened at the taunt, then relaxed. He tilted his head back, affecting a look of ease. His fingers ran through Shahrzad’s dark waves, in full view of those around them.

Please show me you are not driven solely by hatred, Tariq.

Show me there is honor behind your actions.

That I can still reach you.

“I am not necessarily in agreement,” Tariq began in a solicitous tone that managed to quiet the restless din around them. “For I do think Khalid Ibn al-Rashid deserves a dram of water.”

Shahrzad’s pulse slowed in time with her breath as Tariq held up a hand against a slew of protests.

“And his body deserves a proper burial . . .” Again, he silenced the crowd with a gesture.

“
After
I put his head on a pike for all the world to see.”

The sound of the cheering was lost in the bitter rage echoing through Shahrzad’s ears. The strangled screams of a wrecked heart.

As the men continued carrying on with their pitchers and their puffs on the
ghalyans
around them, Tariq handed Shahrzad his spiced wine, his expression bleak. Vaguely apologetic.

Yet determined.

Shahrzad drank, staring into the fire—

Watching it burn her newfound hope to ash.

“I don’t need your help.” Shahrzad pushed Tariq away, then proceeded to lurch to one side.

“A likely story, you awful girl.” He threaded his arms across his chest, watching Shahrzad sway through the Badawi camp on unsteady feet, in the opposite direction of her tent.

Tariq was honestly surprised she was able to remain upright at all. Even hours later, he still felt impeded by the effects of the wine, and he’d never known Shahrzad to drink spirits of any kind before.

By all rights, Tariq knew he should fall down laughing at his current predicament. The irony. Shackled to the one person he hoped to avoid. This was not at all how he’d wished to end the night. He’d hoped the wine would dull his frustrations. With Shahrzad and his uncle’s continued evasions. With the soldiers’ veiled taunts as to his irrelevance. It was becoming clearer every day that he was nothing beyond a name. After all, when had his uncle given him anything more than nominal power?

Tariq felt uneasy around these men who were willing to destroy what remained of Rey without question. Willing to shed innocent blood for their cause.

Blood Tariq was not ready to spill.

When Shahrzad pitched to one side again, Tariq shot forward and caught her, though the sudden motion nearly launched him into the sand. Fighting for balance, he reached for a nearby pole, its waning torchlight glowing thinly around them.

“I told you, I don’t need your help!” she slurred, though she gripped at his
qamis
in an attempt to stand straight.

Her delicate hands were against his chest. She smelled of spiced wine and springtime. Her hair was a tangle of invitation. Everything about her was utterly beguiling. Enchanting in that way only she could be—a girl who wielded her wiles without intent.

A girl who, despite his wiser inclinations, ensnared him still.

When she peered up at Tariq with a question on her perfect lips, it was all he could do not to answer it with a kiss.

“Was it you?” she whispered.

“What?” Tariq said, shaken from his trance.

Shahrzad grasped tightly the linen near his throat. “Did you send the Fida’is?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you? No matter how much you hated him? You wouldn’t do that to
me
.” She clenched the fabric even tighter, a plaintive note in her voice.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind of the wine’s lasting haze. “Shazi—”

“You have too much honor for that.” She shook her head while looking away, as though she were speaking to herself. “I could never love a boy without honor.”

“Yet you love him.” Tariq’s rancor could not be missed.

Nor could he miss the opportunity to strike out at her.

Shahrzad’s eyes focused on his. For a moment, he saw the heat of anger shine through the muddle of colors. “Khalid has honor, Tariq. If you’d only—”

“I don’t want to hear you make excuses for him.” Tariq shoved off the pole, determined to return Shahrzad to her tent and be done with this night, once and for all.

She stumbled after him. “If you would just listen—”

A group of soldiers rounded the corner, stalking into the light. Judging by their comportment, Tariq guessed they were intoxicated, but they didn’t seem to be glad of it. They seemed to be looking for something, their shoulders caged, their fists at their sides.

The type of drunks on the hunt for a fight.

Tariq pulled Shahrzad back against the pole, concealing her in what appeared to be a lovers’ embrace. He made certain to stand just beyond the weak circle of radiance cast by the torchlight. When Shahrzad raised a halfhearted protest, Tariq muffled her words against his chest.

