The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (10 page)

Though no less harsh for its brokenness.

No less effective.

Khalid knew Jalal spoke from a place beyond reason. Still, he could not ignore the sharp stab each of his words inflicted upon
him . . . and the responding desire to return his cousin’s efforts with some spite of his own.

After all, if he was to be accused of monstrous behavior irrespective of proof, should he not rise to the occasion?

Khalid cut his eyes, peering down his nose at Jalal. “If she left you, it is not my fault,” he said, in that softly condescending manner his cousin so despised. “If you loved her, it was your responsibility to marry her. Your responsibility to care for her.
Your
responsibility to tell her you loved her.”

Laughter rolled from Jalal’s lips, the sound as caustic as vinegar.

“As you told Shazi?”

Four more stabs. Each so effective.

“She knows how I feel.” Despite the cool efficiency of his retort, the air was leached from around Khalid once more, and his fists drew even tighter against his sides.

“And now, so do I. Keep watch over your shadow, Khalid-
jan
. Because, for the first time in eighteen years, I won’t be there to watch it for you.”

T
HERE WAS FAR TOO MUCH ANGER IN THE AIR. FAR
too much hatred.

Such emotions made it difficult to think rationally. Not that actual sense seemed of import to any of the brash fools present.

Omar al-Sadiq frowned at the gathering of men in his tent.

Frowned and remained silent.

Their war council was not going well. It was clear there was too much at stake for all involved.

Nevertheless, Omar listened as Reza bin-Latief shared reports about the boy-king of Khorasan. His peculiar disappearances. And the sorry state of his ravaged kingdom.

Many of the caliph’s Royal Guards had died the night of the terrible storm. A large portion of his standing army had either perished or fled Rey. Now Khalid Ibn al-Rashid was calling on his bannermen to help rebuild and refortify the city.

Rey—and its ruler—were vulnerable.

At this revelation, a collective outcry arose from many of the young men present.

“Now is the time. We must strike at the heart of Khorasan!”

“Kill the bastard while he is weak!”

“Why are we sitting here idling about? We should attack the city with all haste!”

Omar’s frown deepened. Still he said nothing. He did not so much as move from his cushioned seat in the corner. Even while he witnessed the clamor rise to a feverish pitch.

It did not behoove Omar or his people to raise objections now. It was best for him to remain unseen and unconcerned. A casual observer of this crisis. Omar did not yet have all the facts. And he needed to know more about the war that would likely transpire at his border.

The war that might put his people at risk.

The request Omar had recently made of Reza had not been met with glad tidings. Only moments before, he’d asked Reza to remove his soldiers from the borders of Omar’s camp. This was to be the last war council in his tent. His last chance to witness the seeds of this discord. He’d already risked too much by assisting them with the provision of horses and weapons.

The Badawi people could not be associated with this uprising. Not yet.

Not when Omar had yet to choose which side to take.

It was true he felt genuine affection for the young
sahib
Tariq and his uncle Reza bin-Latief. But Aisha continued to warn him that neither of these men was to be trusted. One was lovelorn and reckless. The other hid behind secrets and sellswords.

And when it came to such things, his wife was never wrong.

The outcry around him grew even more uncontrolled, tearing Omar from his musings. The soldiers stamped their feet and waved their arms in the air, demanding to be heard.

Finally Reza stepped into the center of the tent.

At his flank stood two hooded soldiers, muscled and menacing. When a surge of men moved forward, the lackey to Reza’s right barreled into their path, a hand on the hilt of his scimitar.

The scarab brand on the soldier’s forearm flashed into view for an instant.

The mark of the Fida’i.

Omar leaned farther back into his cushions and ran his fingers along his beard.

Hired assassins. In his camp. Aisha was right. Such a thing could not be tolerated beyond tonight. His family. His people. There was simply too much at risk.

“My friends!” Reza raised both hands in the air, awaiting silence. “Though it may seem that now is the best time to attack Rey, it will all be for naught if we fail to secure the border between Khorasan and Parthia first. We must seize control of the lands between the two kingdoms, so that we may have strongholds we can rely on for supplies. I urge you to temper your rage—at least for the time being.” A smile coiled up one side of his face. “Save it for when it is most needed. For when justice will finally be served on the boy who dares to call himself a king.”

