The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) (8 page)

K
HALID DID NOT LIKE SURPRISES.

Even as a child, he had been wary of them.

He could not recall a single time when he’d been pleased with a surprise. In his experience, surprises were often a prelude to something much more insidious. Like a slow poison masked by a fine wine. Served in a bejeweled cup.

No.

He hated surprises.

Which was why, when Khalid walked into Vikram’s chamber and found Despina sitting at his bodyguard’s bedside, he was most displeased.

How had she managed to learn of the Rajput’s recovery so soon? Khalid had received word only at dawn, less than an hour ago.

Indeed, the handmaiden’s eyes and ears were quite vast. They were among the chief reasons she had always made such an excellent spy. No doubt it came from her ability to make friends and gain confidences with the ease of a butterfly. As she’d made friends with those of influence around the palace.

As she’d made friends with Shahrzad.

The handmaiden rose to her feet and bowed, pressing the tips of the fingers of her right hand to her forehead. “
Sayyidi.
”

“I’m impressed.” Khalid remained at the foot of the bed, his features tight.

Despina smiled, her eyes sparkling even in the weak light filtering between the window slats. “Forgive me for saying so,
sayyidi
, but you don’t look it.”

A single cough emitted from Vikram’s lips, meant to conceal what, in the Hindustani warrior, passed for amusement.

Khalid turned to him without preamble. “Your shoulder?”

There had never been a need for formality between them. They’d trained together for years. Bled together. Fought together. The Rajput had been his bodyguard since the day Khalid had been crowned king. His friend since before that.

Vikram did not answer. His black gaze held fast to a nondescript corner above while Khalid took in the reddened bandages and the foul-smelling poultices wrapped around the copper skin of his left shoulder. When Vikram sat up to reach for the tumbler of water on the low table beside him, he could not suppress a twinge of pain. Despina bent to assist him, ignoring his deepening scowl.

“You just missed the
faqir
,
sayyidi
,” she said as she replaced the tumbler on the low table. “He came to say—”

“That whelp’s arrows shattered my breastbone. And the bone in my shoulder,” Vikram said in a gruff tone. A tone that promised a fierce reprisal in the near future.

Despina blinked, at a loss for words. Then recovered in a flash of white teeth. “But the
faqir
also said—”

Vikram silenced her with a glance. Pouting, Despina returned to her stool and looped her arms across her chest.

The pitiless side of Khalid felt strangely appeased by this exchange—the sight of the twittering butterfly being silenced by the towering brute. Were Shahrzad here, Khalid suspected she would have added greatly to his satisfaction with a sharp quip that would have bettered yet worsened the situation all at once.

He strode from the foot of the bed to Vikram’s side. “Is there anything you need of me?”

Vikram leaned back against the pillows and eyed him with his usual uncompromising stare. “A new arm.”

At this, Khalid almost smiled. “Alas, I need both of mine.”

“For what?” Vikram grunted, affecting a look of disdain.

“To fight.”

“You lie. Like the posturing peacock you are.”

Khalid’s eyebrows rose. “I never lie.”

“A lie.” The Rajput’s mustache twitched, his gaze dark.

“
Never
 . . . is perhaps the wrong word.”

“
Seldom
is better.”

“Seldom, then.” Khalid offered him the hint of a smile.

Vikram exhaled, smoothing his right hand across his short beard. “I cannot fight anymore,
meraa dost
.” It was a difficult admission. His eyes closed for an instant.

“Now
that
is a lie,” Khalid said without hesitation. “The
faqir
told me your shoulder would heal in time. It may not return to what—”

“I cannot feel anything in my left hand.”

Truly, Khalid hated surprises. With the fire of a thousand suns, he abhorred them.

His gaze drifted to Vikram’s left hand, lying prone atop the linen sheets. It looked the same as always. Merciless. Inveterate. Invulnerable.

Yet not.

He knew words of reassurance were unnecessary. Vikram was not a fool, nor was he in need of coddling. Nevertheless, Khalid could not ignore his inclination to state the obvious.

“It is too soon to pass judgment on the matter.” He refrained from speaking in a gentle tone, for he knew Vikram would despise it. “Feeling may return to your hand in time.”

“Even if it does, I will never fight as I once did.” There was no sentiment behind the response. Just a simple statement of fact.

