The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (23 page)

But not a third. He could not be
that
gifted a swordsman. No
one was. The thought was simply ludicrous. Filled with the sort of bold audacity that routinely caused Shahrzad such trouble.

They were alike in that respect. Shazi and the boy-king.

Arrogant. Audacious.

Yet oddly steadfast in their convictions. Oddly honorable.

Tariq should aim for his heart. And take him down. For Shiva. For his aunt.

For himself.

Anger coursing through his blood, Tariq pulled the arrow even farther back. He heard the sinew tighten beside his ear. The goose feathers between his fingers felt so familiar in their softness; they almost whispered a promise on the wind.

The promise of an end to his suffering.

He could do it. The boy-king’s arrogance made him weak. Made him believe Tariq incapable of such violence. Or unable to espouse the necessary skill.

Tariq stared down the needless sights to the end of the arrow. The obsidian point gleamed back at him, menacingly beautiful in the light of the moon.

The last arrowhead Tariq had seen was the one he’d removed from Shahrzad’s back. Stained crimson with her blood.

Dripping red with the blood of the only girl he’d ever loved.

It seemed only a moment had passed since Tariq had promised he would never hurt Shahrzad again.

A moment and a lifetime.

And this? What Tariq was about to do? This would do far more than hurt her. This would destroy her. Beyond words. Beyond
time. As Shahrzad had once said of his own death. On a night not so long ago when she’d worried Tariq might perish at the hands of the Caliph of Khorasan.

There would never be an end to this.

Unless someone chose to end it.

Tariq lowered his weapon. “The wind is not right.”

“The wind should not matter to a master archer such as yourself.”

“It should not,” Tariq replied simply. “Yet it does.”

The caliph dropped his swords to his sides. “Perhaps you are not the archer I thought you to be.”

“Perhaps.” He cut his gaze at the boy-king. “Or perhaps I’m merely waiting for a more favorable wind.”

The boy-king’s expression darkened in response, a muscle working in his jaw. “Never forget, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—I gave you this chance. Today you fired upon me . . . and in turn struck that which matters more than life itself. The next time you attempt such a thing in her presence, I will flay you alive and leave the rest for the dogs.”

Tariq’s brows shot into his forehead. “And here I was on the cusp of believing you might not be a monster.”

“I’m my father’s son—a monster by blood and by right.” The caliph’s voice remained cool, despite the heat of his words. “I do not make empty threats. You would do well to remember that.”

“Yet you wish for me to trust that you deserve Shahrzad. That you are what is best for her.” Tariq refrained from sneering.

“I would never presume such arrogance. And rest assured; the
day I concern myself with your good opinion will be the day the moon rises in place of the sun. But know this: I will fight for what matters to me, until my last breath.”

“She matters to me, too. I will never love anyone or anything as much as I love Shahrzad.”

At that, the caliph’s smile returned, mocking in its bent. “I disagree. You love yourself more.”

Resentment simmered through Tariq’s chest, roiling to a slow burn. “Do not—”

“Until you can learn to let go of your hatred, you will always love yourself more.”

Laughter burst from Tariq’s lips, dark and scathing in tone. “Can you honestly claim not to hate me?”

The caliph paused. “No. I do not hate you. But I deeply resent your past, more than I can put to words.” He restored his blades to a single sword and began pacing toward him. “Do you know how many times I could have killed you, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad? How many times I’ve wished, in the blackest reaches of my soul, that you were no more? I’ve known who you were—who your family was—for a long time. My father would have killed you simply for looking at Shahrzad the way you do. For myself, I would have killed you. But for her, I didn’t.” He sheathed his sword with a quick
snap
. “And I never would have, but for the events of tonight,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

Tariq clenched a hand around his bow-grip, taking the caliph’s confession into consideration. As difficult as it was for Tariq to admit, he did not believe the caliph to be lying. For he did not seem prone to deceit. Which put to question many other
suspicions Tariq had long harbored against him. Suspicions that had long begged for answers.

Tariq’s hatred could no longer remain festering in their shadow.

“Why did you murder my cousin?” he asked in a terse voice.

“Because I thought I didn’t have a choice,” the caliph responded with care. “I believed it was taken from me by a man who wished for me to suffer as he suffered. A man who sought to”—he took a halting breath—“curse me for my heedlessness. To curse the families of Rey with the deaths of their daughters each dawn. And in so doing, the man cursed the whole of Khorasan.” A trace of anguish flickered across the caliph’s gaze—an anguish that hinted at an untold amount of suffering. He answered as though he expected to answer for many years to come. As though he knew no answer would ever be sufficient.