The cheers began anew. Frenzied in their fury.

Omar toyed with his mustache and swallowed a sigh.

His list of questions for Reza grew with each passing moment.
For it had not escaped Omar’s notice that Reza seemed disturbingly at ease with warmongering. As well as ever-flush with gold. Alas, the identity of Reza’s nameless benefactor continued to elude Omar.

To deepen his suspicions.

The presence of Fida’i in Omar’s camp only made matters worse. As did the recent attack on the Calipha of Khorasan. Especially since Omar had not been granted the courtesy of meting out justice. Not even on his own land.

Omar refused to lose control. The calipha and her family were his guests. These were his lands. His people.

He wanted Reza’s men out of his camp. He wanted to keep those in his charge safe. It pained him greatly that he did not yet know from whom.

As he glanced across the way, Omar saw another face sporting a frown to match his own. Though he’d noticed this face for its troubled silence earlier, it rather surprised him now. For it was a face that failed to conceal its confusion . . . and the many questions lurking beneath.

The frowning boy stood in a place of esteem on Reza’s far right. He did not partake in the angry revelry. He did not say a word. Nor did he seem pleased with the news that his enemy’s position had weakened.

When Omar leaned forward to study the tang in the air between the boy and his uncle, he sensed brewing consternation. A strange uncertainty.

Perhaps a struggle for power. Or a lack of understanding.

Omar should speak to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad soon.

This had been a poor decision on Shahrzad’s part.

But it was too late now. If she left, the whispers would trail after her. The vitriol would spew in her wake.

Her escape would prove their point. Would prove she was afraid of them.

That their stares and their hatred had taken root.

Fear was a currency these soldiers understood well. A currency Shahrzad could ill afford at this time. Especially if she wanted to learn how best to sneak through the camp tomorrow night. And make her way to Musa Zaragoza.

So she sat with her feet to the fire. With a multitude of eyes glowing like embers in her direction. Like circling wolves, awaiting their alpha’s command.

Shahrzad’s gaze drifted around the ring of men seated near the crackling flames. Drifted past them to note the position of the sentries posted about the camp. Their position and their number. How often they wandered past.

The flickering flames threw everything into chaotic relief. Into distorted patterns of light and shadow.

Shadow that would hold her secrets. She hoped.

Irsa’s left knee bounced at a feverish pace, her chin in her palm and her fingers tapping her cheek. “We should go.”

“No.” Shahrzad did not move her lips, nor did she look her sister’s way. “Not yet.”

A steady stream of men trickled from the sheikh’s tent toward the immense blaze in the center of the encampment. As they took their places beside the fire, the men passed around pitchers of
spiced wine with a liberal ease—an ease that spoke of recent discord and a pressing need to forget.

Apparently their war council had not gone well. And though Shahrzad was eager to discover why, she was not foolish enough to believe anyone would tell her.

Instead she watched the
ghalyan
coals being placed atop an iron brazier, while a gnarled-fingered old man packed several water pipes with sweet-smelling
mu’assel
. Their silk-wrapped hoses were kept carefully coiled beyond the reach of any sparks. A group of young women sat beside the towering
ghalyans
, giggling amongst themselves as they waited for the coals to catch flame. Their bright-colored
shahminas
hung loose about their shoulders, shielding their backs from the cool breeze of a desert night as the fire bathed the air before them in bristling heat.

Rahim lumbered from the depths of the Badawi sheikh’s tent, his face crimped into a scowl, Tariq on his heels. Without once breaking his stride, Tariq took up a pitcher of spiced wine and knocked it back. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, then moved toward the fire, the pitcher dangling from his fingertips. As always, Tariq wore his every emotion like ill-advised regalia. Sadness. Frustration. Anger. Bitterness. Longing. For the first time, Shahrzad seriously considered fleeing, but instead lifted her chin and met Tariq’s gaze.

Again, he did not falter.

Nor did he look away.

Shahrzad barely noticed when Rahim dropped beside Irsa, stirring up a cloud of sparks and grousing all the while. Though it took a great deal of effort, Shahrzad managed to curb her desire
to pull away when Tariq took his place to her right—too close to be mistaken for a friend—his shoulder pressed against hers and a hand resting in the sand behind her . . .