Despina shifted in her seat—the second sign of discomfort Khalid had seen from the handmaiden since his arrival.

Though this puzzled him, Khalid granted Vikram’s words their requisite consideration. “Again, it is too soon to pass judgment on the matter.”

“That whelp used obsidian arrowheads.” Vikram’s fury cut dark fissures across his forehead and deep valleys down the sides of his face. “They shattered the bones. Beyond repair.”

Despite his wish to fan the flames, Khalid tamped down his ire. It would serve no purpose to fuel rage. Instead his features fell into a mask of false composure. A mask he wore well.

“I heard as much.”

“I cannot serve as your bodyguard with only one good arm,” Vikram ground out in pointed fashion.

“I disagree.”

“As I knew you would.” He frowned. “But it matters not,
meraa dost
.”

“And why is that?” Khalid said.

Again, the handmaiden shifted in her seat.

Vikram eased farther into his pillows, the edges of his expression smoothing. “Because I will not be less than what I am. And you will not force me to be less.” He did not even bother to challenge Khalid with his unyielding stare.

“What is it you need of me, my friend?” Khalid repeated his earlier query, though it sounded entirely different now.

The Rajput paused. “I wish to leave the city. To start a life of my own.”

“Of course.” Khalid nodded. “Whatever you need.”

“And to take a wife.”

More surprises. Would it never end?

“Is there someone you have in mind?” Khalid’s expression remained careful. Controlled.

Vikram leveled an almost mocking gaze at his king. Then his features shifted slowly to the pouting butterfly at his bedside.

To Khalid’s best spy.

Apparently, Khalid’s abhorred surprises were only beginning.

Try as he might, Khalid could not hide the look of disbelief etching its way across his face. “And are you amenable to this marriage?” he asked the handmaiden in a voice barely above a whisper.

When her pretty lips started to pucker into an amused moue and her eyes began to shimmer like wells full of unshared secrets,
it took all of Khalid’s willpower not to lose his temper and turn from the room in a mindless rage.

“Very well, then. Far be it from me to understand the machinations of love.” Khalid shook his head, banishing all evidence of his incredulity. “Is there anything else?”

“There is . . . one thing more,” the Rajput grumbled, almost as an afterthought.

Khalid waited, hoping it was not another surprise.

“Despite my choice of a wife,”—the warrior eyed his future bride, who returned his look with a knowing smile—“I do not wish to become the subject of rumors.”

“I understand,” Khalid replied. “I will not discuss these matters with anyone. You have my word.”

Vikram nodded curtly. “We will depart in two days. After that, all else is in the hands of the gods.”

A sudden pang of loss shot through Khalid. He was not bothered by its presence. Merely by its keenness. “I shall miss your company, my friend.”

“A lie.” Vikram coughed, his good shoulder quaking with repressed humor. “You shall be the finest swordsman in Rey. Finally.”

“The finest swordsman in a fallen city,” Khalid countered, holding back the beginnings of a grin. “Fitting.” He looked away, rubbing a palm along his jaw.

“
Meraa dost
?”

It was the first hint of indecision Khalid had heard in Vikram’s voice.

He glanced back at his friend.

“Are you truly not going to bring her back?” the Rajput asked.

“What’s this?” Khalid finally grinned, though it was with a heavy heart. “After all your early protestations?”

“Despite all, I find I . . . miss the little troublemaker. And how she made you smile.”

As did Khalid. More than he cared to admit to anyone.

“She is not safe in Rey, Vikram,” Khalid said. “I am not for her.”

“And the whelp is?” The lines across the Rajput’s forehead returned.

Along with Khalid’s simmering rage. “Perhaps. At least he can make her smile.”

“And you cannot?” Vikram’s eyes cut in half. Flashed like pieces of flint.

Like the obsidian in Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s bone-shattering arrowheads.

Khalid’s blood pooled thick with anger. Thick with unjustifiable wrath.

After all, he had been the one to let Shazi disappear with Nasir al-Ziyad’s son. He had not gone after her, as he’d first wanted to do. He had not ordered Jalal to bring her back, despite the wishes of his heart.

It had been Khalid’s decision to let her go.

Because it was best she not suffer alongside him—alongside Rey—anymore.

