The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (29 page)

S
HAHRZAD LEANED AGAINST THE COLD STONE WALL.
A constant trickle of murky water passed by her slippered foot. The heavy chains around her wrists and ankles clinked with the smallest of movements.

She did not know how much time had passed.

Days perhaps.

It was impossible to tell, as not even a sliver of light seeped into the space.

The water in the filthy cup left by the grate was brackish. Even the smell of it turned her stomach. The bread beside it was stale and dry. She ate only enough to conserve her strength.

Her father had come to visit her twice. To beg her to apologize.

To see reason. To work alongside the sultan to achieve a lasting peace.

To surrender.

Both times, Shahrzad had turned her back on him. Had willed herself smaller, wishing she could disappear for just a moment, so she would not have to face him.

So she would not have to admit how he’d betrayed all she held dear.

Shahrzad knew she had betrayed her father by stealing his book, but a book was not the same thing as a life. Not the same thing as a future.

And with this book her father had taken so many lives that night in Rey. So many futures.

Now Shahrzad remained in near darkness. The single torch two cells over rarely wavered light in her direction.

At first, the guards had come to check on her regularly. To toy with her. To threaten her. To hurl intimations of unforgivable acts her way.

They’d pushed her. Shoved her face into the muck. Twisted her arms behind her back. Called her worse names than Shahrzad had heard screamed at wild animals.

She had believed their threats at first. Had steeled herself for their mistreatment. Had waited in the soggy gloom, shivering and alert . . . promising she would not cry.

Would not dare give them the satisfaction.

But beyond the first guard’s cutting of her hair and the occasional crush of her cheek against muck, they did not press further. They did not inflict lasting harm on her.

Something stayed their hands.

Shahrzad was not fool enough to think it was respect. No, with men such as these, it was never respect.

Something was not right beyond these walls. And it was clear the guards were afraid of that something.

These thoughts gave her a measure of comfort. For once, they made her see the benefits of an unfavorable reputation.

A reputation forged in blood and fury.

Let them fear what is to come. Let them know what it is to cower in the darkness, uncertain of their future.

Let them be afraid of Khorasan and its king.

For Khalid would tear them limb from limb once he breached the city walls.

Once he learned Shahrzad was here.

And when would that be?

Again she was left to think about the perils of wanting too much. But little was served from wanting what she could not control. The past few weeks had taught her that.

Shahrzad swallowed drily as she pulled her knees in to her chest. Each passing hour took with it more of her resolve, and she could not allow her will to fade along with her strength. Refused to allow it.

She was a tree being lashed about in a storm. She would not break.

Never.

She had to find Irsa. And get far away from this palace.

At least now the soldiers were leaving her be. They had not come to harass her for quite some time.

At least now she was alone.

Shahrzad wrapped her arms around her legs. The sound of her wet sniffle seemed to leap from wall to wall. The torch beyond her cell flickered out.

Leaving her in utter darkness.

“You have not lost hope?” A gruff voice resonated from just outside the bars.

Shahrzad said nothing. She was not certain if it was another prisoner or a guard still trying to toy with her. Still trying to break her.

“You. Girl. Are you still alive?” the voice repeated in a dry rasp. It sounded like a pile of dead leaves gusting across granite pavestones.

Again, she said nothing.

I will not break. Ever.

“Girl? Are you alive?”

She sighed, loud and long. “I am, you ornery bastard. What of it?”

“Good.” The voice coughed. Whoever it was, was old, bordering on sickly. “I’ve watched you these last four days. You’ve got courage.”

“I suppose you think I should be flattered?”

Another cough. “No.”

“Then what do you want?”

A pause. “I don’t know yet.”

“Then leave me be.”

“Have you something better to do?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” The strange old man waited for a spell. “You remind me of something.”

Shahrzad shifted as she threw her eyes to the ceiling of her cell, her chains clanking around her. “And what is that?”

“The banyan tree I used to hide in as a boy.”

Despite everything, Shahrzad’s interest was piqued, for he was unlike any of the soldiers who had come to torment her thus far. “Banyan tree?”

The rustling sound from beyond the darkness made Shahrzad think her strange visitor had settled in for a while. He cleared his throat. “When I made mischief as a child, I would run to the hollow of a very old banyan tree on the edge of the jungle and hide within it before my father could punish me.”

“And why do I remind you of this tree?”

“Because these trees destroy everything around them over time.”

Shahrzad let out an unamused chuff. “Thank you for the lovely story, old man.”

