by Renee Ahdieh
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.
There were a hundred ways to make him pay. A thousand.
But not now. Not in this moment.
Alas, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad did not know the things Khalid did.
So when the boy drew his sword and charged the Sultan of Parthia, Khalid knew what would transpire before anyone else did.
A legion of soldiers materialized from the shadows of the courtyard, ready to defend their sultan. Ready to strike down anyone who dared to assault their king.
Khalid ripped his shamshir from its scabbard without a second thought.
“Get back!” he yelled at Tariq, grabbing the boy by the shoulder.
Khalid swung his sword to defend the boy from the first blow. Tariq managed to deflect the next attack with an able parry of his own. He stood at Khalid’s back as a swarm of soldiers surrounded them, wielding flashes of menacing silver. Soon, the sound of swords being torn from their sheaths emanated on all sides.
Though the blood raged through his body, Khalid felt his heart plunge like a stone in his stomach. This was not a battle they could win. They were grossly outnumbered. Outmatched, in all ways.
Nevertheless, Khalid separated his shamshir into two as a pair of soldiers charged his way. As all chaos broke loose. He glanced to his right, expecting to see Jalal there. As he always had been. Ever since Khalid was a small boy. Ever since Hassan died. But when Khalid looked to either side of him, he realized he fought alone. His cousin battled several soldiers far across the way.
Jalal did not even pause to look for Khalid. Just as he’d stated that afternoon before the steps of Rey’s library, Jalal would no longer keep watch over Khalid’s shadow. Would no longer worry unduly over his cousin.
Over the king who’d betrayed his confidences.
Khalid gripped the hilts of his swords tighter.
The soldiers were closing in on them. Khalid saw one of his men fall beneath the wicked slice of a blade. He knew they had to make it to the higher ground surrounding the sunken courtyard if they were ever going to have a chance to reach the gates.
“Jalal!” Khalid called out, trying to convey his intentions in a glance.
But his cousin could not hear him above the fray. Khalid whipped around one of Salim’s soldiers, then slashed across his face and chest with both swords. Streams of crimson followed in his wake, staining the sandstone at his feet.
“Jalal!” At that, both his cousin and Artan Temujin, who was fighting to make his way through the crush of bodies toward Salim, turned in his direction.
Khalid saw his cousin’s eyes go wide in the same instant Artan shouted a warning. For Khalid did not see the soldier from behind him until it was too late. He spun in an attempt to deflect the blow—
Then from his right, a figure emerged to repel the onslaught.
To save him.
It was the boy Khalid had fought that night in the desert.
Rahim.
Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s friend. Irsa al-Khayzuran’s love.
Khalid saw in a crushing moment, as two more soldiers converged in their direction, as Khalid’s swords swung to disarm the sentry before him . . .
That Rahim would not succeed in fending off the next wave.
A sword pierced through Rahim’s stomach from behind.
Khalid cut at his attacker and kicked him away. Then slashed to defend Rahim. He pulled him close, yelling for help. No one could hear Khalid through the clanging of metal and the shouts of wounded men.
Then everything around Khalid came to a sudden halt.
At Salim’s request.
For when Khalid looked up, he saw Artan Temujin a stone’s throw from the Sultan of Parthia, the magus’s palms wide by his shoulders—
And a halo of fire spinning about Salim Ali el-Sharif’s head.
Salim stood motionless, his eyes bulging with fear.
“You will let us go,” Artan said loudly. “You will not follow us.” He began to back away, his hands widening as the halo of fire grew about the sultan’s head. “And, in the future, you will seriously take to heart the meaning of civil discourse.”
Shahrzad said nothing as Vikram lifted both hands to the metal grate of her cell. He breathed onto the iron in a slow exhalation of air, and the metal began to glow red.
She had long forgotten the demonstration in the training courtyard those few months ago. But in that instant, the memory returned; the Scourge of Hindustan had been a fire-breather. Had set his talwar ablaze in a rush of air. Had finished the drill wielding a screaming dragon of a weapon.
Now she watched as he bent the molten metal without even the slightest singe to his skin. Once he’d widened a space large enough, he made his way into her cell.
“We haven’t much time,” Vikram muttered as he came to her side. “The soldiers may check on you again soon.” A low oath passed through his lips when he saw the chains binding her wrists and ankles.
“How—”
“Now is not the time for such questions, little troublemaker.” He grunted in frustration as he considered her manacles. “I can melt the links near to the cuffs, but you will likely make enough noise to rouse the dead when we move about. Which will be of no help to anyone. And these cuffs are heavy. Which is also quite unhelpful.”
