The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (26 page)

W
HEN SHAHRZAD WOKE, IT WAS TO THE SOUND
of birds and the feel of silk.

Even the faintly scented breeze around her conveyed nothing but light and beauty.

Yet beneath it she felt nothing but the sense of being controlled. The sense of being imprisoned.

She was in a bower.

True, she was still dressed in the same rumpled
qamis
and dirty
sirwal
trowsers she last remembered wearing, but the chamber she’d slept in rivaled the finest rooms of the palace in Rey.

Indeed, it could be argued that it might even surpass them.

The open screens to her right were far more ornate in their carvings. Perhaps even a tad garish. The richly stained wood was inlaid with ivory, flecked by dark green jasper. Beyond the screens, Shahrzad could see a series of trellises shading a marbled balcony. Branches of flowering trees hung over the terrace, threading through the white latticework like drapery, their bright pink blossoms heavy on their boughs.

The walls of her chamber were sandstone. Where she could
see the walls, that is. Thick tapestries clung to every exposed surface. In the corner was a table fashioned from many bits of colorful tile. It was as though a crazed artisan had taken a hammer to a rainbow, destroying something beautiful in an effort to create something decidedly less so. The pillows tossed about were bold and fringed with tiny mirrors embroidered by threads of gold and silver. On the gaudy table was a basket of flatbread and a copper tumbler, along with a platter of fresh herbs, rounds of goat cheese, small cucumbers, and an assortment of sweet chutney.

When Shahrzad examined the tray of food more closely, she noticed her host had not provided her with a knife, nor was there a utensil or sharp object of any kind in sight.

Her suspicions as to her whereabouts mounting, Shahrzad rose from the mass of silken cushions and took a turn about the room. She could not see past the intricate screens at the edge of her balcony. Indeed, she could see very little outside this prison of sandstone and ivory. When she attempted to turn both handles of the double doors—which were presumably the chamber’s entrance—they were firmly sealed from without, just as Shahrzad had expected.

Her shoulder still ached, but at least it no longer debilitated her. At least it would not inhibit her from fleeing were the opportunity to present itself.

It’s clear I’ve been “asleep” for quite some time.

Shahrzad’s thoughts turned more grim.

How long has Shiva’s father been planning to take me from the Badawi camp against my will?

For it was now obvious Reza bin-Latief had been in league with the Fida’i assassins for quite some time. Had likely been the one to send the mercenaries to Rey those many weeks ago, in an attempt to either kill Khalid or kidnap Shahrzad with a mind to use her as leverage.

And now Shahrzad had successfully been taken unawares.

To a place she was certain would bring about a predictable turn of events. Especially since Shahrzad had a sinking feeling she knew where she had been taken.

Trying to tamp down her fears, Shahrzad made her way to the tray of food on the garishly colorful table in the corner. She dripped some of the water from the tumbler onto the silver edge of the tray, waiting to see if it would darken the tray’s surface. When it did not change color, Shahrzad trickled some of the liquid onto her skin to see if it would do her any harm. Then she took a tentative sip. Her throat was terribly parched. She did not yet trust the food, but she knew she must at least wet her tongue if she meant to survive for any stretch of time.

When Shahrzad heard the sound of grating metal beyond the double doors, she knocked aside the herbs and smashed the platter against the edge of the mosaic table. Then she grabbed one of the larger shards of porcelain and wrapped a linen napkin around one end to fashion a rudimentary weapon.

At the very least, she would not face down her enemy without a fight.

One of the double doors swung open. Shahrzad concealed her weapon to one side of her sun-worn trowsers.

Only to watch her father breeze across the threshold—

Well-dressed and wearing a smile through the wisps of his neatly trimmed beard.

Baba?

When Jahandar saw Shahrzad—armed and crouched in an almost feral position upon the marble floor—he lifted his scarred hands in a placating gesture.

“Shahrzad-
jan
! You mustn’t be afraid.” He moved to her with a swift-footedness Shahrzad had not seen from him in quite some time.

