The edges of Khalid’s mouth turned upward, ever so slightly.
“My God. Are you smiling, Khalid-jan?” Jalal teased in an incredulous voice.
“Perhaps.”
The two young men continued making their way down the hallways until they passed into the main corridor, where they were joined by Khalid’s normal retinue of bodyguards. As they entered the open-air gallery, Khalid stopped short, his features darkening at the prospect before him.
Shahrzad was crossing toward the series of double doors leading to the gardens, with Despina at her side and the Rajput trailing behind her.
When she saw Khalid, she paused and pivoted on her slippered heel, gliding in his direction.
She captivated him in the way she always did, with unguarded beauty and unassuming grace. Her hair rippled behind her in shimmering waves of ebony, and her pointed chin was turned high and proud in the rays of sun streaming from above. The light gold of her mantle cloaked the deep emerald of the silk beneath it. Woven into the myriad colors of her eyes, Khalid saw the same mixture of reticence and defiance as always.
But now there was something else. A new emotion he could not place.
She wrinkled her nose at the Rajput’s looming presence, and the power behind this simple gesture pulled Khalid to her side, like sweet wine and the sound of bright laughter.
As she drew closer, the memory of last night washed over him.
The feel of her in his arms. The scent of lilac in her hair.
The futility of all else, save his lips against hers.
Of his will . . . crumbling.
“Tell me.”
“Anything.”
She opened her mouth to say something, a strangely uncertain look marring her lovely features . . .
And Khalid blew past her, without a glance in her direction.
Jalal followed him, wordlessly. Once they were out of earshot, he grabbed his cousin’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Khalid knocked his hand aside.
“Khalid!”
His gaze mutinous, Khalid continued striding down the corridor.
“Are you a fool?” Jalal persisted. “Did you not see her face? You wounded her!”
Khalid whirled around, seizing the front of Jalal’s qamis.
“I told you once, Captain al-Khoury: I will not discuss Shahrzad with you.”
“To hell with that, sayyidi! If you continue down this path, there won’t be much to discuss. Have you not learned your lesson yet, cousin?”
Jalal bent toward Khalid, his brown eyes harboring a cold fury.
“Was Ava not enough?” he whispered in a cruel tone.
At that, Khalid shoved Jalal back and punched him once in the jaw. His bodyguards scrambled to Khalid’s side as Jalal slid across the marble floor and wiped at his bloodied lower lip before sneering up at his king.
“Get out of my sight, Jalal,” Khalid seethed.
“Such a wizened old man in so many ways. And such a little boy in so many others.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know very little, and I still know more than you, Khalid-jan. I know love is fragile. And loving someone like you is near impossible. Like holding something shattered through a raging sandstorm. If you want her to love you, shelter her from that storm . . .”
Jalal rose to his feet, straightening the insignia of the Royal Guard at his shoulder. “And make certain that storm isn’t you.”
MEHRDAD THE BLUEBEARDED
SHAHRZAD PACED BEFORE HER BED THAT NIGHT, wearing a path in the cool white stone beneath her feet. Every step was a war between wrath and resentment, between pain and petulance.
Between the unmitigated hurt at being summarily dismissed and the unadulterated fury that it mattered so greatly to her.
How dare he do that to me?
Her strides lengthened as she twisted her hair over one shoulder. She had not even bothered to change out of her clothes from earlier that day. Her mantle was strewn across the floor in a pile of discarded damask. The emerald sirwal trowsers and fitted top were not as comfortable as her nightclothes and shamla, but she could not be bothered with such things right now. Shahrzad yanked the band of brilliant green stones from her brow and heaved it across the room. Strands of hair tugged free along with the gems, and she swore a pained oath at her own stupidity before collapsing to the marble in a heap of irate misery.
Why did he treat me like that? He didn’t have to hurt me.
I—didn’t mean to hurt him.
All day, she had hidden these thoughts from Despina. Concealed these worries from the world. But now, alone in the desolate greys of her bedchamber, she could no longer hide these things from herself. Beyond the concerns she had for the way he had scorned her so coldly in front of everyone was the nagging truth he had done so because he felt betrayed. Because he felt wounded by her actions from the night before.
And she did not know how to fix it and return to his good graces.
She had tried today. Shahrzad had wanted to apologize. Had wanted to tell him she had not meant to take advantage of the situation. How, in hindsight, it appeared worse than she intended.
He must have thought she was in control.
Shahrzad laughed to herself bitterly as she leaned her forehead against the green silk on her knee.
Control?
The mere thought was ludicrous. How could he not know as much? And now he was punishing her for it. Like an angry boy denied access to a plaything.
How dare he?
In front of Despina. In front of Jalal. He had embarrassed her.
Treated her as though she were nothing.
As though she merited a silk cord at sunrise.
Her throat tightened in memory.
Shiva.
“How dare you!” she cried out to the darkness.
Two could play at this game. She, too, could rage at him like a small child deprived of sweets. And then, maybe, she would not feel quite as miserable and alone as she had all day. As broken.
As lost to him as she was.
