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

by Renee Ahdieh

  Her delicate hands were against his chest. She smelled of spiced wine and springtime. Her hair was a tangle of invitation. Everything about her was utterly beguiling. Enchanting in that way only she could be—a girl who wielded her wiles without intent.

  A girl who, despite his wiser inclinations, ensnared him still.

  When she peered up at Tariq with a question on her perfect lips, it was all he could do not to answer it with a kiss.

  “Was it you?” she whispered.

  “What?” Tariq said, shaken from his trance.

  Shahrzad grasped tightly the linen near his throat. “Did you send the Fida’is?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You wouldn’t do that, would you? No matter how much you hated him? You wouldn’t do that to me.” She clenched the fabric even tighter, a plaintive note in her voice.

  He blinked, trying to clear his mind of the wine’s lasting haze. “Shazi—”

  “You have too much honor for that.” She shook her head while looking away, as though she were speaking to herself. “I could never love a boy without honor.”

  “Yet you love him.” Tariq’s rancor could not be missed.

  Nor could he miss the opportunity to strike out at her.

  Shahrzad’s eyes focused on his. For a moment, he saw the heat of anger shine through the muddle of colors. “Khalid has honor, Tariq. If you’d only—”

  “I don’t want to hear you make excuses for him.” Tariq shoved off the pole, determined to return Shahrzad to her tent and be done with this night, once and for all.

  She stumbled after him. “If you would just listen—”

  A group of soldiers rounded the corner, stalking into the light. Judging by their comportment, Tariq guessed they were intoxicated, but they didn’t seem to be glad of it. They seemed to be looking for something, their shoulders caged, their fists at their sides.

  The type of drunks on the hunt for a fight.

  Tariq pulled Shahrzad back against the pole, concealing her in what appeared to be a lovers’ embrace. He made certain to stand just beyond the weak circle of radiance cast by the torchlight. When Shahrzad raised a halfhearted protest, Tariq muffled her words against his chest.

  Better the soldiers not see her.

  Better these men on a hunt for a fight not find their match in the young Calipha of Khorasan.

  For it was unlikely Shahrzad would be gracious with them, either.

  Her body slackened against his as they waited for the soldiers to pass. The desire for battle was slowly leaving her as the wine continued to exert its influence. When she rested against him and he saw her eyes flutter closed, Tariq took a deep breath.

  The ache of loss for something not yet gone was sharp. Sharper than anything he’d ever felt before.

  “You need to sleep,” he murmured.

  “Mmm.”

  Tariq exhaled, mentally cursing himself. “I’ll take you to your tent.”

  Her head slumped forward in a nod. “Check their arms.”

  “What?”

  “Look for the scarab,” she said. “Don’t trust the scarab.”

  “I won’t.” He rolled his eyes, glancing over his shoulder to make certain the soldiers were out of sight. Then he lifted Shahrzad from the sand, nearly thrown off-kilter by her weight, slight though it was. The wine did him no favors. Staving off its effects, Tariq staggered toward her tent.

  Her arms circled around his neck. “I’m very sorry, you know.”

  Tariq could hardly hear her. “For what?” Again, he almost laughed at the absurdity of her apology. Now, of all times.

  “That you have to see me. And do this. It isn’t your pl—” Her eyes flew open, the crown of her head almost smacking him in the jaw. “Where is Irsa?”

  “With Rahim.”

  Irritation marred her brow. “I shall beat him to death’s doorstep. Make no mistake.”

  “What?”

  “That gangly imbecile,” she mumbled, her cheek falling against his chest. “I won’t stand for it. I’ll send the Rajput after him. He’ll chase him down with his fiery talwar . . .”

  With a shake of his head, Tariq pushed through the opening of Shahrzad’s tent, nearly dropping her in the process. He left the tent flap wide, allowing the moonlight to brighten the relentless dark of the space.

  True to form, Irsa al-Khayzuran’s bedroll was neatly bundled and stacked to one side. Shazi had not bothered to put hers away; it remained in the center of the small tent, her blanket askew, her pillow bunched in a fitful heap.

  With barely concealed amusement, Tariq placed Shazi on her bedroll, not even bothering to drag her blanket across her body. She stirred when he tried to lift her pillow.

  “Don’t.” She put a hand on his arm, her eyes slivering open.

  “Or what?” he whispered, his lips twitching. “Empty threats do not move me, Shazi-jan.”

  She wrinkled her nose, then curled into a ball, pressing a palm to her forehead.

  Again, he tried to lift her pillow and place it beneath her head. After a time, he realized the futility of such efforts and decided the best course of action was to let her sleep off her stupor.

  As Tariq moved to stand, he noticed a piece of parchment that had fallen from the folds of Shahrzad’s clothing. Most likely jarred loose when he nearly dropped her.

  He lifted it into the moonlight.

  It was creased in the manner of something that had been folded and unfolded numerous times.

  Something with contents that mattered a great deal to someone.

  He glanced down at Shahrzad’s sleeping form. Wavered for the span of a breath.

  Then unfolded the parchment.

