The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (35 page)

H
IS ELDER DAUGHTER’S SCREAMS BECAME SOBS.

No one else around them moved. The princess of Parthia’s hands were clasped over her mouth, her blue eyes wavering with unshed tears. Her younger sister had buried her face in her shoulder to stifle her cries.

Yet no one looked Jahandar’s way. No one even uttered a word in his direction. Not his daughter. Not even the
shahrban
. Not a single word of hate or fury or retribution.

All were lost in the sight before them.

And Jahandar did not feel different. Did not feel any better for having done what he had done.

Instead, Jahandar slowly came
un
done at the sight of his proud daughter breaking before him. She had never broken before. Not when her mother had died. Not when she’d had to take control of their home when Jahandar had been lost to grief. Not even when Shiva had been taken to the palace.

Not once had Shahrzad faltered.

But now, she was breaking. Jahandar saw it. Saw her shimmering eyes. Heard her mournful sobs, each louder than the next.

His heart missed a beat. Then crashed through his chest on a rampage.

Jahandar could not stand the sight of his daughter breaking. For he’d never meant to hurt her.

Not Shahrzad. Never her.

The caliph’s blood flowed toward him. Toward Jahandar’s hands, curled in the ground.

And Jahandar knew then what he had to do. He’d memorized every spell in his precious book. Every line of text he’d translated was seared into his mind.

And this spell?

It would be his last. His finest.

The blood that touched his fingertips was still warm.

In that moment, Jahandar recalled the day in the palace when he’d given Shahrzad the last rose from his garden. A budding flower of cream and blushing mauve. He’d wanted to give her a lasting remembrance of home.

He’d killed the rose to give her one moment of beauty.

With the caliph’s blood on his hands, Jahandar began to mutter the spell. He let his wrist turn in the slowest of twists.

His vision started to blur. From the tips of his fingers bloomed an unsteady light. A wave of cold tugged at his center, only to roll down his spine. His sight lightened, then darkened, as though a drop of ink had splashed within his eyes, only to fade into nothingness.

Pain began to collect in his heart. Began to blossom into an open wound.

But it did not hurt. Not truly. Not in the slightest. Jahandar began to smile.

For here . . . here was the true power. The power Jahandar had wanted all along.

The power to speak without words.

The power to love.

Reza watched dawn slowly break in the west. Slowly blur from a night still filled with stars. He had long been a man of infinite patience. It took patience to build relationships. Patience to fortify trust.

Patience to bring down a king.

Reza waited in the desert, watching the gates of Amardha burn. It alarmed him that the sultan’s army had yet to retaliate, but he knew it would come in time. And Reza refused to show the mercenaries around him he had anything but the utmost faith in his cause.

Men with a loyalty bought and sold could not be trusted around a questioning heart. For questions could be sold at auction to the highest bidder.

When Reza saw the swirl of rising dust from an approaching rider, he sat taller on his steed. The horses of the men around him whickered as his men drew near.

The Fida’i messenger said nothing while reining in his stallion before Reza. The animal shone with sweat, the messenger’s eyes were grim.

“The sultan has surrendered to the caliph,” the messenger said without pausing for breath.

Reza concealed his surprise. But not his fury. “How is that
possible? A battle was never even fought. Did you speak with the sultan?”

The messenger did not reply. He exchanged a brief glance with the other men around Reza.

Even before he felt the first blow, Reza understood what was happening.

It came from behind. The slash of a sword.

Reza fell forward on his horse. The stallion reared back at the second blow to Reza’s side.

With a gasp, Reza collapsed into the sand, clutching his wounds.

He rolled onto his back, wheezing for air.

The messenger rode closer, his bloodied blade glittering against the sky. “I have a message from the son of Nasir al-Ziyad. He says the next time you send a mercenary to kill someone he loves, make sure she does not live to tell the tale.”

The last thing Reza bin-Latief saw was the flash of a sword.

T
HE BOY BOUNDED THROUGH THE DOUBLE DOORS
into his father’s waiting arms.

“Baba!” he cried. “Uncle Artan is going to teach me to fly on his winged serpent!”

The Caliph of Khorasan gazed down at his son with thinly veiled amusement. “I think your mother may have something to say about that.”

“No!” The small boy shook his head. “You can’t tell Mama. Uncle Artan made me promise.”

“Again, your mother may have something to say about that.”

The boy made a sweep of his room with his large, amber-flecked eyes. “Where is she?”

“I believe she is in the solarium with your aunt.”

“But she’s coming soon?”

“Of course.”

Eagerness alighted the boy’s gaze. “She said she has a new story tonight.”