Shahrzad pushed to her feet and adjusted the thin chain of gold around her waist. Dangling from its center was a series of emeralds and diamonds that matched the necklace at her throat and the bangles on her left wrist. She shook out her hair and made her way to the low table in the corner.
She lifted the lid from the tray and began eating some jewel rice and saffron chicken. In between bites of fresh herbs and cool yogurt, she drank tea and nibbled on pistachio cakes sweetened with honey. Everything was cold, and she chewed from habit rather than enjoyment, but she knew she would regret it later if she went to bed hungry as well as angry.
Halfway through her halfhearted meal, the doors to her chambers opened.
Shahrzad paused but did not turn around. Instead, she resumed eating. She poured herself another cup of lukewarm tea with the steady hand of feigned indifference.
Again, she felt his presence behind her. The same shift in the wind.
The same maddening glory.
Shahrzad tore into a piece of flatbread with vicious precision.
“Shahrzad?”
She ignored him, despite her heart’s sudden clamoring.
Khalid strode to the other side of the table and sat down on the cushions with soundless grace.
Still, Shahrzad did not look up from her tray. She was tearing the piece of flatbread into tiny bits she proceeded to pile in a heap before her.
“Shazi.”
“Don’t.”
He remained still, awaiting clarification.
“Don’t pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending,” Khalid said quietly.
Shahrzad threw down the rest of the flatbread and met his gaze with stinging circumspection. His eyes were ringed in deep lines of fatigue. His jaw was set, and his posture was rigid.
He doesn’t look sorry for hurting me.
Something knifed in Shahrzad’s chest, behind her heart.
But he
will be.
“Shahrzad—”
“You once lamented the fact that the characters in my stories place so much value on love.”
Khalid returned her penetrating stare in silence.
“Why is that?” she continued. “What is your aversion to the sentiment?”
His eyes flicked across her face before responding. “It’s not an aversion. It’s merely an observation. That word is used too often for my taste. So I attribute it to things, rather than to people.”
“Excuse me?”
Khalid exhaled carefully. “People fall in and out of love with the rising and setting of the sun. Rather like a boy who loves the color green one day, only to discover on the morrow that he truly prefers blue.”
Shahrzad laughed, and the sound was lemon to her wound. “So you intend to go through life never loving anyone? Just . . . things?”
“No. I’m looking for something more.”
“More than love?”
“Yes.”
“Is it not arrogant to think you deserve more, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid?”
“Is it so arrogant to want something that doesn’t change with the wind? That doesn’t crumble at the first sign of adversity?”
“You want something that doesn’t exist. A figment of your imagination.”
“No. I want someone who sees beneath the surface—someone who completes the balance. An equal.”
“And how will you know when you’ve found this elusive someone?” Shahrzad retorted.
“I suspect she will be like air. Like knowing how to breathe.” He regarded her with the stillness of a hawk as he said these words, and Shahrzad’s throat went dry.
“Poetry,” she whispered. “Not reality.”
“My mother used to say that a man who can’t appreciate poetry lacks a soul.”
“In that respect, I’m inclined to agree.”
“She was referring to my father,” he intoned drily. “A soulless man, if ever there was one. I’m told I resemble him greatly.”
Shahrzad studied the tiny mountain of bread before her.
I will not feel sorry for you. You do not deserve my pity.
Guarding herself against a rising tide of emotion, she looked up again, resolute in her next course of action. “I—”
“I hurt you today.” He spoke softly, in a voice of soothing water over scorched steel.
“It doesn’t matter.” Her cheeks flushed.
“It matters to me.”
Shahrzad exhaled in a huff of derision. “Then you shouldn’t have done it.”
“Yes.”
Shahrzad stared at the cut-glass angles of his profile. Even now, his handsome face gave no hint that her pain affected him in any way.
The boy of ice and stone . . .
Who dashed her heart against a jagged shore, only to walk away without so much as a glance.
I will not let him win. For Shiva’s sake.
For my sake.
I will learn the truth. Even if I have to destroy him to get it.
“Are you done?” she asked under her breath.
He paused. “Yes.”
“I have a story for you.”
“A new one?”
She nodded. “Would you like to hear it?”
Khalid inhaled cautiously and then leaned an elbow onto the cushions.
Shahrzad took another sip of cardamom tea and eased back against the pile of vibrant silk on her side.
“There was once a young girl named Tala. She was the daughter of a wealthy man who lost everything in a slew of poor business decisions, followed by the tragic death of a most-beloved wife. Mired in his grief, Tala’s father found solace in music and art and could often be found whiling away the hours with a paintbrush in one hand and his favorite santur in the other.”
Shahrzad brushed a curl of black hair off her face.
“At first, Tala tried to understand his need to distract himself from the heartbreak of his losses, but it became increasingly difficult to ignore what it all meant for their family. What it meant for Tala. Because, even though she loved her father dearly and believed in his goodness with every fiber of her being, she knew that he could not provide for them. That she could not trust him to sustain a life for Tala and her little brother.”
Khalid’s forehead creased at Shahrzad’s somber expression.