  Shazi,

  I prefer the color blue to any other. The scent of lilacs in your hair is a source of constant torment. I despise figs. Lastly, I will never forget, all the days of my life, the memories of last night—

  For nothing, not the sun, not the rain, not even the brightest star in the darkest sky, could begin to compare to the wonder of you.

  Khalid

  With great care, Tariq refolded the letter along its creases, his fingers longing to crush it in his fists.

  To tear it asunder. To burn it into nonexistence.

  He knew Shahrzad loved the boy-king. He’d known it since Rey.

  And he’d known the boy-king cared about Shahrzad.

  But he had not known the boy-king truly loved her. Despite what the captain of the guard had said the night of the storm, Tariq had not wanted to believe the murdering madman capable of loving anything or anyone. At least not in a way Tariq could ever understand.

  This?

  Tariq understood.

  Completely.

  In a rather short letter, the Caliph of Khorasan had managed to put to words exactly how Tariq had always felt about the only girl he’d ever loved. Had always felt but never managed to say with quite such simple eloquence.

  These were not the words of a madman.

  For the first time, Tariq saw what Shahrzad saw when she looked at Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

  He saw a boy. Who loved a girl. More than anything in the world.

  And he hated him all the more for it.

  BOUNDLESS

  SHAHRZAD PAID DEARLY FOR HER SILLY SHOW OF bravado with the spiced wine.

  She spent the better part of the next morning with her face in a basin, emptying her stomach of its contents. Her insides were a jumble of knots; the dullest stream of light made her wince. There were moments she swore the very roots of her hair howled in protest.

  Were it not for Irsa, Shahrzad felt certain these symptoms would have endured all day. When Shahrzad complained of feeling as though she were on a rolling ship in the midst of a storm, Irsa rummaged through her neat little pile of things and unraveled an old scrol
l. After scanning its contents, Irsa left their tent and returned with a tonic brewed from ground gingerroot and the peel of a dried lemon. Though Shahrzad protested at first—the concoction smelled quite strong and tasted rather bitter—she could not deny it helped in settling her stomach.

  At Irsa’s behest, Shahrzad remained in their tent, nursing her wounds and forcing down more of the bitter tonic. Ordinarily, she would have disliked wasting an entire day in bed while Irsa sat at their low table, transcribing scrolls by the light of an oil lamp. But on this particular day, Shahrzad did not protest.

  For on this day, these circumstances suited her just fine. If everyone thought her ill, they would be even more likely to leave her to her own devices.

  Even more likely not to notice when she snuck out after dark . . .

  With her magic carpet in tow.

  It was time to find Musa Zaragoza.

  Time to see what she—and the magic carpet—could do.

  In stealthy silence, Shahrzad tucked her dagger into her waistband and skirted past her sleeping sister. She secured a shahmina about her shoulders before grabbing the magic carpet. Once outside, she stayed to the tent shadows, her heart beating like a caged bird.

  If someone found her creeping about at night only days after her arrival, they would suspect her of trying to flee or perpetrating something more insidious. It would not help quell the suspicions those in the camp harbored against her. And it would be even worse if she came across another boy like Teymur.

  Her skin crawled at the thought.

  With careful steps, Shahrzad moved between patches of darkness, avoiding any stretches of light. Her gaze went to the sentry posts she’d noted the night before. She allowed herself to breathe freely when she cleared the edges of the Badawi camp and strode into the endless sweep of sand beyond.

  As luck would have it, she’d chosen a night without wind—a night in which every sound she made would be distinct. If she fell or yelped or did anything that might attract attention, her secret would be a secret no more; her detractors would have proof their doubts were rooted in fact.

  And they might send her away, along with her injured father and her innocent sister.

  At the very least, they’d find Shahrzad alone in the desert, with a dagger and a rug. Everyone would suspect her of treachery. They would be unlikely to leave her to her own devices again.

  It could not be helped. She had waited long enough.

  Though her first instinct was to go to Khalid, Shahrzad knew it would only be more difficult to leave Rey once she returned. And now was not the time to place her wants above the needs of her family.

  Especially the needs of her father.

  Shahrzad had to find Musa. After Baba, he was the only person she knew with any aptitude for magic. It might be beyond the realm of possibility, but perhaps he would know how to help her father.

  Or how to break a terrible curse.

  She wandered farther into the desert, trying to find a place where a rise of sand would conceal her from prying eyes.

  Soon, Shahrzad came across a large dune that should suit her needs. Still, she felt silly when she unfurled the threadbare carpet onto the silken sand.

  She took a step back. Reconsidered the small rectangle of tattered wool.

  What am I doing? How . . . ridiculous. This is utterly ridiculous.

  Her gaze hardened.

  I’m being a goose. Shiva would not approve of such indecision.

  Nor would Khalid.

  Her eyes fell shut.

  “You are boundless. There is nothing you can’t do.”

  His words in her ears, Shahrzad removed her sandals and threaded them through her tikka sash. Then she secured her braid a final time and sat on the carpet.

  There was no time for her to worry further about the ridiculousness of this endeavor.

  No time for anything at all, really.

  Shahrzad had thought she would need to press her hands to the rug’s surface. But as soon as her bare feet grazed the worn wool, the sensation around her heart flared, warm and bright.