Shahrzad nodded, still at a loss for words. She’d never heard the Rajput say so many things in one breath.
In hindsight, perhaps his tale of the banyan tree qualified.
Vikram lifted a length of chain beside her feet. The sound of metal striking metal echoed with a thunderous clank. “When I melt the chain, the cuffs will become hot. They may burn you.”
“I’d rather be burned than remain chained in this cell.”
“As I suspected.” He coughed with amusement. “Know there w
as a time not long ago when I would happily have left you to rot in this cell.”
It took her only a moment to remember. The night of the storm, Shahrzad had betrayed Khalid in Vikram’s eyes. Had betrayed him. “I can explain—”
“That time has passed.” Vikram wrapped both hands around the links by her ankles and let a slow whisper of air pass between his lips.
As the metal began to grow hot against her skin, the familiar tingling around Shahrzad’s heart flashed to life. Taken aback by the sensation, she let in a sharp breath.
The feeling flared through her as the heat grew. As the chains began to take on a fiery glow.
In that instant, Shahrzad felt a thread take hold within her. A sudden, undeniable spark. For though she knew the chains were becoming hot, she felt little pain. Just a growing awareness. This thread called to her as she continued studying the metal. As she continued watching Vikram work to melt through the chains.
Is it possible . . .
Throwing all caution to the wind, Shahrzad placed both palms on the cuffs at her ankles. Just like the magic carpet.
“What are you doing?” the Rajput demanded in a guttural whisper, his black-as-night gaze cutting to hers.
She did not respond.
Just as she’d expected, Shahrzad continued to feel little pain, though she knew the iron was now hot enough to sear. At her touch, the magic Vikram had fed into the metal spread through her like a flame licking through oil.
Once she felt a link to it—felt that thread within her pull taut as it connected to the magic within her—Shahrzad willed the cuffs to fall away. Willed the magic to follow her unspoken directive.
The glowing cuffs dropped to the floor.
Not knowing what else to do in response, Shahrzad laughed.
Artan had been wrong. Yet he’d been so very right. True, she should not have run from his attempts to provoke her those nights on the beach. Yes, she should have faced her fears head-on. But not in the way Artan had imagined. For the magic within her worked on touch. Only when she willed those things around her—those things imbued with the same strange powers as she—could Shahrzad manipulate her power.
Just as she’d suspected. Shahrzad took in magic from what was around her.
Vikram teetered to one side at the sight, his massive frame coming to rest a hairsbreadth from the dirty trickle of water by her slippered feet. “How—”
“Now is not the time for such questions . . .” she began in an almost teasing tone.
He grunted in distaste, then righted himself. “Such a troublemaker.”
“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Shahrzad grinned. “Now help me with the bindings on my wrists so that we may find my sister and flee this godforsaken place.”
THE WHITE SHELL
THEY RODE FROM THE CITY IN A RUSH. A CLATTER OF hooves. A stream of wind. A trickle of sweat.
But not a single word.
This small band of battered men.
Khalid did not let his guilt for all that had transpired overtake him. Refused to let his regret deter him from his course. They had to flee the city. Far from the reach of Salim’s injured pride.
So they soldiered on. Faster and faster through the alleys and streets and thoroughfares. A fruit stand was knocked to the wayside in their haste. Angry oaths were hurled at their retreating backs. Women pulled their children from Khalid’s path, screaming and scurrying all at once.
Again, the guilt crept into his heart. Clawed at his insides.
It did not matter. How he felt in this moment did not matter.
He did not matter.
There were far more important things at hand.
Khalid kept Rahim on the saddle with him. In moments of weakness, Khalid glanced down to see the boy’s blood spill onto his palms. Onto his saddle. Onto his reins.
Soon, he slumped forward.
“Hurry!” Khalid yelled over his shoulder. He spurred Ardeshir even faster, the stallion’s muscles slicking over with sweat.
As soon as they passed the city gates to break for the desert, Khalid yanked Ardeshir to a halt and dismounted from his saddle.
Tariq pulled Rahim onto the ground.
Even from a distance—even with only a cursory understanding of such things—Khalid could see there was little that could be done. The wound was too deep. The blood lost simply too much. Nevertheless, he looked back at Artan. When Khalid was a small boy, he recalled Musa Zaragoza using magic to tend to his injuries.
But those had been the scrapes of youth. Not the wounds of war.