He coughed a low chortle. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“Forgive me for not seeing it as such.”

“Where I come from, we are raised to see things in a never-ending cycle. I saw that cycle in the life of the banyan tree. It grows big and tall and wide while providing shelter to those who seek it. Over time, it can grow too big for itself, destroying everything around it. But I’ve also watched it slowly feed its way to new life. Provide roots for the new trees. Seeds for the new flowers. You are a banyan tree because in you I see this story. The beginning and the end of all things. The hope for something to grow, even in shadow.”

Shahrzad’s pulse started to rise.

The old man’s voice had begun to deepen as he spoke. Had begun to lose some of its raspiness. Had begun to roll like distant thunder.

“Be the beginning and the end, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.” A flare of light burst to life across the way. “Be stronger than everything around you.”

The face of the Rajput shone bright in the flickering flame.

“Make all our many sacrifices worth it.”

T
HE ARMY THAT MADE ITS WAY TO THE GATES OF
Amardha was an unusual one.

The like of which had not been seen in an age.

At its head rode a boy-king beneath a banner of two crossed swords. His cuirass was of silver and gold, and his
rida’
was of unrelieved black. By his side were his uncle and his cousin. One wore a cloak with a griffin stitched upon its surface, and the other wore a medallion signifying his status as the captain of the Royal Guard.

At the young king’s flank rode a boy in white, flying the banner of a falcon. A boy who had been his enemy mere days ago.

At this boy’s shoulder rode a host of the finest horsemen this side of the Sea of Sand. Horsemen who had not ridden to war for a generation.

Above them flew a young man with a bald head glistening in the afternoon sun. A young man with a gold ring through each ear. A young man on a flying serpent with scales of darkest night, rippling with each beat of its leathery wings.

A serpent that screamed through the heat with a sound like nails across stone.

The host moved in concert, led by this boy-king and the head of a flying serpent.

Again, it was a rather strange sight. But nevertheless a fearsome one to behold. A sight fueled by a tumult of emotions.

But oddly not by fury.

For the boy-king at its vanguard had mastered his rage even before he had begun the march from Rey to Amardha. Had leashed his control.

And his was a control even more deadly in such a state. A fury at its worst in such a case. When it could be shrewdly unleashed at a moment’s notice.

Much like the head of a serpent.

The sight of Amardha’s grey gates before him made the boy-king’s eyes flash. Once.

No. He was not here to wreak revenge.

For revenge was trifling and hollow.

No. He was not here to retrieve his wife.

For his wife was not a thing to be retrieved.

No. He was not here to negotiate a truce.

For a truce suggested he wished to compromise.

The boy-king spurred his black al-Khamsa forward, its hooves kicking up a storm of dust and debris.

He was here to burn something to the ground.

T
HE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF CLANKING METAL AND
whickering horses filled the desert air with an odd sort of anticipation. Though Irsa had not yet decided if it was the good kind. Nevertheless, she paced on the outskirts of the newly formed camp, trying to remain lighthearted.

“This is exciting, isn’t it?” she began, glancing at Rahim sidelong.

He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. “
Exciting
is perhaps not the right word.”

Her expression fell. At that, Rahim reached for her hand. Irsa wrapped her fingers around his as though they were made for this, and only this.

They strolled through the bustling encampment. Members of the Royal Guard had already completed the work on Khalid’s tent and had now turned to their own. Badawi soldiers were busy raising Omar’s patchwork structure.

Their hands still entwined, Rahim and Irsa watched the men work in silent concert.

“Are you frightened?” Irsa asked.

He did not answer right away. “A bit. In most of the battles we’ve fought, we’ve had the advantage of surprise. And there is little chance for surprise when you march to the gates of a city and promptly set up camp.” Rahim laughed softly. “But the caliph seems to be a sound strategist. And he doesn’t seem prone to wasting life unnecessarily.”

“You like him.” Irsa grinned. “Don’t you?”

“Not really.” Rahim snorted.

But Irsa knew otherwise. She knew he at least respected Khalid a great deal more than he let on. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Tariq.”

“Tell him if you must.” They rounded the shadowed side of a small dune on the edges of the encampment. “It won’t change a thing. Tariq and I are kept beyond the inner circle for the most part.” Rahim kicked a stone from their path. “Tariq is still incensed that he won’t be allowed to go into Amardha with the caliph when he demands the sultan’s surrender.”

Irsa frowned. “I don’t understand why he would want to go. To be honest, I don’t even understand why Khalid wishes to go. That awful man will be unlikely to return Shazi just because he is asked to do so.”