“I heard.” Khalid smiled.

At that, the boy raced to the center of his platformed bed and
grabbed his favorite green cushion. Khalid came to rest beside him.

Cautiously, the boy reached up to place a hand on the scar marring his father’s face. “Does this ever hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“Uncle Artan fixed my knee the other day after I fell. Maybe you should ask him to fix it.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t mind it.”

“Why?”

Khalid smiled again. “Because it reminds me that all things come at a cost. That every decision we make has consequences.”

The boy nodded slowly, as though he were very sage for all his five years. “I just don’t like that you’re hurt.” His small fingers remained pressed to his father’s cheek, grazing the edge of the scar ever so gently.

“Just as I would not like for you to be hurt either. Hence the worry regarding the flying serpent.”

The boy grinned, his pert nose wrinkling. “I love you, Baba.”

“And never forget my heart is always in your hands, Haroun.”

The doors to the chambers opened, and Shahrzad walked through them in a flurry of wild hair and jeweled silk.

Haroun raced to the edge of the bed to greet her.

“Mama, don’t tell Uncle Artan I told you, but he said once I learn my lessons this week, he will teach me how to fly!”

Khalid narrowed his gaze. “Haroun-
jan
, you told me you promised Uncle Artan you wouldn’t tell your mother.”

The boy side-eyed his father with a sheepish glance. “I forgot.”

Shahrzad laughed. “You must learn to keep your promises, my star. For a man who cannot keep his promises is nothing.” She brushed back his tangle of wavy black hair. “And what’s this about you flying?” Shahrzad reached for one of the wilted roses beside her son’s bed. “If you’re so interested in flying with Uncle Artan, then perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you the story I intended to start tonight. It might only encourage you.” With a twist of her hand, Shahrzad brought the flower back to life.

“No!” Haroun leapt back to his place in the center of the cushions. “I won’t learn to fly.” He smiled, and it was so wide and bright and perfect that it turned up the edges of every feature on his perfect face. “Even though Amira said it wasn’t scary, and—”

“Sometimes Amira al-Khoury likes to embellish the truth. Just like her mother.” Shahrzad held back a sigh.

“I know. But I trust her because she’s my best friend.” Haroun’s smile widened. “Don’t worry, Mama. I won’t fly . . . yet.”

With a wide smile of her own, Shahrzad settled beside the most beautiful ones in existence. Her husband and her son. The small boy lying alongside her was a tiny mirror of Khalid, save for having her nose and her wild waves of hair.

Save for the white scar across Khalid’s cheek.

One of the marks from the night her father had given his life for their love. One on his face. One at his heart. These marks that made her thankful, each day, to be alive. To share this life with those she loved.

She thought for a moment about Shiva. A warmth settled upon her.

All Shahrzad wanted was before her. All Shahrzad needed was within her.

She woke to each dawn with a grateful heart.

“Did all go well with Irsa?” Khalid asked as Shahrzad leaned against a cushion.

“Yes,” Shahrzad replied, lifting the rose to take in its scent. “She’s still busy in the solarium studying medicinal herbs alongside Artan. But she might accompany Tariq when he next visits Amardha.”

Khalid raised a brow. “Still trying for a match? Both you and Irsa are worse than the gossips on the street corners of the souk. Always plotting something.” A warm light gleamed in his eyes.

“I’m not doing anything!” Shahrzad threw up her hands. “Tariq travels to Amardha on his own accord. If he manages to spend an inordinate amount of time with Yasmine while doing so, then . . .”

One side of Khalid’s mouth slid upward. “Indeed.”

“Mama?” Haroun cleared his throat, looking between his parents. “The story?”

“Ah, yes. Of course!” She pulled him close. “Since my most esteemed
effendi
is so enamored by the idea of flying, I thought I would begin this tale in a land not so far from here. Our hero begins his journey on a dark night, where he slips from his bedroom window into a garden, with naught but a small rug under his arm. An ugly, blemished rug, with a medallion at its center and scorch marks along its sides.”

“A rug?” Haroun asked, a furrow lining his forehead.

“Yes. A rug.” Shahrzad’s eyes sparkled. “But this is no ordinary
rug! It is a rug that can take our hero wherever he wishes to go. To any time and any place. His imagination is the only thing that binds him. Should he wish to see the magical creatures that swim in a blue sea a thousand leagues away, he can, if he but wishes so. If he wishes to know what the snow at the top of the highest peak tastes like when mixed with the finest honey in the markets of Damascus, he has but to ask. Alas, these are not his chief concerns. For he has but one dream, and one dream only.”

