The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (21 page)

I
RSA DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF HER SISTER’S
husband.

He was a confusing mixture of extremes, cloaked behind a black
rida’
.

With everyone else, he was chipped ice on a mountain. With her sister, he was a summer breeze across the sea.

Alas, this did little to change the fact that Irsa remained terrified of him. For she was quite certain he’d almost killed Tariq no less than three times since returning to the Badawi camp.

The first incident occurred not long after they arrived at Tariq’s tent. Though on that score, Irsa supposed the caliph’s enmity was somewhat warranted.

As soon as they concealed themselves within the tent, Irsa tried to remove Shahrzad’s bloodstained
qamis
, so as to better see the wound in question.
Of course
it was not appropriate for Tariq to assist her with this. Especially in the presence of Shahrzad’s husband. Surely Tariq could not have thought it was. Irsa was not quite certain why he’d even attempted to do so.

Foolish at best. A death wish at worst.

And in the face of a murdering madman?

A death likely to come about in any number of colorful ways.

Then, once the wound was cleaned, she and the caliph attempted to remove the arrowhead. Since neither of them was versed in such matters, it proved to be a challenging task, especially with Shahrzad’s combativeness coming to the fore. In the end, they were forced to consult with Tariq, as he had been the one to fashion the arrowhead in question.

With the purpose of exacting a great deal of damage.

With the intention of shredding skin and shattering bone.

Irsa was certain the caliph meant to murder Tariq at this admission. Unfortunately, it did not much help Tariq’s cause when he was the one to extract the arrowhead. After all, he was the one with the strongest understanding of its design. Not to mention the steady hands of a skilled archer. He managed to remove the arrowhead intact, which Irsa had been most grateful to see, despite the difficulty accompanying the effort.

Shahrzad bit down on a piece of worn leather while it was being done, and tears stained her cheeks for the duration. Though they all witnessed Shazi curse Tariq quite soundly afterward—which implied all was on its way to being mended—Irsa was still sure the caliph intended to do Tariq physical harm in the near future.

The last incident in which Tariq narrowly escaped an early demise occurred not long after Irsa cleaned Shahrzad’s wound a final time with a mixture of old wine and warm water. Not long after Irsa realized the wound would not stop bleeding anytime soon.

When she knew it would have to be sealed shut with a hot blade.

Shahrzad was not a girl to flinch away from such a thing. Nor was she a girl to lament a scar.

But Irsa knew this would not be a small thing to stomach. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Shahrzad had already lost a fair amount of blood. Any more and it would no longer be a matter they could successfully conceal from the rest of the camp. When Irsa brought her suggestion to light, Shahrzad agreed it was not to be further debated.

In the end it was done using the slender tip of Rahim’s
khanjar
dagger, so as to ensure the smallest scar. The caliph was the one to do it. At her sister’s behest.

Shahrzad lost consciousness in the process. In truth, Irsa was glad of it. For the smell of burnt flesh alone was enough to sicken her.

Again, Tariq nearly escaped death. Of that Irsa was quite certain.

For after the wound was sealed shut—when it was clear Shahrzad had lost all sense of herself—the caliph seized the front of Tariq’s
qamis
with his left hand, still clutching the hilt of the red-hot dagger in his right. Irsa felt the hatred gather in the space between them as sure as she felt the weariness take hold of her bones. The only thing stopping the caliph from seeing his wishes come to fruition was Rahim.

Rahim pulled Tariq away. Forced him to leave. Then followed him, an apologetic glance thrown over a shoulder.

Tariq had been quick to oblige, disappearing into the darkness,
his face a storm of regret. But—thanks to Rahim—at least Tariq was still alive.

Now it was just Irsa and the caliph alone with Shahrzad. Alone in Tariq’s tent.

Irsa, alone . . . with an infamous murderer of young girls.

She finished wringing out the bloodied linen in a bowl of lukewarm water and stood, trying to stave off the settling fatigue. The caliph remained beside Shahrzad, studying the wound in her back and the fresh wrappings draped over it.