“Even so, I understand why both of them want to go into Amardha and try.” Rahim came to a halt, then turned to shield Irsa from a gust of sand blowing their way.

Irsa shaded her eyes. “But you still disagree with Khalid.”

“I think the caliph should take us with him,” Rahim said firmly. “There’s no finer archer than Tariq in the camp. The caliph is taking the young magus from the Fire Temple with him for
protection, along with the captain of the guard. They’ll definitely keep the caliph safe, but I don’t know if they would risk his safety for Shazi’s sake. I’d much prefer it if others were involved. Others whom I trust.”

“Do you believe the sultan will actually surrender to Khalid?” Irsa looked up, her features dubious.

“It’s less about demanding surrender and more about learning whether or not Shazi is still in the city.”

“You’re worried the sultan has harmed her.” It was not a question.

Rahim sighed. “He would be foolish to hurt Shahrzad. For years, he’s been outmatched in all ways. Though Parthia is a wealthy kingdom, it’s never been able to hold a candle to Khorasan. Our armies, our coffers, our rulers have always been stronger.”

“Until the storm,” Irsa said quietly.

Rahim nodded.

Irsa turned her gaze toward the Sea of Sand. “Rahim . . . do you think he would hurt Shazi?”

His hands shifted to cup her face. “You know as well as I that Shahrzad can take care of herself.” Rahim brushed his thumbs across her cheeks.

Irsa wanted to believe Rahim. But she could not forget the events of that terrible afternoon in the desert with Spider. That terrible afternoon she and Rahim had witnessed Shahrzad fall prey to hatred.

Had they not been there to help Shazi, something unspeakable might have happened that day. Had Rahim not been there,
her sister might have died. Rahim had been Irsa’s voice of reason through the turmoil. He’d never flinched from danger. He’d been swift and capable at all turns.

Irsa could not forget. And she could not help but remember that Spider had disappeared from camp the following day.

No. She would never forget that there were treacherous insects lurking where she least expected them.

Irsa lifted her chin. “I’ll ask Khalid.”

“What?” Rahim blinked.

“I’ll ask him to take you and Tariq with him when he goes to Amardha. As a favor to me.”

A mixture of surprise and gratitude washed across Rahim’s features. “Thank you, Irsa-
jan
.” He smiled. “Though I didn’t plan for you to speak on our behalf, I thank you.”

“Please,” Irsa whispered. “Please bring her back safe.” Again, Irsa recalled how Rahim had helped her rescue Shahrzad with very little bloodshed. “I know you’ll think of a way.”

He kissed her hand. Then they continued walking along the camp’s periphery.

After a time, Irsa stopped. “We shouldn’t stray too far from Omar’s tent.”

“No.” Rahim laughed morosely. “For I don’t wish to receive another one of his infamous lectures.”

“You can hardly blame him. They looked for us for hours the day Shahrzad disappeared. And we worried them horribly.” Irsa felt the weight of guilt settle upon her once more. Though everyone had assured her there was nothing she could have done to
save her sister—that she, too, would likely have been taken—Irsa still felt guilty for having wandered off with Rahim.

They made the journey back toward Omar’s tent in pensive silence. Aisha was standing outside, her expression warring between a smile and a frown.

Before a word of chastisement could be said, Irsa stood on her toes to speak in Rahim’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Khalid.” She felt the familiar warmth curl through her stomach when Rahim brushed his forehead closer. “I’ll make sure he listens.”

“I know.” He looked at her with guileless eyes. “That’s why I love you.”

Tariq had not expected the Sultan of Parthia to invite them into his palace. He’d expected the ruler of the warring kingdom to meet them in the desert.

With a host of his own.

Instead, the sultan had sent a messenger, requesting to speak with the caliph in person.

So the caliph made the decision to ride into Amardha, under a flag of truce.

The
shahrban
had been staunchly against it. But the caliph had been adamant, citing the wisdom behind knowing his enemy’s intentions. Understanding the game Salim Ali el-Sharif meant to play. The caliph had refused to show a hint of fear.

Tariq suspected the caliph wished, above all, to know of Shahrzad’s whereabouts. Just as he did. Whether it was unwise or imprudent remained to be seen. But it would be difficult to
lay siege to the city without first knowing whether Shahrzad was within its walls. Without first knowing whether they could rescue her.

Without first knowing whether she was safe.

