When he turned toward the sun, the light struck his eyes, searing his vision. Khalid cursed under his breath.
His growing sensitivity to light was a recurring problem of late. An unfortunate effect of continued sleeplessness. Soon, those around him would become all too aware of this issue. He was too comfortable in the dark—a hollow-eyed creature that slithered and slunk through the broken hallways of a once-majestic palace.
As the faqir had cautioned him, this behavior would be construed as madness.
The mad boy-king of Khorasan. The monster. The murderer.
Khalid squeezed his burning eyes shut. Against his better judgment, he let his mind drift to memory.
He recalled being a boy of seven, standing in the shadows, watching his brother, Hassan, learn the art of swordplay. When his father had finally permitted Khalid to learn alongside Hassan, Khalid had been surprised; his father had often disregarded such requests in the past.
“You might as well learn something of value. I suppose even a bastard should know how to fight.” His father’s scorn for Khalid seemed endless.
Strangely, the one and only time his father had ever shown pride in him had been the day, several years later, when Khalid had bested Hassan with a sword.
But the following afternoon, his father had forbidden Khalid from studying alongside Hassan any further.
He’d sent Hassan to study with the best. And left Khalid to fend for himself.
That night, an angry eleven-year-old prince of Khorasan had pledged to become the best swordsman in the kingdom. Once he had, then perhaps his father would realize the past did not give him the right to deny his son a future.
No. That would take a great deal more.
And the day he held a sword to his father’s throat, his father would know it.
Khalid smiled to himself as the memory brought back with it the bittersweet taste of childish fury.
Yet another promise he’d failed to keep.
Yet another failed revenge.
He did not know why he was remembering these things on this particular morning. Perhaps it was because of that boy and his sister from yesterday.
Kamyar and Shiva.
Whatever it was that drew Khalid to their door had also bade him to stay and help. It was not the first occasion on which he had done such a thing. Since the storm, there had been several times Khalid had ventured into sections of his city, cloaked in the anonymity of silence and shadow.
The first day, he had wandered into a beleaguered quarter of Rey, not far from the souk. While there, he had given food to the wounded. Two days past, he’d helped repair a well. His hands—unaccustomed to the harshness of physical labor—had bled and blistered from the strain.
Yesterday was the first time he had spent in the company of children.
At first, Kamyar had reminded Khalid of Shahrzad. So much so that, even now, it brought the beginnings of another smile to Khalid’s face. The tiny boy was bold and insolent. Unafraid. The best and the worst of Shahrzad.
Then, as the hours had passed, it was the girl who’d brought to mind Shazi’s spirit the most.
Because she hadn’t trusted him. Not in the slightest.
She’d watched Khalid out of the corner of her eye. She’d waited for him to betray her—to shed his snakeskin and strike. Like a wounded animal, she’d warily taken food and drink, never dropping her guard, not even for a moment.
She was smart, and she loved her brother with a fierceness Khalid almost envied.
He’d appreciated her quiet honesty the most. And he’d wanted to do more for their family. So much more than clear their tiny home of destruction and leave behind a pittance in a leather pouch. But he’d known nothing would ever be enough.
Because nothing could ever replace what they’d lost.
Khalid opened his eyes.
With his back to the sun, he began his drill.
The shamshir cut through the sky in swooping arcs. In flashes of silver and streaks of white light. It whistled around him as he tried to quiet the clamor of his thoughts.
But it wasn’t enough.
He put both hands on the hilt and twisted it in two.
The blades were forged of damascene steel, tempered in the Bluefires of Warharan. He’d commissioned them himself. None were their equal.
A sword in either hand, Khalid continued moving across the sand.
Now, the sound of dully shrieking metal rasped about his head with the fury of a desert sirocco.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
A trickle of blood slid down his arm.
He felt nothing. He only saw it.
Because nothing hurt like missing her.
He suspected nothing ever would.
“Has it come to this?”
Khalid did not turn around.
“Have Khorasan’s coffers been so depleted?” Jalal continued to jest, though his tone sounded oddly forced.
His back to his cousin, Khalid wiped his bloodied palms on the ends of his crimson tikka sash.
“Please tell me the Caliph of Khorasan—the King of Kings—can still afford to procure a set of gauntlets or, at the very least, a single glove.” Jalal sauntered into view, a dark eyebrow crooked high into his forehead.
Khalid returned his shamshir to its sheath and glanced at the captain of his Royal Guard. “If you need a glove, I can procure one for you. But only one. I am not made of gold, Captain al-Khoury.”
Laughing, Jalal propped his hands on the hilt of his scimitar, his grip tight. “Procure one for yourself, sayyidi. It appears you are sorely in need of it. What happened?” He nodded at Khalid’s bloodstained palms.
Khalid tugged his linen qamis back over his head.
“Does it have anything to do with you disappearing yet again yesterday?” Jalal pressed, his agitation becoming all the more evident.
When Khalid failed to respond a second time, Jalal stepped before him.
“Khalid.” All pretense at lightheartedness was gone. “The palace is in shambles. The city is a disaster. You cannot continue disappearing for hours on end, especially without a detachment of bodyguards. Father cannot continue lying to everyone about where you are, and I . . . cannot continue lying to him.” Jalal ran his fingers through his wavy mop of hair, further setting it into disarray.