Better the soldiers not see her.

Better these men on a hunt for a fight not find their match in the young Calipha of Khorasan.

For it was unlikely Shahrzad would be gracious with them, either.

Her body slackened against his as they waited for the soldiers to pass. The desire for battle was slowly leaving her as the wine continued to exert its influence. When she rested against him and he saw her eyes flutter closed, Tariq took a deep breath.

The ache of loss for something not yet gone was sharp. Sharper than anything he’d ever felt before.

“You need to sleep,” he murmured.

“
Mmm
.”

Tariq exhaled, mentally cursing himself. “I’ll take you to your tent.”

Her head slumped forward in a nod. “Check their arms.”

“What?”

“Look for the scarab,” she said. “Don’t trust the scarab.”

“I won’t.” He rolled his eyes, glancing over his shoulder to make certain the soldiers were out of sight. Then he lifted Shahrzad from the sand, nearly thrown off-kilter by her weight, slight though it was. The wine did him no favors. Staving off its effects, Tariq staggered toward her tent.

Her arms circled around his neck. “I’m very sorry, you know.”

Tariq could hardly hear her. “For what?” Again, he almost laughed at the absurdity of her apology. Now, of all times.

“That you have to see me. And do this. It isn’t your pl—” Her eyes flew open, the crown of her head almost smacking him in the jaw. “Where is Irsa?”

“With Rahim.”

Irritation marred her brow. “I shall beat him to death’s doorstep. Make no mistake.”

“What?”

“That gangly imbecile,” she mumbled, her cheek falling against his chest. “I won’t stand for it. I’ll send the Rajput after him. He’ll chase him down with his fiery
talwar
 . . .”

With a shake of his head, Tariq pushed through the opening
of Shahrzad’s tent, nearly dropping her in the process. He left the tent flap wide, allowing the moonlight to brighten the relentless dark of the space.

True to form, Irsa al-Khayzuran’s bedroll was neatly bundled and stacked to one side. Shazi had not bothered to put hers away; it remained in the center of the small tent, her blanket askew, her pillow bunched in a fitful heap.

With barely concealed amusement, Tariq placed Shazi on her bedroll, not even bothering to drag her blanket across her body. She stirred when he tried to lift her pillow.

“Don’t.” She put a hand on his arm, her eyes slivering open.

“Or what?” he whispered, his lips twitching. “Empty threats do not move me, Shazi-
jan
.”

She wrinkled her nose, then curled into a ball, pressing a palm to her forehead.

Again, he tried to lift her pillow and place it beneath her head. After a time, he realized the futility of such efforts and decided the best course of action was to let her sleep off her stupor.

As Tariq moved to stand, he noticed a piece of parchment that had fallen from the folds of Shahrzad’s clothing. Most likely jarred loose when he nearly dropped her.

He lifted it into the moonlight.

It was creased in the manner of something that had been folded and unfolded numerous times.

Something with contents that mattered a great deal to someone.

He glanced down at Shahrzad’s sleeping form. Wavered for the span of a breath.

Then unfolded the parchment.

Shazi,

I prefer the color blue to any other. The scent of lilacs in your hair is a source of constant torment. I despise figs. Lastly, I will never forget, all the days of my life, the memories of last night—

For nothing, not the sun, not the rain, not even the brightest star in the darkest sky, could begin to compare to the wonder of you.

Khalid

With great care, Tariq refolded the letter along its creases, his fingers longing to crush it in his fists.

To tear it asunder. To burn it into nonexistence.

He knew Shahrzad loved the boy-king. He’d known it since Rey.

And he’d known the boy-king cared about Shahrzad.

But he had not known the boy-king truly loved her. Despite what the captain of the guard had said the night of the storm, Tariq had not wanted to believe the murdering madman capable of loving anything or anyone. At least not in a way Tariq could ever understand.

This?

Tariq understood.

Completely.

In a rather short letter, the Caliph of Khorasan had managed to put to words exactly how Tariq had always felt about the only girl he’d ever loved. Had always felt but never managed to say with quite such simple eloquence.

These were not the words of a madman.

For the first time, Tariq saw what Shahrzad saw when she looked at Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

He saw a boy. Who loved a girl. More than anything in the world.

And he hated him all the more for it.