Artan stooped above the boy. He tugged at an earring, then lifted his hands above the bleeding wound. A light flickered twice before fading out. With a glance and a grave expression, Artan confirmed what Khalid already suspected. Tariq Imran al-Ziyad ran a hand through his hair, slicking his forehead with his friend’s blood. A line of crimson began to trickle from a corner of Rahim’s mouth. He coughed and the blood spurted forth.
Nasir al-Ziyad’s son bowed over him, clasping a bloodied hand in one of his own. “Rahim—”
Rahim shook his head once. “Me too.” He had little voice left, so the words were more a whisper than anything else. Almost a broken sigh.
Khalid knelt at his side. Then placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Rahim,” Khalid said, meeting his dark blue eyes in a steady, unflinching gaze.
Rahim swallowed. His head moved in a feeble nod. A bow. “Sayyidi.”
Khalid’s throat constricted. “Is there anything you need of me?”
Rahim’s eyes misted, then cleared. “Irsa.”
“Yes?”
“Make sure”—he coughed and the lines of blood at his lips widened—“she never feels lonely. That she always feels loved.”
The knot in Khalid’s throat grew. “I promise.”
“Tariq?” Rahim clutched their joined hands tight.
“Yes.” It was a strangled sound.
“Sometimes,” he gasped, “the family you choose . . . is stronger than blood.”
His chest rose and fell twice more.
Khalid looked away while the silent tears streamed down Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s face.
He did not move until they stopped.
No one did.
Irsa had been waiting in the tent with Aisha all afternoon. Every so often, Omar would leave to see if Tariq and the others had returned. The last time he’d left, Irsa had wanted to accompany him, but she’d decided it was wiser to stay in the tent.
Wiser to avoid causing any trouble.
After all, she’d been the cause of enough concern. What with all the searching the day Shazi had disappeared. And then with the march toward Amardha.
Toward possible war.
While Irsa had first thought this all to be rather thrilling, she was already tired of it. She longed to be back in one place. To know what tomorrow would bring.
To have those she loved back at her side. Safe.
For a time, Irsa had wondered if she should worry about what was taking place in the city today. After all, the men had been gone quite a while, but Aisha had reassured her that they’d left under a flag of truce. These sorts of negotiations were normal. A show of words that might lead to meaningful action.
Regardless, Irsa hoped they would return soon.
While riding through the desert the other day, Irsa had come across a white shell with a flower etched upon it. It had reminded her of the story she’d told—admittedly poorly—to Rahim that night she’d found her way to his tent.
The story of the little fish with his white petal wings.
In truth, Irsa believed that to be the night she’d begun to fall in love with Rahim.
So, when she’d come across the white shell, Irsa felt it only fitting that she place it within the folds of her clo
ak. She knew it was silly, but she thought to give it to him later. Perhaps when all these things had come to pass. For the shell was a ridiculously fragile thing. Apt to break at the slightest error. But at the very least she could show it to him. Perhaps make him smile.
She did so like his smile.
As Irsa found herself lost in its memory—in the way his smile made Rahim’s eyes crinkle at the corners—the tent entrance opened, and a rush of dusky desert air washed back at her.
“Aisha.”
Irsa turned at the name, though Omar had not spoken to her.
His face was ashen.
The sight of it sent her blood on a strange course through her body. As though it were traveling rather fast, though the world around her seemed to have ground to a halt.
Shahrzad. Something had happened to her sister.
Irsa struggled to breathe. Struggled to think.
Aisha moved toward Omar, swift and certain.
Still, he said nothing beyond Aisha’s name. Yet she seemed to understand. They’d always been connected in such a way. Omar’s eyes wandered to Irsa, then back to his wife, speaking without words.
“Irsa-jan,” Aisha said quietly, resting her hand upon Omar’s chest to cover his heart. “Will you come with me?”
Irsa stood, her knees wobbling. Her sister. “What—what is it?”
“No.” Omar took a steadying breath. He placed a gnarled palm over Aisha’s hand. “I shall take her.”
Irsa took a step forward. “Has something happened?” Her body did not feel like her own. Her voice sounded as though it were coming from beyond her—a muted echo from across the water.
Omar walked to her side. His eyes fell shut as he inhaled deeply. He clasped both her hands in his.
“Yes, dear one. Something has happened.”
“Is—Shahrzad . . .” Irsa could not even finish the thought.
He shook his head. “No. A fight occurred at the palace.” Again, Omar paused to steel himself. “And Rahim was killed.”
Rahim? The ground beneath Irsa began to sway. “No.” She shook her head, her voice sounding so strange. As though she were truly lost at sea. “That’s not possible.”
