The Wrath and the Dawn

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Another girl with excellent taste.”

  Rahim rolled his eyes. “A bit self-serving in that assessment, don’t you think? Considering the one thing they have in common is you.”

  “Reducing Shahrzad al-Khayzuran to such a notion might be the reason you’re always on the receiving end of her temper. I assure you, Zoraya and Shazi have a great deal more in common than me. Now, stop wasting time and get down from that blasted roan so we can go home.”

  Under continued grumblings, Rahim dismounted from his grey Akhal-Teke—her mane shining like polished pewter in the desert sun.

  Tariq’s eyes skimmed the stretch of sand and dry brushwood along the horizon. Blistering waves of heat rose from a sea of umber and adobe, rippling into patches of blue and white across the sky.

  With Zoraya’s catch now stowed in the leather pouch affixed to his saddle, Rahim swung back onto his horse, employing the grace of a young nobleman trained in the art since boyhood.

  “As to the earlier bet regarding the bird . . .” Rahim trailed off.

  Tariq groaned when he saw the determined look on Rahim’s face. “No.”

  “Because you know you’ll lose.”

  “You’re a better rider than I am.”

  “You have a better horse. Your father is an emir. Plus, I already lost one bet today. Give me a chance to even the field,” Rahim insisted.

  “How long are we going to play these games?”

  “Until I beat you. At every one of them.”

  “Then we’ll be playing forever,” Tariq joked.

  “Bastard.” Rahim suppressed a grin as he gripped his reins. “For that, I won’t even try to play fair.” He dug his heels into the mare before taking off in the opposite direction.

  “Fool.” Tariq laughed as he released Zoraya into the clouds and leaned over the neck of his stallion. At the click of his tongue, the horse shook out its mane and snorted. Tariq pulled on the reins, and the Arabian reared onto its massive hooves before launching across the sand, its powerful legs kicking up a vortex of dust and debris.

  Tariq’s white rida’ billowed behind him, the hood threatening to blow back in spite of the leather band holding it in place.

  As they rounded the final dune, a walled fortress of tan stone and grey mortar rose from the sands, its vaulted turrets capped in spirals of copper tinged by the turquoise patina of age.

  “The emir’s son approaches!” a sentry cried out as Rahim and Tariq neared the back gates, which swung open with barely a moment to spare. Servants and laborers scrambled out of their path as Rahim barreled past the still-screeching iron with Tariq on his heels. A basket of persimmons crashed to the ground, its contents rolling across the expanse before a grousing old man bent forward, struggling to collect the wayward orange fruit.

  Oblivious to the chaos they had wrought, the two young noblemen reined in their horses near the center of the sprawling courtyard.

  “How does it feel—being bested by a fool?” Rahim taunted, his dark blue eyes bright.

  One side of Tariq’s mouth rose with amusement before he swung down from the saddle and knocked back the hood of his rida’. He ran a hand through his unruly tangle of wavy hair. Grains of sand fell into his face, and he blinked hard to fend off their attack.

  The sound of Rahim’s choked laughter rang out from behind him.

  Tariq opened his eyes.

  The servant girl standing before Tariq looked away in haste, her cheeks blooming with color. The tray she held with two silver tumblers of water began to shake.

  “Thank you.” Tariq smiled as he reached for one.

  Her blush deepened, and the rattling grew worse.

  Rahim lumbered closer. He took his own tumbler and nodded to the girl before she twisted around and ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Tariq shoved him. Hard. “You oaf.”

  “I believe that poor girl is half in love with you. After another wretched display of horsemanship, you should be extra grateful to the hand of fate that dealt you those looks.”

  Tariq ignored him and swiveled to take in the sights of the courtyard. To his right, he noticed the elderly servant stooping above a gaggle of persimmons scattered across the granite at his feet. Tariq glided forward and bent on one knee to help the old man place the fruit in a basket.

  “Thank you, sahib.” The man bowed his head and touched the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead in a gesture of respect.