Khalid paused to study his cousin.
And was alarmed by what he saw.
Jalal’s usual veneer of smug self-satisfaction was absent. A scraggly beard shadowed his jawline. His ordinarily pristine cloak was wrinkled and smudged, and his hands seemed on an unending quest for something to grasp—a sword hilt, a sash knot, a collar loop . . . anything.
In all his eighteen years, Khalid had never known Jalal to fidget.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Jalal guffawed loudly. Too loudly. It rang so patently false that it only succeeded in disturbing Khalid further.
“Are you in earnest or in jest?” Jalal crossed his arms.
“In earnest.” Khalid took a cautious breath. “For now.”
“You want me to confide in you? I must confess, I’m galled by the irony.”
“I don’t want you to confide in me. I want you to tell me what’s wrong and stop wasting my time. If you need someone to hold your hand, seek out one of the many young women who pine outside your chamber door.”
“Ah, there it is.” A bleak expression settled on Jalal’s face. “Even you.”
At that, Khalid’s irritation reached a breaking point. “Take a bath, Jalal. A long one.” He began striding away.
“I’m going to be a father, Khalid-jan.”
Khalid stopped short. He turned in place, his heel forming a deep divot in the sand.
Jalal shrugged. A rueful smile tugged at one corner of his lips.
“You . . . u
nconscionable imbecile,” Khalid said.
“That’s kind.”
“Are you seeking permission to marry her?”
“She won’t have me.” He tugged his fingers through his hair again. “It appears you aren’t the only one to have noticed the harem of women outside my chamber door.”
“I like her already. At the very least, she’s wont to learn from her mistakes.” Khalid leaned into the shadows against the stone wall and shot a daggered glance at his cousin.
“That’s also kind.”
“Kindness is not among my celebrated virtues.”
“No.” Jalal laughed drily. “It’s not. Especially not of late.” His laughter gave way to a sobering pause. “Khalid-jan, you do believe me when I say my only thought was to keep Shazi safe when I told that boy—”
“I believe you.” Khalid’s voice was soft yet sharp. “As I said before, there is no need to discuss it further.”
The two young men stood in awkward silence for a time, staring into the sand.
“Tell your father.” Khalid pushed off the wall to take his leave. “He’ll make certain she and the child are provided for. Should you need anything else, you have only to ask.” He began walking away.
“I love her. I think I want to marry her.”
Again, Khalid stopped short. This time, he did not turn around.
The words stung—the ease with which they fell from his cousin’s lips. The realization of Khalid’s many shortcomings when it came to Shahrzad. The reminder of all the lost possibilities.
His chest tight, Khalid let Jalal’s words settle on the breeze . . .
Waiting to hear if they had the tenor of truth to them.
“You think?” Khalid said finally. “Or you know.”
The slightest hesitation. “I think I know.”
“Don’t equivocate, Jalal. It’s insulting. To me and to her.”
“It’s not meant to be insulting. It’s my attempt at honesty—a trait I know you hold in high esteem,” Jalal retorted. “At present—with no knowledge of her true feelings on the matter—it’s the most I can manage. I love her. I think I want to be with her.”
“Be careful, Captain al-Khoury. Those words mean different things to different people. Make sure they mean the right things to you.”
“Don’t be an ass. I mean them.”
“When did you mean them?”
“I mean them now. Isn’t that what matters?”
A muscle worked in Khalid’s jaw. “Now is easy. It’s easy to say what you want in a passing moment. That’s why a harem waits outside your door and the mother of your child won’t have you.” He strode back toward the palace.
“Then what is the right answer, sayyidi? What should I have said?” Jalal called out to the sky in exasperation.
“Always.”
“Always?”
“And don’t speak to me of this again until it is!”
STORIES AND SECRETS
IRSA CLAPPED BOTH HANDS OVER HER MOUTH, STIFLING a cry.
She watched in amazement as her sister trailed the tiny, shabby rug around the center of their tent, using nothing but the tips of her fingers as a guide.
The magic carpet swirled through the air with the languid grace of a falling leaf. Then, with a gentle flick of her wrist, Shahrzad sent the floating mat of wool back to the ground.
“Well?” Shahrzad said, staring up at her with a look of worry.
“Merciful God.” Irsa sank down beside her. “And the magus from the Fire Temple was the one to teach you this?”
Shahrzad shook her head. “He merely gave me the carpet and said Baba had passed along his abilities to me. But I need to speak to him further about it, very soon. I have . . . many important questions for Musa-effendi.”
“Then you intend to seek him out?”
“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “Once I determine how best to travel to the Fire Temple without being seen.”
“Perhaps”—Irsa hesitated—“perhaps when you go, you could speak to Musa-effendi about Baba as well? In the event that he . . .” She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought she knew they were both most concerned with at the moment.
The thought that their father would never awaken from the effects of whatever foul misdeed had befallen him the night of the storm.
What would happen to them if Baba died? What would happen to her?