“So Tala began searching for a husband. She knew she could not hope to make a great match, given her family’s unfortunate circumstances, but soon she heard tell of a wealthy merchant in need of a bride. He was older and had been married several times before, but no one was sure what had become of his earlier wives. And this made young women rather wary of making a match with him. Additionally, he had a very long beard of indigo black . . . so black that, in the light, it gave off a worrisome tinge of blue. This had afforded him a rather unfortunate moniker. He was known as Mehrdad the Bluebearded.”
Shahrzad sat up and removed her emerald necklace, placing it alongside the silver pot of tea. Khalid observed her in silence.
“Even with these reservations, Tala set about arranging the match with Mehrdad. She was sixteen and rather pretty. Intelligent and vivacious. Mehrdad was pleased, even though she had little to offer, besides herself. Her only stipulation was that he care for her family. He agreed without hesitation, and they were promptly married. She left her home and moved into his impressive walled residence on the other side of the city. At first, everything seemed normal, perhaps even ideal. Mehrdad was respectful and felicitous as a husband. And he appeared quite content with Tala. He gave her ready access to the many rooms in his home and showered her with gifts of new clothes and jewelry, perfume and art—beautiful things Tala had only dreamed of seeing, let alone owning.”
Shahrzad locked eyes with Khalid, clenching her hands in the fine silk of her trowsers.
“After a time, Mehrdad made plans to travel for his work. He handed Tala a ring of keys to their home and bade her take charge of the residence in his absence. He entrusted her with the daily tasks and gave her free access to all that was his, save one thing, and one thing alone. On the ring of keys, he designated the smallest and held it before her. He told her it was the key to a locked room in the cellar, and barred her from entering that room for any reason. He made her swear, on pain of death, that she would obey this directive. Tala promised she would not go near this room, and after she made it clear she understood the gravity of the situation, Mehrdad handed her the keys and took leave, promising to return in one month.”
Shahrzad drained the remnants of the cold tea from the bottom of the etched glass cup. The dregs were oversweet, mixed with the last of the rock sugar. It swirled in her mouth—the grit of bitter cardamom and crystallized mettle.
Her hand trembled with nerves as she set down the tiny cup.
“For a time, Tala relished this opportunity to have free rein over such a magnificent home. The servants treated her with deference, and she hosted friends and family members for wonderful meals prepared with a delicate hand, served under a starry sky. Each room of her husband’s home enchanted her. In his travels, he had amassed things of beauty and wonder that brought her imagination to new worlds. And yet, with each passing day, that room in the cellar . . . began to gnaw at her. Plague her. Call to her.”
Khalid shifted forward in his seat, his features tightening.
“One day, against her better judgment, she strode by it. She swore she heard a voice inside, crying out. She tried to ignore it. But it cried out again: ‘Tala!’ Tala’s heart pounded. She reached for the ring of keys in a panic. Then she remembered Mehrdad’s directive and fled up the stairs. That night, she could not sleep. The next day, Tala went back down to the cellar. Again, she heard a voice beseeching her from within that room. ‘Tala!’ it cried. ‘Please!’ This time, she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt. It was the voice of a young girl. Tala could not ignore it. She fumbled for the ring of keys at her waist. They fell once to the stone floor at her feet. When she finally m
anaged to select the right key, her fingers shook so badly she struggled to fit it into the lock.”
Shahrzad swallowed, her throat parched. Khalid watched her closely, every muscle strained with heightened awareness.
“Your husband is not a forgiving man.”
Her pulse thundered, but Shahrzad forged ahead. Unwavering.
You will not treat me like this. You will not dash my heart against a shore.
And walk away.
“The tumblers clicked with a sound that made Tala jump in her skin . . . and she stepped forward into utter darkness. The first thing she noticed was the smell—iron and old metal, like a rusted sword. The cellar was warm and humid. Then her foot slid in something, and a rush of rot and decay sailed back at her.”
“Shahrzad,” Khalid warned in a low tone.
Shahrzad barreled forward, heedless. “When Tala’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and she looked down, she saw her foot was caked in blood. Hanging around her . . . were bodies. The bodies of young women. They were Mehrdad’s—”
“Shahrzad!”
Shahrzad’s heartbeat resounded in her ears as Khalid shot to his feet, his face a mask of anguished fury. He towered over her, his chest heaving. Then he turned to the door.
No!
Shahrzad raced behind Khalid, struggling to keep up with his powerful gait. As he reached for the handle, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Please!” she cried.
He did not respond.
She pressed her face into his back and the tears began to flow, embarrassing and unbidden. “Give me the key,” she gasped. “Let me see behind the door. You are not Mehrdad. Show me.”
When he put his hands on her wrists to free himself, she merely clasped tighter, refusing to let go.
“Give me the key, Khalid-jan.” Her voice broke.
She felt his body tense at the term of endearment. Then, after an endless moment of racked silence, Khalid exhaled and his shoulders sagged in defeat.
Shahrzad laced her fingers to his chest.
“You hurt me last night, Shahrzad,” he said quietly.