  “Oh!” she cried softly as she dropped onto the carpet, her knees to her chest. The feeling flashed through her limbs with a sudden, burning brilliance. The carpet lifted into the air, its corners curving upward. It hovered above the sand, rising like a kite on an errant breeze.

  Two emotions battled within Shahrzad.

  The first was fear.

  The second she would not yet dare name.

  As the carpet continued its slow rise, the warmth flooded through Shahrzad’s body, into her arms and legs, through the very tips of her fingers. It tingled in her nose and pulsed along the ridges of her ears.

  Power.

  Of a kind she’d never known before.

  When she looked down again, she was high above the silver sands. As high as the highest turret of Taleqan.

  The fear remained, but it was soon surpassed by that other as-yet-unnamed emotion.

  Before she even had a chance to consider it, she knew with an innate kind of certainty how to direct the carpet, as a fish born in water knows how to swim.

  “Let it take you where your heart longs to be.”

  Home. To Khalid.

  Shahrzad gripped the carpet tight with determination. “No. Take me to Musa Zaragoza,” she whispered. The prickling warmth around her heart blazed brightly, then seared through the rest of her, tearing another cry from her lips.

  Along with an unexpected smile.

  The carpet swooped in a lazy arc, rising even higher. To the height of the highest parapet of Rey. As soon as it turned, it took off into a light-studded sky. The world below her disappeared in a rush of flickering fire.

  Fear lost its battle.

  Exhilaration won.

  Shahrzad laughed into the night, a current of air at her feet. She rose onto her knees. Let her arms spread wide in the wind. Let the whistling chill wash over and past her, but not through her. Never through her.

  Never for a moment did she think the carpet would let her fall.

  She was the water in the tumbler, swirling and dancing to a music she alone could hear.

  And up here—higher than she’d ever thought she could be—the wind blew alongside her, while all else vanished in a blur.

  Still, there was no fear.

  For up here, Shahrzad chased the wind.

  The ground did not exist. Nor did the sky.

  Here, she was truly boundless.

  Fear would never overtake her again.

  THE BOY BY THE SEA

  SHAHRZAD FLEW OVER THE DESERT, TOWARD A mountain range.

  When she saw the sea sparkling on the horizon, her eyes widened in shock.

  She’d traveled an astonishing distance in a rather short amount of time.

  The magic carpet began to slow as it neared a low promontory overlooking a pale strip of sand. The moon still hung high in the sky, its shifting light glancing over receding waves. A lace of foam collected along the shore. Shahrzad took a deep breath. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the tang of salt. As the carpet circled above the cliff, a pillared structure with a dome of brindled stone emerged from behind a wall of grey rock. Marble columns capped by tongues of fire stood sentry at the corners. A wide set of stairs descended to a rectangular pool of water near the edge of the promontory.

  The magic carpet floated alongside the pool, poised just above a smooth stone rise. Shahrzad eased a bare foot off the woolen surface.

  And the carpet landed with a careful whuff.

  She donned her sandals and made a slow scan of her surroundings.

  The pool was enclosed on two sides by rows of cusped arches. Between those arches were marble statues of men and women pouring gilded streams of water or wielding strange contraptions Shahrzad had never seen before. One was an orb filled
with what appeared to be swirls of fire—or perhaps it was wind? Another looked to be spinning a vortex made of . . . sand?

  Burning incense rose from squat copper pots flanking the pool. Blue-grey smoke seeped into the air above them, the scent of peppery-sweet myrrh strong. Set against the tan stone was a mosaic border of bright blue lapis lazuli.

  Shahrzad rolled up the rug with care. She strapped it to her back using her shahmina before taking a tentative step forward.

  The pillared structure seemed to be a temple. Given the hour, it was no shock to see very few signs of life around her. Still, Shahrzad kept a hand near her dagger as she passed the pool and its copper pots of smoking incense, walking cautiously toward the wide set of stairs ahead.

  Her gait did not falter when a familiar figure appeared at the top of the staircase.

  He was quite tall and dressed in a cloak that fell to his feet in a chaos of colors. Leather mankalahs were wrapped around each wrist. His head was completely shorn of hair, and his deep brown eyes glowed like beacons of warm light.

  “I was wondering when you would visit me.” Musa Zaragoza grinned down at her, his smile bright. He held out his hands to her, signaling her up the stairs. A boy and a girl near her age materialized from behind the fire-capped columns to Musa’s right. The girl raised a trio of tapers in a rosewood holder, the wax dripping in creamy rivulets beside her wrist.

  Both the boy and the girl were armed with short, hooked swords at their left hips.

  Shahrzad halted near the bottom step. Without a second thought, she reached for her dagger.

  Musa smiled broadly, his features smoothing in understanding. “You’re among friends here, my star. I can assure you of precious little in this world, but in this, I can rest my life: here, you are safe.”

  “Forgive me, Musa-effendi,” she said, though her fingers did not move from her side. “But there are times I forget what being safe feels like.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  Shahrzad’s gaze flicked back to his silent sentries. “I hope I have not offended anyone. Or caused any undue trouble by coming here tonight.”