So that very afternoon, Tariq, Rahim, the captain of the Royal Guard, a bald-headed boy from the eastern mountains, and a small contingent of guards accompanied the caliph into Amardha. Into a palace Tariq could only describe as beyond opulent. The marble fountains lining its courtyards were studded with jewels. The water itself seemed to sparkle as though it had been littered with the dust of discarded diamonds.

The caliph met the sultan in the main courtyard. For he’d refused to set foot in the palace proper. He did not speak when the sultan strode toward him, a wide smile cutting across his elegantly unctuous face.

“Khalid-
jan
!” the sultan began. “You’ve brought a larger party with you than we agreed upon. I thought it was to be just you and the captain of the guard.”

The caliph did not respond. He merely stood still, cold and intractable.

A shadow crossed the sultan’s countenance. “Such behavior could be construed as a threat, nephew—coming to my city’s gates with a host at your back, only to disregard the simplest of my requests.”

“I care not how you construe my actions,” the caliph replied, his words a whispered barb. “I only care that you know this: you will pay for what you have done.”

“Pay?” The sultan looped his arms across his chest, the sleeves of his lavishly trimmed mantle shimmering in the afternoon sun.

“I will not play these games with you, Salim. Where is she?”

Another smug smile. “Have you lost something of import, nephew?”

At that, Tariq took a step forward. The captain of the guard lifted a hand to stop him.

“I have not lost a
thing
, Salim Ali el-Sharif. You will tell me where Shahrzad is now. Before the words are forced from your tongue.” A muscle worked in the caliph’s jaw. “Before your city is reduced to ash.”

The sultan’s bodyguards flocked to his side, their hands upon the hilts of their swords.

“Bold,” the sultan mused, utterly unmoved. “Especially in
my
palace. On
my
lands.”

“This is your palace—these are your lands—at
my
discretion. As they always have been.”

“Such arrogance.” The sultan snorted. “If you believed so, why have you not taken them?”

“Out of respect. And because I did not wish to bring war upon us.”

“Respect?” Disbelief registered on the sultan’s face. “For whom?”

“For my brother’s family.”

“Misguided. If you truly thought Parthia so easily won, you would have taken it by now.”

“I am not nearly as greedy as you may think,” the caliph said
with disdain. “I possess twice your bannermen, and you are outmatched in soldiers and weaponry by more than half. As to the pitiful force you tried to rally in the desert, do you think I could not have ridden through them in an afternoon, if put to task?”

“I think you are a conceited child of ridiculous words, just like your mother.”

The caliph remained placid, even at the slight to his mother. “Then chance it. But I will raze this palace, stone by stone, as you waste that chance. And if you are still in it while I do so? Then so be it.” He turned to leave without giving the sultan a chance to respond.

“I doubt you’ll do that, you whoreson. I doubt that very much.” With that, Salim tossed something in their direction.

It slid past the caliph’s feet.

It took Tariq a moment to recognize it.

In the same instant he did, he wished he had not. Wished he did not know enough to recognize what lay strewn across the pavestones of the sultan’s lavish courtyard. What it was to feel such a thing.

What it was to burn with fear and hate in the very same breath.

It was a length of black braid, wrapped in a broken string of pearls.

The party halted in their tracks.

“My soldiers tell me she smells like a spring garden,” the sultan said softly, without a hint of emotion. Then he smiled. Slowly. Cruelly.

Tariq unsheathed his sword.

All he saw before him was blood.

Khalid had known his uncle Salim would try to provoke him.

But he had not known the depths to which the Sultan of Parthia would descend.

When Khalid first saw what his uncle had tossed across the stones, there had been a moment—less than a moment—where the world around Khalid had been reduced to cinder. Where all he’d wanted to do was crush something between his hands and watch it crumble to pieces.

But he’d realized in the next instant what Salim had done. What he meant for Khalid to do. And though Khalid wanted nothing more than to oblige him, blind rage would not serve a purpose beyond this moment.

Blind rage was the action of a boy who existed in the shadows.

Not the king Khalid wished to be.

Salim wanted an excuse to attack Khalid in cold blood. To kill him in this courtyard, before a string of witnesses. To massacre Khalid in defense of himself.

For it was the best way to ensure a legitimate ascension to the throne. One that did not have the stink of treachery to it.

So Khalid remained still, the fury boiling in his blood, searing fast in his throat.

He did nothing. Said nothing. Made to turn away from the provocation. To stride back into the desert, with plans to rail at the skies later, when he was alone.

Khalid would make the Sultan of Parthia pay for what he had done.