The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (27 page)

Because the room could undoubtedly use more gold.

As far as the eye could see, Shahrzad took in an altogether unnecessary display of opulence. Even the scent of the tapers cloyed at the back of her throat, for it was overwrought. Overdone.

Overmuch.

Shahrzad was the first to arrive.

Again, she was certain this was no accident.

A guard directed her to a richly appointed cushion of darkest blue near the center. While none of the soldiers were outright rude to her, she did notice a certain sort of amusement ripple through the throng when the one nearest to Shahrzad—a young
man with a scar slanted across his nose—leered down at her chest as she bent to take a seat.

Shahrzad gazed up at him, fire in her eyes. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me in such a manner?” she said, her snappish voice bounding through the cavernous hall. “Have you a death wish, or are you merely as senseless as you look?”

He dipped his head in a terse bow, his jaw taut.

“That is not an answer, you insolent fool. And it barely constitutes a bow,” she continued, determined to make a point of this interaction.

Shahrzad could not let any man in this cursed city treat her poorly. Even for a moment. For if they saw even a trace of weakness in her, it would be her undoing.

A wave of laughter filled the air at her back.

Shahrzad’s body froze at the sound of it.

Salim.

“Just as silver-tongued as ever, my lady.” He clapped his hands as though he meant to applaud her. The sound rang in her ears, sharp and crackling.

Shahrzad did not turn around. Would not dare give him the satisfaction. Instead she faced forward and put on a show of affecting a lighthearted expression.

“Your soldiers could stand to learn a lesson in respect, my lord.” Shahrzad grinned as the Sultan of Parthia came into view.

Salim returned her strident greeting by bowing with a flourish. “And I suppose you intend to give it to them?” He braced a hand on the gleaming hilt of his scimitar.

A hand meant to remind Shahrzad of her position.

“Well, someone should.” She grazed her fingertips across her forehead as she emulated his mocking obeisance.

Jahandar al-Khayzuran followed the sultan, dressed in his silken finery, palms folded before him, his expression warring between pensive and perturbed.

Either her father did not know she and Salim had already established a troubling rapport or he was laboring to conceal the knowledge. Shahrzad refrained from meeting her father’s gaze. The betrayal was still too fresh. And she did not want Salim to know how at odds they were.

How hurt she was by her father’s treachery.

Salim moved to sit across from Shahrzad, a tranquil elegance to each of his movements. His heavily embroidered mantle and his beautifully tailored garments were just as overwrought as his palace. Like a simpering cat recently fed on the richest cream, Salim smiled at Shahrzad, his perfect mustache sloping above his wolfish teeth.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit us in Amardha, Shahrzad-
jan
. It’s been long overdue.”

“Visit?” Shahrzad peaked a brow. “That’s a rather interesting choice of words.”

Salim lounged, his elbow against the sapphire cushion to his left. “Surely you prefer it here to that tribal outpost you’ve been forced to bide your time in for the past few weeks.”

“I couldn’t say. My doors were never locked in that
tribal outpost
.”

“Indeed.” He aimed another spurious grin her way. “Do tents have doors?”

“Indeed they do not. But at least I had the pleasure of my sister’s company there. I don’t suppose you’d care to—”

“Of course! How inconsiderate of me. You must be quite hungry.” Salim laughed, motioning toward the double doors behind her. Her father did not even bother turning as he fidgeted with the scalloped spoon beside his plate.

Shahrzad heard them swing open, and the scent of butter and spices wafted her way. Despite her resolve not to eat a morsel until she’d learned of Irsa’s whereabouts, the intoxicating aroma made it rather difficult for her to stand firm in this conviction. When the servants placed a silver platter of spiced potatoes before her, along with a perfect mound of pistachio-and-pomegranate rice surrounded by skewers of saffron chicken, still-flaming lamb kebabs, and steaming tomatoes all heaped upon ornate serving trays, Shahrzad’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

She could not remember the last time she had eaten so well.

Her mouth salivated at the smell of the simmering stew set before her—one of aromatic lentils and caramelized onions. The sweet scent of cinnamon and cloves called to her, the dates and the aubergines taunting her even further.

The last straw was the sight of the quince chutney.

Shahrzad sat on her hands.

“Are you not hungry?” Salim asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I’ve selected dishes I’m told are your favorites.”

Her father frowned at her. “Shahrzad-
jan
, the sultan’s daughter told the cook to prepare a special meal in your honor.”

“I’m sure she did,” Shahrzad muttered, gnawing the inside of her cheek.

“Perhaps my daughter can persuade you to eat.” The light in Salim’s eyes burned bright as he glanced over her shoulder.

Shahrzad did not look behind her, for the last thing she wanted to see at the moment was the perfect smile of Yasmine el-Sharif.

If she attempts to bait me tonight, it will not be soot I smear on her teeth.

No.

It will be my fist.

“Come, daughter,” Salim called out. “Our guest is quite excited to see you.”

Indeed. Positively thrilled.

Shahrzad pursed her lips and wrapped her fingers around the silken cushion at her sides as though it would imbue her with the strength to remain calm.

The soft shuffle of slippered footsteps on polished granite emanated nearby.

With obvious reluctance, Shahrzad lifted her gaze.

Eyes the color of a cerulean sky sparkled down at her.

Shahrzad’s chin struck her collarbone in horror.

“Hello, Brat Calipha.”

Despina.

Many things happened all at once.

First, Shahrzad bolted to her feet, intent on attacking her former handmaiden. A flurry of motion converged upon them.

Before the guards could reach her, Shahrzad stopped short.

Her reaction was not a result of the soldiers’ unspoken threat.
Nor was it a result of some misplaced sense of propriety. Alas with Shahrzad, it was never that. It was something else entirely.

It was worry. Worry for a former friend. Worry for a child not yet born.