“A . . . curse? You killed my cousin because of a
curse
?” Incredulity flared through Tariq. His eyes grew wide, blurring his sight to all around him for an instant.

“I was wrong to believe I didn’t have a choice,” the caliph said quietly, continuing to make his way toward Tariq. “So very wrong. And I can never right this wrong. Nor can I right the wrongs to your family. But I can promise to make amends, if you will grant me the chance.”

Tariq gritted his teeth. Despite this revelation—despite the realization that this must have been what Shazi had been trying to tell him all along—the caliph’s answer was truly not an answer. It was merely a string of hollow reassurances.

Nothing of substance.

“Your promises are but empty words,” Tariq shot back. “Said all too late.”

“My promises are not empty words.” The caliph stopped a body’s length away from him. “Though a promise means little without a measure of trust.”

Tariq’s jaw set. “The sheikh of this camp once told me trust is not a thing given; it is a thing earned. You have not yet earned mine.”

The caliph’s mouth curved into a reticent smile. “I think I’d like to meet this sheikh.”

A spell of awkward silence passed before Tariq responded, his words equally reticent. “Though I’m loath to admit it, I suspect he’d like you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He likes a good love story.” Tariq sighed resignedly.

“I’m not yet certain if this is a good love story.”

At this quiet pronouncement, Tariq caught sight of a vulnerability buried deep beneath the arrogance. More of the man behind the monster.

Tariq paused to consider the boy-king he’d so long despised. So long wanted to see die a thousand slow deaths at his willing and eager hands.

For the second time, Tariq saw the hint of something . . . more.

Not something he liked. Perhaps not something he could ever like.

But perhaps something he no longer hated.

“For your sake, it had better be a good love story,” he whispered.

At that, the Caliph of Khorasan bowed to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad, a hand to his brow.

After a moment, with the slightest twinge behind his heart—

Tariq returned the gesture.

W
HEN SHAHRZAD AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, IT
was with a spinning head and a leaden shoulder. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, and every muscle in her body ached.

But she was warm. Warmer than she could ever remember being.

For the first time in her life, she woke wrapped in someone else’s arms.

Khalid was asleep beneath her.

She was on her stomach, strewn across him, their limbs an unwieldy tangle.

For a moment, she froze, thinking she might still be lost in a dream, concocted by one of Irsa’s foul-tasting tonics.

How is Khalid asleep?

She stared at him, confusion warring with the traces of slumber. Then she noticed a sliver of leather mingling with a length of metal about his throat.

He was wearing the talisman Musa Zaragoza had given her.

Shahrzad had rarely seen Khalid look anything other than
pristine. The sight of him appearing in a state beyond his control was . . . intriguing, to say the least.

He looked like a beautiful disaster.

His dark hair was in complete disarray. There were smudges of dirt beneath one eye. They’d gathered in the creases formed by the scar beside it. His
qamis
did not fit him, for it was obvious it did not belong to him. It was too tight across his chest and too long in the arms.

Shahrzad stared at Khalid’s sleeping form in watchful silence. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her could almost lull her back into sleep, if she would but let it.

Instead she set her chin on her stacked palms and continued her careful study.

Khalid at rest was a fascinating prospect to behold. Awake, every shadow, every hollow appeared pronounced by the icy apathy he displayed for all things—the proud and petulant mask he wore to conceal the world of sentiments beneath. At rest, everything was softened. Molded as if from the finest clay. His lips were slightly parted. Begging to be touched. His eyebrows—usually set low and severe on his forehead—were smooth and without the looming threat of his judgment. His lashes were long and thick, curving darkly over the skin of his cheekbones.

So very beautiful.

“A painting would be better.”

Her breath caught.

Khalid’s lips had barely moved while he spoke. His eyes had remained closed.

She cleared her throat. “I do not need a painting. Nor do I
want one.” Though she strove to sound indifferent, the husky rasp of her voice betrayed her.

Perhaps she could attribute it to the hour. Or to the recent ordeal.

Or to any number of—

“Liar.”

The blood rising in her cheeks, she turned away from him . . . and gasped sharply.

A searing pain bloomed from her shoulder and across her back. Shahrzad bit her lower lip hard.

Immediately, Khalid’s eyes flew open. He caught her chin in one hand, his gaze skimming across her face. Then he reached for a tumbler beside the bed pallet and passed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“Something your sister left to ease any discomfort.”

Shahrzad swallowed the liquid, its bitter taste coating her throat. She made a face. Though Irsa had obviously tried to mask the tonic’s unpleasant tang with honey and fresh mint, it still possessed a rather dreadful flavor.