  Tariq’s eyes softened, their colors flickering in the shade. Their bright silver centers blended into rings of darkest ash, with black lashes that fanned against the soft skin of his eyelids. His brow had an air of severity that faded with the ready appearance of his smile. A day-old beard shadowed the square line of his jaw, further accentuating its finely wrought symmetry.

  Tariq nodded at the elderly man and returned the customary gesture.

  Above them, Zoraya’s cry resounded from the sky, demanding immediate attention. Tariq shook his head in mock irritation and whistled for her. She swooped down with a wild shriek that cleared another portion of the courtyard. Again, she landed on Tariq’s outstretched mankalah and preened as he carried her to her mews to feed her.

  “Do you not find the bird a bit . . . spoiled?” Rahim studied the falcon as she guzzled an entire strip of dried meat without pausing for breath.

  “She’s the best hunter in the kingdom.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m convinced that accursed bird could get away with murder. Is that your intent?”

  Before Tariq could retort, one of his father’s closest advisors appeared in the nearby archway to the vestibule.

  “Sahib? The emir requests your presence.”

  Tariq’s eyebrows drew together. “Is something wrong?”

  “A messenger arrived from Rey not long ago.”

  “Is that all?” Rahim harrumphed. “A letter from Shazi? Hardly worthy of a formal audience.”

  Tariq continued studying the advisor, taking in the deep lines marring his forehead and the tight weave of his interlaced fingers. “What happened?”

  The advisor hedged. “Please, sahib. Come with me.”

  Rahim followed Tariq and the advisor into the columned marble vestibule and past the open-air gallery, with its tiled fountain of mosaic glass. Sparkling water fell in a steady stream from the mouth of a lion constructed of gilt bronze.

  They entered the main hall to find Nasir al-Ziyad, emir of the fourth-richest stronghold in Khorasan, sitting with his wife at a low table. Their dinner lay before them, untouched.

  It was obvious Tariq’s mother had been crying.

  He stopped short at the sight. “Father?”

  The emir exhaled and raised his troubled eyes to meet his son.

  “Tariq, we received a letter from Rey this afternoon. From Shahrzad.”

  “Give it to me.” The request was soft. Sharp.

  “It was addressed to me. There is a portion of it that was meant for you, but the—”

  Tariq’s mother burst into tears. “How could this happen?”

  “What happened?” Tariq demanded, his voice rising. “Give me the letter.”

  “It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do,” the emir sighed.

  “First Shiva. Then, lost in her grief, my sister took her own—” She shuddered. “And now Shahrzad? How could this happen? Why?” Tariq’s mother wept.

  Tariq froze.

  “You know why,” the emir rasped in a low tone. “It’s because of Shiva that she did this. For Shiva. For all of us.”

  At that, Tariq’s mother rose from the table and fled, her sobs growing louder with every footstep.

  “Oh, God. Shazi. What did you do?” Rahim whispered.

  Tariq remained motionless, his expression blank and inscrutable.

  The emir stood and moved toward his son. “Son, you—”

  “Give me the letter,” Tariq repeated.

  With grim resignation, the emir relinquished the scroll.

  Shahrzad’
s familiar scrawl swam across the page, just as imperious and heavy-handed as usual. Tariq stopped reading when she began addressing him directly. The apology. The words of regret for her betrayal. The gratitude for his understanding.

  No more. He couldn’t stand it. Not from her.

  The edge of the scroll crumpled in his fist.

  “There is nothing you can do,” the emir reiterated. “The wedding—it’s today. If she succeeds . . . if she—”

  “Don’t say it, Father. I beg you.”

  “It must be said. These truths, no matter how harsh, must be said. We must deal with this, as a family. Your aunt and uncle never dealt with the loss of Shiva, and look what came of their daughter’s death.”

  Tariq’s eyes closed.

  “Even if Shahrzad survives, there is nothing we can do. It is finished. We must accept this, however difficult it may seem. I know how you feel about her; I fully understand. It will take time. But you will realize you can find happiness with someone else—that there are other young women in the world. In time, you will see,” the emir said.