Just as soon as the worry coursed through Shahrzad, it was eclipsed by another tide of emotion.

Bitterness. Black and choking bitterness.

Her gaze flicked over the sweeping curves of the girl before her—always lovely—and now even more resplendent, in a dress of amethyst silk, gathered at both shoulders by copper cuffs forming shimmering folds. These silken folds fell to Despina’s feet in streams of lilac and mauve. The deep cut of the garment only accentuated her beautiful shape, as did the high waist and the copper sash, embellished with brilliant gemstones of vivid purple and blush pink, encircled in rose gold. Her honey-walnut hair was piled atop her head in an ornate arrangement adorned with a band of glittering jewels.

A crown.

The bitterness swelled within Shahrzad.

Despina had been many things to Shahrzad once. She’d been a friend when Shahrzad had most needed it. A confidante where Shahrzad had had none. But it was clear everything Shahrzad had known about Despina had been cloaked in lies. For it was beyond evident she was even more things now. The secret daughter of Salim Ali el-Sharif. A princess of Parthia. A spy and a deceiver.

Above all things, it was clear Despina had never been Shahrzad’s friend.

“Was there ever a moment in which you told me the truth?” Shahrzad demanded in a raw whisper.

Despina’s lips gathered into a perfect moue. An all-too-familiar one. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me? I’m married now. Or haven’t you heard?” Her moue slid into a grin.

Over Despina’s shoulder, Yasmine walked closer, with an uneasy laugh and a reticent gait. Amidst all the recent confusion, Shahrzad had not even seen the daughter she’d known about—the daughter she’d been expecting.

At least Yasmine has the grace to feel embarrassed.

For Yasmine el-Sharif did seem oddly out of place. Though she looked every bit as stunning as Shahrzad remembered—her mahogany hair a profusion of waves down her back, and her emerald skirt’s gentle sway hinting at the sort of grace no amount of practice could ever perfect—the princess also did not seem to want to take part in this terrible unveiling. She continued glancing over her shoulder as though she meant to flee.

The girl seemed as though she wanted to be anywhere but here.

Shahrzad’s eyes returned to Despina. “Married? What poor fool have you duped into marriage?”

Despina winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She floated into the seat beside her father. “But congratulations are due, nonetheless. For it just so happens my husband is a good friend of yours.”

Still inexplicably taciturn, Yasmine took the place next to Despina, while Jahandar sat beside Shahrzad. He shot her a nervous glance full of warning, which Shahrzad promptly ignored.

The feast before her forgotten in a sea of rage, Shahrzad
glowered at her devious former handmaiden, as moments from their shared past drifted hot and fast into her present.

“A good spy would hide her identity.”

“The best spies don’t have to.”

So many conversations shared over so many cups of tea.

So many supposed confidences.

Despina’s mother had been one of the most famous beauties in all of Cadmeia. Her father had been a rich man who’d left them both behind for a brighter future.

Or had he? What could Shahrzad believe of the tales she’d been told?

Of course Despina would not want to marry Jalal! Of course she would not want to marry into the family she’d been spying on for so many years! Of course she would flee! Only to return to her father’s waiting arms . . . and all-too-eager ears.

Only to betray Shahrzad. And all those she loved.

How could I have been so stupid?

“How could you do this to us?” Shahrzad whispered. “I treated you as a friend. You told me Khalid was kind to you.”

“The Caliph of Khorasan is kind to no one,” Despina replied airily. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten how you first came to be at the palace?” She snorted. “I daresay that’s rather convenient.”

The sultan laughed, rich and robust. Despina had the gall to simper in his direction. Now that they sat close to each other, Shahrzad could see it. Though it was not a resemblance readily apparent when they were apart. Despina must have acquired her coloring from her mother, but her bearing was much like that of the sultan. Haughty. Proud. Her bone structure was similar to
his as well. A sharp brow and a high set of cheekbones. Indeed, Shahrzad could even see similarities between Despina and Yasmine. An ethereal sort of beauty. Regal in its manner.

No wonder Despina had slipped past everyone with such ready ease. Such brazen charm. It was born to her. She was meant to reside in a palace. To slither and snake her way into its inner circle, with the very best of the vipers.

In a mere six years, she’d managed to earn the trust of the Caliph of Khorasan.

And the heart of the captain of the guard.

“How could you do this to Jalal?” Shahrzad asked, her nails digging into her palms as she tried in vain to suppress her seething outrage.

Her expression unnervingly apathetic, Despina spooned some pomegranate-and-pistachio rice onto her plate. “Alas, Jalal al-Khoury’s sentiments are no longer my concern.” Then she smirked at Shahrzad, and the feigned sympathy behind it made Shahrzad want to tear the band of shining stones from her crown of curls. “But rest assured. The captain of the guard will have no trouble finding a willing girl to soothe his injured pride, of that I am certain.” The last words savored strangely of bitterness.

Shahrzad clenched her teeth, willing herself to stay silent and still. She caught Yasmine considering her through half-lidded eyes.

It was unlike the princess to be so quiet. It surprised Shahrzad, but then Yasmine el-Sharif had surprised her on more than one occasion. Again, Shahrzad felt as though Yasmine wished to
speak but perhaps had yet to form an opinion. Or lacked the necessary nerve in front of her father.

Nevertheless, Yasmine looked for all the world displeased. For an instant, Shahrzad thought to engage her. But the beautiful girl would not look her in the eye. Still refused to see her as anything but an enemy.

Not an equal.

Shahrzad continued glaring at Despina while the former handmaiden laughed and joked with the Sultan of Parthia—with her
father
—as though she had not spent years in a world of deceit.

In the midst of Shahrzad’s roiling thoughts, a sudden realization rose quickly to the surface.

Despina could not have lied about being pregnant.