Irsa folded her hands over her knees and chided herself for such selfish thoughts amidst such suffering. This was neither the time nor the place to worry about herself. Not when there were so many others to worry about. Most especially Baba.
As Shahrzad leaned forward to stow the magic carpet beneath her belongings, the twine around her neck slipped into view.
The ring stayed safely hidden, but its story still begged to be told. And Irsa could not help but pry.
“How could you forgive him, Shazi?” Irsa asked softly. “For what he did to Shiva? For—everything?”
Shahrzad’s breath caught. In one quick motion, she turned to Irsa.
“Do you trust me, Jirjirak?” Shahrzad took Irsa’s hands in her own.
Cricket. Ever since she was a little girl, Irsa had hated that nickname. It hearkened back to a time when she’d been cursed with reedy legs and a voice to match. Shahrzad was the only one who could use the dreaded sobriquet and not elicit a cringe—or something worse—from her.
For the tenth time in as many moments, Irsa studied her sister’s face, seeking an answer she hoped to understand. Her sister was just as lovely as ever, though her features had changed in the few short months she’d been at the palace. Not by much, and not in a way most people would notice. Her cheeks had lost some of their roundness, and the bronze of her skin had lost a bit of its glow. Thankfully, her chin was just as stubborn, her nose just as pert. But a shadow had fallen over her face; some kind of weight she refused to share. Her hazel eyes looked almost lucent in the nearby lamplight. Their colors had always been so changeable. So unpredictable. Much like her sister’s moods. One moment, she was bright and full of laughter, ready for any kind of mischief. The next, she was stark and serious, prepared to battle to the death.
Irsa had never known what to expect from Shahrzad.
But trust had never been an issue. At least not for Irsa.
“Of course I trust you,” she said. “But can you not tell me—”
“It isn’t my secret to tell, Irsa-jan.”
Irsa bit her lower lip and looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Shahrzad said. “I don’t wish to hide these matters from you. But if anyone were to discover that you knew of such things, they might hurt you to learn the truth, and . . . I couldn’t live through that.”
Irsa drew back. “I’m not as weak as you think I am.”
“I never said you were weak.”
Irsa’s smile was small and fleeting. “Some things do not have to be said. You didn’t have to tell me you were in love with Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. And I didn’t have to tell you I cried myself to sleep for weeks after you left. Love speaks for itself.”
Shahrzad pulled her knees to her chest and blinked at Irsa in silence. Sighing to herself, Irsa collected her satchel of tea herbs and reached for a sprig of fresh mint. “Are you coming with me to see Baba?”
With a brisk nod, Shahrzad unfurled to her feet.
A dry desert wind circulated through the Badawi camp. It blew spirals of sand around the warren of billowing tents. Irsa tucked her braid into her qamis to prevent its tail from lashing her face.
Shahrzad unleashed a colorful stream of curses when the end of her plait whipped against her cheek, tousling her hair loose. Black waves coiled above her head in a wicked tangle.
“Oh my.” Irsa suppressed a grin at her sister’s language. “Who taught you to say such things? Was it the caliph?”
&nbs
p; “I hate it here!”
Though Shahrzad’s unwillingness to answer even the most innocuous question stung, Irsa ignored the twinge. “Give it some time. You’ll find it’s not so terrible.” She linked arms with her sister and pulled her close.
“Of all places, why are we in this godforsaken desert? Why has the old sheikh granted us refuge?” Shahrzad spoke in as low a voice as the wind would permit.
“I am not privy to the details. I only know he sold Uncle Reza horses and weapons. His tribe trades in both. Perhaps that is why we are allowed to stay.” She paused in thought. “Or perhaps it is merely a result of his closeness with Tariq. The sheikh treats him as though he were a son.”
“So then, has he not joined forces with Tariq and the other soldiers? Is he not involved in the war effort?” Shahrzad’s brows drew together in confusion.
“I do not think so,” Irsa retorted. “But when I attend the next war council, I’ll be sure to gather more details for you.”
Shahrzad shoved tendrils of hair behind an ear and rolled her eyes.
As they continued crossing the sands toward their father’s tent, Irsa watched her sister make a slow scan of their surroundings. Her eyes trailed Shahrzad’s until they fell upon a thin figure in the distance, mirroring their measured study.
A bony elbow jabbed Irsa’s side. “Who is that boy?”
“Ouch!” Irsa jabbed back. “You mean Spider?”
“What?”
“Oh, I call him Spider, on account of his gangly limbs and his tendency to lurk. He arrived with the Emir of Karaj. I believe he’s the emir’s distant relative. I think his name is Teymur or Tajvar or something of the sort.” She waved a dismissive hand.
“He has a . . . disconcerting look about him.”
Irsa frowned. “He’s a bit odd, but he’s harmless, Shazi.”
Shahrzad pinched her lips together and said nothing.
Irsa pulled back the flap, and they ducked inside their father’s tent. In the arid heat of the afternoon, the darkness within had grown even more stifling. They lit an oil lamp and prepared another tumbler of water, fresh mint, and tea herbs. Their father choked down the mixture as he had that morning, still muttering and clutching the ridiculous book in his arms.