  “There’s no need.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I already understand. Fully.”

  The emir eyed his son with surprise.

  “I understand your points. All of them. Now I need you to understand mine. I know there are other women in the world. I know it’s possible for me to find a measure of happiness with another girl. Given time, I suppose anything may happen.”

  The emir nodded. “Good. It’s for the best, Tariq.”

  Rahim stared, dumbfounded.

  Tariq continued, the silver in his eyes flashing. “But understand this: no matter how many perfect young women you put in my path, there is only one Shahrzad.” At that, he cast the scroll to the floor and whirled on his heel, slamming his palms into the doors to thrust them aside.

  Rahim exchanged a thoughtful look with the emir before following Tariq. They retraced their steps into the courtyard, and Tariq signaled for the horses. Rahim did not speak until both mounts were brought before them.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked gently. “Do you even have one?”

  Tariq paused. “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “And now who’s the fool? Are you the only one who loves Shazi? Who loved Shiva? I may not be blood, but they will always be my family.”

  Tariq turned to his friend. “Thank you, Rahim-jan.”

  The taller, lankier boy smiled down at Tariq. “Don’t thank me yet. We still need a plan. Tell me, what are you going to do?” Rahim hesitated. “Is there anything you can do?”

  Tariq’s jaw tightened. “As long as the ruler of Khorasan draws breath, there is always something I can do . . .” His left hand dropped to the hilt of the elegantly curved sword at his hip.

  “What I do best.”

  THE VEIL BETWEEN

  SHAHRZAD SAT ALONE IN HER CHAMBER, IN THE CENTER of a platformed cushion piled high with pillows covered in vibrant fabrics. Surrounding the bed was a thin veil of spider-silk, blowing with eerie leisure at the slightest disturbance. Her knees were drawn to her chest; her fingers were laced across her ankles.

  And her hazel eyes were trained on the doors.

  She had stayed in this position for the better part of the night. Each time she tried to venture from the spot, her nerves threatened to overcome her.

  Where is he?

  She exhaled loudly and clasped her hands even tighter above her feet.

  Soon, the panic she had been fighting for the last hour began to bear down on her like a hammer on an ironsmith’s anvil.

  What if he doesn’t come to see me tonight?

  “Oh, God,” she murmured, breaking through the stillness.

  Then I lied to everyone. I broke every last promise.

  Shahrzad shook her head. Her heartbeat rose in her ears as each breath became more labored.

  I don’t want to die.

  These macabre thoughts rubbed at the edges of her composure, pushing her down into the fathomless realms of terror—a terror she’d managed to keep at bay, thus far.

  How will Baba survive if I’m killed? And Irsa?

  Tariq.

  “Stop it!” Her words echoed into the yawning darkness. Foolish, but she needed something—anything—to fill the torturous silence with sound, if but for an instant.

  She pressed her hands to her temples and willed the terror back . . .

  Back inside the steel-encased enclosure of her heart.

  And then the doors swung open with a low creak.

  Shahrzad dropped her palms to the soft cushion at her sides.

  A servant stepped through, clutching tapers of aloewood and ambergris, which gave off a faint perfume and a delicate light; after a beat, a girl bearing a tray of food and wine followed. The servants placed their wares throughout the room and left without a glance in Shahrzad’s direction.

  A moment later, the Caliph of Khorasan appeared at the threshold.

  He waited, as if considering something, before entering the chamber and pushing the doors shut.

  In the pale glow emitting from the candles, his tiger-eyes seemed even more calculating and remote. The lines of his face fell into shadow as he turned from the light, sharpening the bladed hollows of his features.

  An immovable countenance. Cold and forbidding.

  Shahrzad threaded her fingers beneath her knees.

  “I’m told your father served under mine as one of his viziers.” His voice was low and unassuming. Almost . . . kind.

  “Yes, sayyidi. He was an advisor to your father.”