While she drank, something stirred from the shadowy corners of the opposite side of the tent. Tariq soon appeared, his hair mussed and his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Khalid replied. “Nothing beyond morning mulishness.”

Shahrzad frowned. “No one asked you.”

“As a matter of fact, I did ask him.” Tariq yawned through his words. “For I’d be much more likely to get an honest response from him than from you.”

Shahrzad cut her eyes at Tariq, more than willing to battle
with him, despite her condition. “So now you’re talking to him instead of trying to kill him?”

“Be kind, Shazi,” Tariq retorted, the portrait of ease. “After all, I did let him sleep in my tent.”

We’re in Tariq’s tent. And we managed to survive the night here.

Shahrzad could scarcely believe it. Again she wondered if she might still be suffering from the aftereffects of last night’s ordeal. For surely there could not be a note of humor in Tariq’s voice. And she had yet to detect even a hint of tension in Khalid.

It’s clear something of note happened between them.

Beyond their attempts to murder each other.

But Shahrzad could not be certain whether all was indeed as it appeared.

Wariness settling between her shoulders, Shahrzad glanced from her husband to her first love. Then back again.

What had made Tariq no longer wounded to the core by the mere existence of Khalid? And what had made Khalid no longer of a mind to destroy Tariq on sight?

I will never understand men.

But she would not question her good fortune. Not now, at least.

“What is the hour?” Shahrzad asked, her voice still thicker than usual. It appeared the tea she’d consumed at Irsa’s behest was clouding her faculties. Or perhaps it was the tonic left by her bedside. Whatever the case, she could not fault either draught much. Whatever she’d consumed had lessened her pain, which should by all rights be considerable.

Tariq studied the weak light filtering through the tent seams. “I believe it’s just near dawn.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh.”

“But I don’t think he should remain in the camp for much longer,” Tariq said in a thoughtful tone. For a moment, indecision seemed to hover about him. As though he himself were unsure of his course. “For I cannot continue to guarantee his safety, should anyone discover his identity. After all”—he turned somber—“this is not an army rallied in his support.”

Shahrzad braced herself for one of Khalid’s blistering replies. Something low and curt that was sure to provoke Tariq.

When Khalid said nothing, Shahrzad took the opportunity to answer with a quick nod. “He’s right. We should return to Rey with all haste, Khalid.” Biting back a gasp, Shahrzad shifted to one side, preparing to stand.

“I can travel there myself,” Khalid replied.

“No,” she said. “No one knows you left, and the
shahrban
will be incensed if he believes something has happened to you. Not to mention Jalal. We should return quickly.”

And the magic carpet is the best way to do so.

“My uncle will be angry with me regardless. And Jalal—will be unlikely to notice.” At the mention of his cousin, Khalid’s body tensed ever so slightly.

“Of course he’ll notice.”

“I would not be so certain.”

The sudden tension—along with the hint of dejection in his voice—made Shahrzad turn back to look at him. Even in the early-morning shadows, the change in his disposition was unmistakable . . . provided one knew what to look for.

What has happened between Khalid and Jalal?

When she saw the look of warning Khalid passed in her direction, Shahrzad decided not to discuss the matter further. At least not in Tariq’s presence.

Instead, she endeavored to sit straight, stifling a cry at the shooting pain that traveled down the length of her arm. The entire right side of her body was stiff. She clenched and unclenched her fist in an attempt to restore movement to her fingers.

“Shazi”—Tariq started toward her, concern marring his face—“I don’t think you should—”

“Don’t presume I care what you think.” She glared at him while waving him off with her uninjured arm. “Especially since you’re to blame for this.”

Tariq winced. “I’ll not protest on that score. And though it’s a feeble thing to say, I
am
sorry. More sorry than I can put to words.”

“I know you’re sorry. We’re all very sorry any of this ever had to happen,” she said in a peevish tone. “But now is not the time to tell me what to do, especially in the face of all your mistakes.” With a cutting glare, Shahrzad returned to her task of restoring movement to the right side of her body, despite the searing ache behind each motion.

“Are you not going to stop her?” Tariq said to Khalid, his exasperation all too evident.

“No,” Khalid replied in an unruffled manner, still lying on the bed pallet in studious silence. “I’m not.”

Shahrzad shot Tariq a triumphant look.

“But will you lend me a horse and enough provisions to journey to Rey?” Khalid said to Tariq, rolling to standing with
unaffected grace. Almost mocking Shahrzad for her inability to stand straight.

“Khalid!”

He swiveled to face her. “I won’t stop you from doing as you please. Just as you will not stop me.”