“Baba”—she blinked, beyond confused to see him in such a poised and polished state—“where are we?”

“Dearest, please put down the weapon. There is no cause to be afraid!” He smiled again, even brighter. “The guards outside told me you’d tried the door not long ago, so I came straightaway.”

“Where are we?” Shahrzad demanded again.

“I know you must be afraid, but he does not wish you any harm. No one does. Indeed, you will be safer here than you were in the encampment. And much better cared for. As befitting your status.” His shoulders rolled back at the last, filled with a peculiar sort of pride. A pride that did not fit her situation at all.

“Baba!” she admonished, her frustration clear, for he had yet to answer the question she’d now twice posed.

His smile faltered. But only slightly. “Reza thought it best you be brought to Amardha.”

As she’d suspected. Nevertheless, Shahrzad’s heart lurched. For a moment, she could scarcely breathe. “You brought me to Salim Ali el-Sharif?”

“Of course!” Jahandar did not even flinch at her dangerous
tone. “He is your husband’s uncle, is he not?” He spoke simply, though his expression indicated much more knowledge.

“How could you do this to me?” she whispered.

At her quiet accusation, her father’s watery eyes wavered, then stiffened at the edges. In that instant, Shahrzad realized he would not be moved by her pleas.

Not this time.

He pulled straight. “Perhaps it is I who should be asking you this question, daughter.”

Immediately, Shahrzad recoiled from both his charge and the cold light that had entered his eyes. Eyes that had always been a warm mirror to her own.

“What have you done with my book?” her father asked in a mincing tone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She lifted her chin, trying to conceal her apprehension.

“Shahrzad. I’ve already spoken to Irsa. I know it was she who drugged me.”

Shahrzad remained stone-faced, though her heart missed a beat at the mention of her sister.

“She refused to say anything further on the matter, but you know as well as I that Irsa is incapable of uttering a falsehood. And her attempts to avoid disclosing the truth belied her actions.” His face screwed tight in frustration. “Therefore I must insist that you—” Though it took effort, her father managed to temper his reaction. “I am not angry, dearest. I know someone must have coerced you. Perhaps the caliph or someone with the desire to undermine—”

“No. No one coerced me to do anything. Because nothing has been done.”

Again, a flash of cold light filled her father’s gaze. “Do not lie to me, daughter.”

Shahrzad steeled herself even further. “Where is Irsa, Baba?”

No response, save for a soft inhalation of breath. The barest of hesitations.

“Baba?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then paused a telling beat. A beat that made Shahrzad’s throat swell tight with trepidation. Her father offered a kind grin. “You are still weak from the journey and your injuries. Allow the sultan’s servants to tend to you, after which you should join us for dinner. The sultan’s daughter has been quite worried about you. I promise all will be discussed tonight.”

Shahrzad reached for him, unable to conceal her fear any longer. “Baba, please don’t—”

“I have allowed you a great deal of freedom, daughter. Perhaps I have allowed you too much.” Her father’s tone was firm. He stood quite tall. Taller than Shahrzad ever remembered him standing. Indeed, she had not seen him act with such vim since before her mother had died. “You have defied me long enough, Shahrzad. I will not allow you to lie to me about this. You are toying with something far too dangerous and far too important. Rest for now. And we will discuss the matter later.” Jahandar turned away.

“Please just tell me if Irsa is—”

“Rest. And we will discuss the matter tonight . . . when you are ready to tell me the truth.” With that, Jahandar al-Khayzuran strode from the chamber in a whirl of fine silk.

Shahrzad sank back beside the shards of broken porcelain, still clutching her makeshift weapon.

The panic she’d been fighting since she’d first caught sight of her father—no, since the first inkling of where she was had begun to take root—washed over her with a dire sort of urgency.

The war she’d meant to end had now slipped beyond her control. Far beyond the boundaries of her worst fears come to pass.

For as soon as word reached Rey that Shahrzad was being held prisoner in Amardha—was now a “guest” of the uncle who most assuredly planned to use her as a pawn—Khalid would march on the city with a host at his back.