“When she wakes, I’ll bring her some barley tea with valerian root. It should help fend off the fever and let her sleep through the worst of the pain.” Irsa bit her lip, briefly lost in thought.

The caliph did not respond, nor did he look her way. Instead he remained focused on Shazi, his expression unreadable.

Irsa could not ignore her compulsion to fill the torturous silence with sound. “Though it seems foolish to say so,” she babbled. “I’m—grateful the arrow struck at such an odd angle, for the wound is not terribly deep. She’ll be sore for a few days, and I’m certain her shoulder will hurt her for a while, but . . . it could have been much worse.”

The caliph finally shifted his gaze from Shahrzad to regard Irsa with a set dispassion. “Yes,” he agreed. “It could have been much worse.” His eyes narrowed. “Had you not been there, many things could have been much worse. I thank you for that, Irsa al-Khayzuran.”

A nervous flush bloomed across her cheeks. After all, it was not every day the Caliph of Khorasan considered her as though she were a question he sought to answer. “Rahim . . . brought you
a change of clothes.” Irsa took a calming breath. “There’s clean water in that pitcher there, and—should you need more—there’s a trough not far from here. I’m sure you’d like to wash away all the—blood. I can step outside if you wish . . .
sayyidi
.”

At that, the caliph waited to respond, as though he were gathering his thoughts. It was impossible for Irsa to tell, for he was impossible to read.

Impossible in every which way.

“There’s no need for you to call me that.”

A flare of surprise shot through Irsa, stilling her hands of their fidgeting. “But—”

“I’d like for you to call me Khalid.” The caliph braced his elbows on his knees. “Since you’ve already scolded me in typical al-Khayzuran fashion, it shouldn’t be too difficult.” An odd trace of humor flickered across his face.

Irsa’s flush spread from throat to hairline. “I—I apologize for that. I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“I disagree. I think—of all of us—you were the only one precisely in your right mind.”

The intense way the caliph looked at her—as though he could see past her eyes into her very mind—only deepened Irsa’s feeling of awkwardness. She brushed back the strands of wispy hair that had fallen into her face. “I suppose you were a bit . . . hot-tempered.”

The suggestion of a smile played across his lips. “A fault for which I’m sure to be reprimanded in the near future.” He glanced down at the sleeping figure of Shahrzad. “Deservedly.”

“Yes.” Irsa smothered a grin, despite her unease. “You probably
will be—though how Shahrzad can manage to reprimand anyone for possessing a bad temper, I will never understand.”

At that, the caliph truly smiled. The gesture managed to soften all the edges of his profile, rendering him almost . . . boyish. Almost beautiful.

Absolutely less monstrous.

The realization caught Irsa off guard. It was the first time she truly grasped the fact that the Caliph of Khorasan was still only a few years older than she.

Still only a boy in his own right.

And perhaps a boy with a bit more to him than the stories foretold.

Irsa wove her braid between her fingers in careful consideration of this fact.

Once again, they both fell silent.

“I understand your discomfort around me,” the caliph said quietly. “My behavior earlier was reprehensible. And I’d like to apologize for it.”

When Irsa’s face reddened a second time, it was for an entirely different reason.

“I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day,” he continued.

She nodded, still searching for the right words.

The caliph rubbed his neck, then angled himself away from the light. Almost hesitating. “May I ask where your father’s book is?”

Though he spoke in hushed tones, Irsa looked to the tent’s entrance before answering. “It’s here,” she whispered. “In my satchel.”

The caliph’s expression lost a hint of its starkness. He returned to studying Irsa, his face creasing and uncreasing with his unspoken thoughts. “I don’t”—he inhaled through his nose—“I’ve never had a sister.” His thick brows flattened, casting a darker shadow above his eyes. “And there’s never been a time I’ve stopped to form an opinion on the matter. Have you ever stopped to think what it would be like to have a brother?”

“Well, I—I don’t have a brother.”

But in truth Irsa had always wanted one. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d considered what it would be like to have someone to look up to, as a sister would a brother. Someone to tease her, as only a brother could. Someone to watch over her and needle her when it was both necessary and unnecessary.