Tariq grinned, clearly more than a little amused to see Shahrzad thwarted. “I’d be happy to lend you a horse and provisions. But I expect full repayment in the future. With interest, for you can undoubtedly afford it. Also don’t expect to take my horse. Not this time.” He paused. “Or ever again, for that matter.”

“I agree to your terms.” Khalid stood before Tariq, the former half a hand shorter than the latter, yet the two appearing to be on strangely equal footing.

A king on par with his nobleman.

Nodding at Khalid with an almost affable expression, Tariq glanced back at Shahrzad. “I’ll gather the necessary provisions and wait for you both outside.” Then, with nothing more than a striking smile to shroud a lingering sadness, Tariq slipped through the tent flap.

He left us alone.

Tariq left to give us time alone together.

Either he had fully come to terms with the situation or Tariq was putting on a show worthy of Rey’s finest street performer.

Could it be possible he was giving her his tacit approval?

Tariq
was giving
Khalid
a chance to prove him wrong?

Momentarily shocked into silence, Shahrzad sat still on the edge of the raised bed pallet while Khalid moved to the nearby basin to wash.

“What happened between you and Tariq?” Shahrzad began without preamble. She dropped her voice. “And who has my father’s book?”

“Tariq fired an arrow at you,” Khalid intoned without pausing in his task. “And lived to tell the tale.” He looked back at her. “As to the book, you needn’t worry about it any longer. You’ve dealt with more than enough.”

“Khalid.”

Swiping his damp hands across his face and neck, Khalid remained silent for a time. “Tariq Imran al-Ziyad and I have come to a sort of understanding.” He lifted the lid off a small wooden container beside the basin and shook a measure of ground mint and crushed rock salt onto his palm to cleanse his mouth of sleep.

“Then I should not worry?”

Finally Khalid turned to meet her gaze. “For Nasir al-Ziyad’s son, I can make no promises. But for me, you should not worry. I promise.”

The last word hung in the air with palpable meaning.

Shahrzad took in a slow breath.

Khalid would not seek reprisal for what had happened last night. Which hopefully meant he did not harbor any hidden resentment toward Tariq for trying to kill him. Nor did he wish him harm for injuring Shahrzad in the process.

The hope of reconciliation she’d dreamed of by the fire began to take shape once more.

“Will you not let me take you to Rey?” Shahrzad asked, seizing upon this newfound sentiment.

“No. I will not.” He finished his ablutions without another word on the matter.

Shahrzad wrinkled her nose in frustration as Khalid wiped his chin of excess water. “I wish you would not be so stubborn.”

“And I wish you had not jumped before an arrow last night. But wishes are for genies and the fools who believe in such things.” The hint of anger in his words brought a rash of heat to her skin.

Surely he’s not angry with me for doing such a thing.

“Do you think I
meant
to be shot with an arrow?” she accused. “You can’t possibly be angry at me for this, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. I certainly did not intend to—”

“I know.” Khalid knelt before her, his hands coming to rest at her sides. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But”—he stopped short, the harsh lines on his face melting away—“you cannot do that again. I—cannot watch such a thing again, Shahrzad.”

Her throat swelled tight at his pained expression. And her mind drifted back to the memory of a boy who had watched his mother die before his eyes.

Khalid brought a palm to the side of her neck, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “Do you know how close that arrow came to your heart?” he whispered. “To killing you in an instant?”

“If I hadn’t pushed you, Tariq would have killed you,” she replied, lifting her hand to cover his. To press the whole of his touch into her skin.

“Better me than you.”

Her gaze hardened. “If you’re asking me if I would do it again, I would. Without question.”

“Shahrzad, you can never do that again.” His words were muted and harsh. “Promise me.”

“I can’t promise that. I will
never
promise such a thing. Not as long as I live. As you once said, there isn’t a choice in the matter. Not for me.”

Khalid’s chest rose and fell on a deep inhale. “I wish you would not be so stubborn.” He echoed her earlier words as his thumb grazed her cheek.

As his eyes rippled with unfettered emotion.

Shahrzad smiled. “Are you a genie or a fool?”

“A fool. As I’ve always been when it comes to you.”

“At least you can admit it.”

“At least twice.” One side of his mouth curled upward. “And only to you.”

Shahrzad shifted both hands to Khalid’s face. His stubble dragged across her skin as her fingers caressed his jaw. His eyes fell shut for an instant.

It was not the right time. Alas, it was never the right time.

But it did not matter.

Even the heaviness of the tonic did not dull the fire racing through her blood. She pulled him toward her, slanting her lips to his.

He tasted of water and mint and everything she ever hungered for in all her moments of remembrance. He smelled like the desert in the sun and the faintest trace of sandalwood. The palace at Rey and the billowing Badawi sands, coming together in perfect concert.