Of that, Shahrzad was certain.

And, though the truth of it would undoubtedly cost Shahrzad her father’s trust and more, she was also certain of another thing: Khalid had already destroyed the book. Which left them nothing with which to bargain. Nothing to use as leverage.

Except her.

But Shahrzad was not a fool. She would not quail before the Sultan of Parthia. Would not beg for even one word of kindness from her enemy. Nor would she wait to be saved, like a child wailing in the wings.

She would do what needed to be done.

She would find Irsa. And uncover a way out of this cursed city.

Or die trying.

Her worry about Irsa made Shahrzad comply.

Even though she did not think her father would permit her sister to be harmed, Shahrzad no longer knew what thoughts swirled behind his power-hungry eyes.

So she said nothing when the servants entered the room to help her bathe and dress.

Strangely, the entire affair seemed eerily reminiscent of the day Shahrzad had first arrived at the palace in Rey, when the two servant girls had readied Shahrzad for marriage to a monster. When they’d scrubbed sandalwood paste on her arms and dusted her skin with flakes of gold before placing a heavy mantle upon her shoulders.

This time, Shahrzad’s garments were nearly as elaborate as they’d been that fateful afternoon.

Vermillion. A rich red that reminded her of a setting summer sun.

Or fresh blood trickling from an open wound.

The
sirwal
trowsers were cut from the finest silk, embroidered in gilt thread. The fitted top was low across her chest. Much lower than Shahrzad was accustomed to wearing. The mantle was fashioned from a thin gold fabric. Not from the more typical damask. This fabric instead resembled gossamer. In the light, it hinted at everything beneath.

Shahrzad felt exposed. Vulnerable. Which she knew was not by happenstance.

The servants wove her black hair into a thick braid and wound strings of seed pearls around the shining plait. The bangles on Shahrzad’s left arm and the hoops in her ears were of hammered
bullion with matching seed pearls and tiny diamonds embedded throughout.

As her father had assured, Shahrzad had been well tended. Dressed to fit her station.

But she did not feel like a queen.

For a prisoner can never be a calipha.

But a calipha is only a prisoner if she chooses to be.

At these thoughts, Shahrzad threw back her shoulders and curled her toes within her pointed slippers. Her head high, she followed the servants into the corridor, where a contingent of armed guards stood at the ready, waiting to lead her toward the next destination.

Again, Shahrzad was struck by the overblown opulence of the sandstone structure around her. True, the palace at Rey had been marbled and polished past explanation, but there had always been a coldness to it. A kind of stark unwillingness to embrace all that it was. And now that Shahrzad saw all a palace could be, she was oddly glad Khalid had not appointed every corner with a gilt statue or every stretch of the eaves with a glittering tapestry. Indeed, it seemed every alcove in Amardha had been adorned in gold leaf or silver foil, every cusp framed with carvings and embedded with jewels beyond reason or taste, and the sight of it all made Shahrzad rather uncomfortable.

The only place where the palace at Rey outdid the sandstone edifice of Amardha was in its calligraphy. For Rey did boast an inordinate amount of elegant artistry. Of swooping flourishes and graceful swirls made in service to the written word. And Shahrzad knew it was because Khalid had a penchant for poetry.

While it was obvious Salim Ali el-Sharif had a preference for opulence.

Give me poetry any day.

Despite everything, Shahrzad almost smiled to herself at the thought.

The guards led Shahrzad down several more lavish hallways toward a set of beautifully carved doors as wide and as tall as any Shahrzad had ever seen. Of course, just as she’d come to expect in less than a day, the doors were coated in a layer of liquid gold, with handles of solid sapphire the size of her fist. Two guards pushed them open, and she followed the crush of soldiers down a series of polished sandstone steps into a cavernous room of pale pink granite veined with deep threads of burgundy. A single long table stretched through its center, lit by lengthy tapers perfumed in rose water and myrrh. The tablecloth looked to be spun from the finest spider-silk, gleaming lustrous in the warm light cast from the tapers’ glow.