Shahrzad paused, staring down at the boy at her side. Then she glanced up at the man across the silken cushions.

Her heart was as boundless as the ocean. As vast as the sky.

“Do you want to know more about our hero?” she asked.

Haroun’s eyes danced. “Yes!”

“Then we begin with the first tale . . . ‘Haroun and the Magic Carpet.’”

I
FEEL AS THOUGH I ONLY YESTERDAY PENNED THE
acknowledgments for
The Wrath and the Dawn
, and here I am with a finished series in my sights. Trite though it may sound, time certainly does fly.

As always, I could not make this dream of mine a reality without the tireless support of my brilliant agent, Barbara Poelle. B, only Cookie could begin to compare. Also—good luck, stupid.

To my editor, Stacey Barney: thank you for always, always challenging me and never allowing me to settle for anything less than excellence. Working with you is one of the greatest gifts this amazing career has afforded me. Thank you for loving these books and these characters as I have—from the beginning to the end.

To all the fantastic people at Penguin: there are no words to express how much your support and enthusiasm mean to me. Special thanks to the indomitable Kate Meltzer and my wonderful publicist Marisa Russell—thank you for never shying away from my endless questions and forever having my back. Also huge thank-yous to Carmela Iaria, Alexis Watts, Doni Kay,
Anna Jarzab, Chandra Wohleber, Theresa Evangelista, Marikka Tamura, Jen Besser, Catherine Hayden, Lisa Kelly, Lindsay Boggs, Sheila Hennessey, Shanta Newlin, Mia García, Erin Berger, Amanda Mustafic, Colleen Conway, Judy Parks Samuels, Tara Shanahan, and Bri Lockhart.

To the 2015 Bat Cavers: here’s to many, many more shared critiques and even more shared laughter in our near future. Thank you to Alan and Wendy Gratz for making this magic possible. Gwenda Bond, your voice narrates my life.

To all the wonderful bloggers, librarians, YouTubers, and book lovers who champion books everywhere—I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

To my writing sisters—Joy Callaway, JJ, Traci Chee, Sarah Lemon, Ricki Schultz, and Sarah Henning—thank you for being there every step of the way.

To Marie Lu: there are not enough thank-yous in the world. I am so grateful to call you my friend. There will be many more pots of tea in our near future, and I look forward to them all.

To Beth Revis and Lauren DeStefano: never, ever stop being the wondrous souls you both are. It is glorious thing to witness, and I am beyond thankful to have each of you in my life. Lauren, there are no emojis left. We’ve used them all. Also Eva says hi. Revis, that liner is on fleek.

To Carrie Ryan: thank you so much for every lunch, every text, every laugh, every tear. I don’t know who first said it, but when you find someone who hates the same things you do, cling to them; therefore, I shall cling to you. Always.

To Marie Rutkoski: for the beautiful critique of
Rose
, for the advice, for the emails, for everything. But mostly just for being you, wonderful you.

To all the amazing friends I made my debut year—to Sona Charaipotra, to Dhonielle Clayton, to Victoria Aveyard, to Adam Silvera, to David Arnold, to Becky Albertalli, to Valerie Tejeda, to Nicki Yoon, to Melissa Grey, to Virginia Boecker—it was such an honor to go through that maelstrom with you.

To Brendan Reichs because I promised. And also because he rocks a tangerine suit like no other.

To Sabaa Tahir: you are my rock, and I have no idea how I would have written this book without you.
None.
I thank every seven for bringing us together.

To Heather Baror-Shapiro and the entire team at IGLA: every time I see a foreign cover, I have to pinch myself. Thank you, a thousand times over.

To Elaine: for understanding me as no one else does. Also for putting up with me after the fact. Thank you, thank you, thank you. To infinity.

To Erica: being your sister is one of the best things about being me. Also there’s a hole in your jeans. You should probably look into that. To my brothers, Ian and Chris—I am certain you both will read this book. There are characters in it inspired by each of you. Mwahahaha. To Izzy: thank you for being so awesome and supportive. To my dad: thank you for instilling in me the love of the written word. To my umma—thank you for telling people in the grocery line to buy my book. Never, ever stop doing
that. Also thank you for being so proud. To Mama Joon and Baba Joon: I hope when you read this book, you feel what I feel when I’m around you—deep and abiding love. To Omid, Julie, Navid, Jinda, Evelyn, Isabelle, Andrew, Lily, and Ella: thank you for the rich gift that is our family. And for always being there, no matter what.

And to Vic—

To not belonging to anyone. But belonging together.