  “And he works as a custodian now.”

  “Yes, sayyidi. Of ancient texts.”

  He faced her. “Quite a change in position.”

  Shahrzad bit back irritation. “Perhaps. He wasn’t a very high-ranking vizier.”

  “I see.”

  You see nothing.

  She returned his gaze, hoping the mosaic of color in her eyes hid the thoughts running rampant behind them.

  “Why did you volunteer, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran?”

  She did not answer.

  He continued. “What compelled you to do something so foolish?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Perhaps it was the lure of marrying a king. Or the vain hope you might be the one to stay the course and win the heart of a monster.” He spoke without emotion, watching her intently.

  Shahrzad’s pulse jumped to a martial beat. “I don’t suffer those delusions, sayyidi.”

  “Then why did you volunteer? Why are you willing to throw away your life at seventeen?”

  “I’m sixteen.” She cut her eyes. “And I don’t see why it matters.”

  “Answer me.”

  “No.”

  He paused. “You realize you could die for that.”

  The grip of her fingers tightened almost painfully. “I’m not surprised to hear that, sayyidi. But, if you truly want answers, killing me won’t help in the endeavor.”

  A spark of something flashed across his face, lingering at the edges of his lips. It was gone too quickly to offer anything of significance.

  “I suppose not.” He stopped, again in seeming consideration. She could see him withdrawing, a veil falling over the harsh angles of his profile.

  No.

  Shahrzad rose from the bed and took a step toward him.

  When he glanced back at her, she moved closer.

  “I told you. Do not think you will be the one to break the cycle.”

  Shahrzad gritted her teeth. “And I told you. I don’t suffer delusions. On any account.”

  She continued advancing until she stood but an arm’s length from him, her resolve unwavering.

  He locked upon her face. “Your life is already forfeit. I do not expect . . . more than that.”

  In response, Shahrzad reached up and began to unfasten the bejeweled necklace still hanging about her throat.

  “No.” He caught her hand. “Leave it.”

 
He hesitated before shifting his fingers to the nape of her neck.

  At this disturbingly familiar touch, Shahrzad fought the urge to pull back in disgust and strike out at him with all the pain and rage she possessed.

  Don’t be foolish. There will only be one chance. Don’t waste it.

  This boy-king, this murderer . . . she would not permit him to destroy another family. To rob another girl of her best friend—of a lifetime filled with memories that had been and never would be.

  She raised her chin and swallowed the rising bile, the bitter taste remaining on her tongue.

  “Why are you here?” he whispered, his tiger-eyes ever searching.

  A corner of her mouth rose in sardonic reply.

  She brought her palm to his hand.

  Carefully.

  Then she lifted the heavy mantle from her shoulders and let it slide to the floor.

  • • •

  Irsa sat astride her dappled mare in the alley closest to the structure housing Rey’s most ancient and obscure texts. The city’s library was once a grand edifice, columned and swathed in judiciously hewn stones quarried from the finest pits in Tirazis. Over the years, its façade had darkened, and deep cracks marred its surface, the worst filled with slipshod efforts at repair. Every visible edge was worn, and the glorious lustre of yesteryear had faded to a mottling of greys and browns.

  When the team of horses behind her stirred in the dense silence before dawn, Irsa glanced over her shoulder apologetically. She opened her mouth to reassure the young driver, but the brittleness in her voice forced her to clear her throat before speaking.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the boy, after a discreet cough. “I don’t know what’s taking so long. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.” Her mare’s left ear twitched as Irsa shifted around in her seat.

  “No concern of mine, miss. As long as I’m paid in full. But if your father wishes to clear the gates of the city before dawn, we should leave soon.”

  She nodded, another knot forming in her stomach at the boy’s words.

  Soon, she would be leaving the city of her childhood—the city she had lived in for fourteen years. So, under the haven of night, with barely a moment’s notice, she had thrown everything of value into the covered cart behind her, knowing her life would never be the same.