For many years, Irsa had thought to find this brother in Tariq. But Tariq had always been occupied by other, grander things—bows and arrows and bets and falcons. Grander things that befit a boy such as he. Much like Shahrzad. And Irsa had never truly resented it. For she’d always hoped things would change as they grew older.

That Tariq would see Irsa as his sister. And become a true brother to her in time.

The caliph inclined his head contemplatively. “Today when you yelled at me—it was the first time I realized what it might be like. To have a sister.”

“And what did you think?” Irsa whispered.

“I rather liked it.”

Her mouth fell ajar. “Even though I yelled at you?”

“In truth, that might have made all the difference.”

“Really?” Irsa blinked, astounded. “Goodness, but you’re odd. Has anyone ever told you that?”

His smile appeared again, just as mystifying as before. Then—

The Caliph of Khorasan laughed.

And it was not at all like she would have expected.

It was relaxed. Soft and melodic. Though it was definitely not a sound that appeared to have been much practiced, it was also not a self-conscious laugh. It was simply a laugh that spoke of a better time. A time when a small boy laughed at better, brighter things.

Irsa had the distinct feeling she was bearing witness to a rather extraordinary event.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying her best to be respectful, though she knew her behavior had already surpassed the notion. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were odd.”

“You did far more than insinuate; you said it outright.” The caliph’s eyes gleamed, but Irsa could detect no hint of menace in them.

“Yes.” She fiddled with her sleeve. “I suppose I did.”

“In any case, I am far from offended. In all things, I find myself grateful to you. I should probably say as much.”

Her gaze widened. Would she never cease to be surprised by him?

“Thank you . . .” His mouth slanted, as though he were still deliberating something. “Irsa.”

Irsa, too, found herself lost in a moment of deliberation. Then she came to a sudden, irrevocable decision.

“You’re welcome . . . Khalid.”

She aimed a crooked smile at him, and disbelief began warming its way through her. Before the color could rise into her cheeks, she collected the change of clothes Rahim had provided and passed them to the—to
Khalid
.

He stood and tugged the stained
rida’
from his shoulders. Then he glided toward the pitcher of water, without a word.

Flustered by the budding understanding of why her sister might have chosen to love this supposed monster, Irsa fumbled for her satchel. She passed the linen-bound book to Khalid in a flurry. Then Irsa raced from the tent, her mind a muddle of thoughts.

She turned the corner into utter darkness.

And found Rahim pacing outside.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, drawing back.

He came up short at the sight of her. “I—I was . . .” He dragged a hand along the scruff at his jaw with a
scritch
. His voice had a gravelly quality to it. Even more so than usual. As though he’d been yelling to the heavens for an age.

“I guess I’m waiting for you,” Rahim finished, firming both his tone and his countenance. When he blinked, his ink-black lashes fanned against the soft skin of his eyelids with an almost sultry kind of slowness. “Waiting to see if you’re all right.”

“Oh.” Irsa tried not to sound eager. And failed miserably.

“Oh?”

She twisted her braid around her fingers. “Why didn’t you just come in?”

At that, Rahim shot her a morose smile. “He doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t think he likes many people.”

“He likes you.” His smile stayed fixed.

“You think so?”

Rahim nodded. “I’m sure of it. He listened to you. And he doesn’t strike me as the sort of king who does that often.” He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it as though he’d reconsidered the matter.

Irsa could no longer stomach it. Could no longer stomach not knowing all Rahim meant to say. Everything he thought, at any given time. She knew it was beyond the pale, but she wanted to know everything he ever wished or wanted, at all times.

At least now the reason behind such desires had a name.

Love.

Irsa had all but confessed her feelings in the desert. And she thought Rahim at least returned a measure of her sentiments. Or at the very least cared for her a great deal.

But he had yet to say a word on the matter.

Irsa wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, her throat suddenly dry. “Was there—something you wanted to tell me?”

He took in a breath through his nose. “There was . . . and yet there wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s just it.” Rahim sighed. “When I’m around you, you make me forget.”