Positioned with a cocky, proprietorial air.

Her body tensed; her eyes tapered to slits. She wanted to rail against him. And shove him away.

Tariq knew better. He knew how much she loathed this kind of behavior.

But she could not mistake the change around her.

The circling wolves—the eyes of judgment that had been upon her—continued their silent appraisal, but their hostility had diminished.

As though Tariq had willed it so.

While Shahrzad resented the insinuation that Tariq Imran al-Ziyad was her saving grace, she could not deny this change.

They listen to him.

Was Tariq the one behind the attack in Rey? Had he dispatched the Fida’i assassins to her bedchamber that night?

He could not have . . . done such a thing.

No. Even though Tariq despised Khalid, his love for her would bar him from resorting to such violence. From putting her at such risk.

From hiring mercenaries and assassins to achieve his goals.

Wouldn’t it?

A flare of doubt formed in Shahrzad’s chest. She banished it with a breath.

Shahrzad had to believe in the boy she’d known and loved for so long.

Beside her, Irsa’s leg continued its nervous twitching. Just when Shahrzad had decided she had to put an end to it—before it drove her mad—Rahim reached for Irsa’s knee.

“You’re shaking your luck away, Irsa al-Khayzuran.” He squeezed her knee still. “And we might need it soon.” His eyes drifted back toward the still-emptying tent. Back to the site of the recent war council and its unspoken meaning.

Rahim’s hand did not leave Irsa’s knee.

Flickering firelight or no, Shahrzad could see the tinge of pink on her sister’s skin.

And the odd slant of Rahim’s lips as he glanced down into the sand.

Dear God. Irsa and . . .
Rahim
?

Shahrzad snatched the pitcher from Tariq’s hand.

The heat from the fire had warmed the wine. Had heightened the spiciness of the cloves and cinnamon. The bite of the ginger. The rich sweetness of the honey, and the sharp citrus of the cardamom.

It tasted strong and delicious.

Heady and potent.

She swallowed more of it than she should have.

“Shazi.” It wasn’t an admonition. It was a warning.

When she glanced at Tariq, he was staring at her sidelong, his thick eyebrows set low across his forehead.

“Why are you permitted to drink to your heart’s content, yet I am not?” she countered, clearing her throat of the wine’s sting.

Tariq reached for the pitcher. “Because I have nothing to prove.”

“Ass.” She held it just beyond his grasp. “You are not my keeper, no matter how much you may wish it.” Though she’d meant the words as a rejoinder, she regretted them the instant they passed her lips. For she saw Tariq draw back into himself.

“I thank the stars for that,” he said in a hollow tone.

Shahrzad leaned closer, wanting to apologize but uncertain of how best to do so.

Without warning, Tariq snaked his arm around her. His hand shot forward, his long fingers taking hold of the pitcher.

“Let go of it this instant, or I’ll dump its contents on your head and leave you to wallow in honeyed misery,” he whispered in her ear, his amusement as plain as his threat.

Shahrzad froze, his breath tickling her skin.

“Do it and I’ll bite your hand,” she said. “Until you scream like a little boy.”

He laughed—a rich susurrus of air and sound. “I thought you were tired of bloodshed. Perhaps I’ll toss you over my shoulder. In front of everyone.”

Refusing to comply without a fight, she pinched his forearm until he grimaced.

“This isn’t over.” Nevertheless, Shahrzad relinquished the pitcher.

Tariq grinned. “It never is.” He took a celebratory swallow of wine.

Though she’d ceded this battle, a small part of her felt lightened by the exchange. It was the first time in almost a week—indeed, the first time since they’d left Rey—that they’d spoken
to each other without the hint of anguish hanging in the air between them.

Without her betrayal in the forefront of their minds.

It also marked the first occasion Shahrzad believed their friendship might survive all that had transpired.

This newfound hope easing the weight on her heart, Shahrzad looked up at the starlit sky above. It was a deep blue, with a crescent moon wrapped in a fleece of passing clouds. The sky seemed to stretch on without end, its horizon curving to meet the sand on either side. Its blinking stars were a study in contrasts, some flashing in merriment, others winking in wicked suggestion.