For at what point could he reconcile his faults with his fate?

It was no longer possible.

Despite all his attempts to avoid his destiny, it had found its
way to him. Had slashed its way across his city. Set fire to all he held dear.

And he could not watch Shahrzad burn with him.

He would burn alone—again and again—before he would ever watch such a thing.

“I cannot make her smile,” Khalid said. “Not anymore.”

The Rajput ran his hand through his beard, lingering in contemplation.

“It is too soon to pass judgment on the matter.”

Khalid bowed deeply, touching his fingertips to his brow. “I wish you happiness, Vikram Singh.”

“And I you,
meraa dost
—my greatest friend.”

C
UT THE STRINGS, SHAZI. FLY.”

The words were whispers in her ears, carried on the air like a secret summoning.

“Fly.”

Shahrzad sat in the center of her tent, ignoring the commotion outside. Sounds of the newest contingent of soldiers arriving in camp. Sounds of impending war. Instead she focused on the dusty ground, her knees bent and her feet crossed at the ankles.

Before her lay the ugliest carpet in all of creation.

Rust colored, with a border of dark blue and a center medallion of black-and-white scrollwork. Fringed on two sides by yellowed, woebegone tassels. Seared in two corners.

A rug with a story of its own . . .

Albeit a small one. It was barely large enough to hold two people, sitting side by side.

Shahrzad canted her head in contemplation. Took a measured breath. Then she pressed the flat of her hand to the rug’s surface.

A prickly feeling, like that of losing sensation in a limb, settled
around her heart. It warmed through her blood, spreading into her fingertips.

Though she knew what to expect, it still took her by surprise when a corner of the carpet curled into her hand.

She removed her palm and swallowed. The rug fell flat.

“Cut the strings, you goose. Did you swallow your ears just now, along with your nerve?”

“I heard you the first thousand times, you rat!” With a small grin for Shiva’s memory, Shahrzad reached for an empty tumbler and the pitcher of water on the low table nearby. Catching her tongue between her teeth, she filled the tumbler halfway and placed it within the center medallion of the ugliest carpet in all of creation.

“Now for the true test,” she muttered.

Shahrzad returned her palm to the carpet. Just as before, the strange feeling unfurled around her heart before tingling down her arm. The edges of the rug bowed in on themselves, then the rug took to the air. Soon, there was nothing beneath it but empty space. She lifted onto her knees, moving with caution. The tumbler had not stirred from within the medallion; not a single drop of water had spilt. Exhaling through her nose, Shahrzad floated her fingers to the right. The rug followed along at shoulder level, the water’s surface as calm as an unruffled lake.

Shahrzad decided to take the enterprise a step further.

She stood without warning, her hand spiking toward the steepled ceiling of the tent. Shahrzad expected the carpet to careen out of control, but—though it lifted in the mere blink of an eye—it refused to be buffeted about on such a graceless tide.
Instead, it rippled as though it were under the spell of the lightest of breezes. Trailing her fingertips, it rose above her head—a series of small waves upon an invisible shore—before spiraling back to the ground at her command. She repeated the motions twice. Up. Down. And back again. Not once did the carpet break contact with her skin. Not once did it lose control. It bore the cup as its weightless passenger, from ceiling to floor like clouds upon the air.

The most Shahrzad ever saw was the water loll from brim to brim, never spilling, simply swirling about, as though it were dancing to a languorous music it alone could hear.

Her eyes wide, she let the magic carpet circle back to the earth.

In her ears, the voice of her best friend—the voice behind the secret summoning—began to laugh, lyrically, beautifully.

Teasingly.

Your turn, you goose.

Shahrzad smiled to herself. Tomorrow night she would test the magic carpet again.

Without the tumbler.

Baba looked better this morning. At least, that was what Irsa thought. He didn’t seem quite as wan or quite so withered. And he had swallowed his mixture of water and herbs with a bit more relish than he had yesterday.

Perhaps he would wake soon.

Irsa made a face as she blew the sticky strands of hair off her forehead. She was certain she was starting to resemble one of Rey’s innumerable street urchins. Replete with dirt along the
collar and sand behind the ears. With a huff, Irsa lifted her chestnut braid and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

Merciful God! Why was her father’s tent so much hotter than her own? It felt like a bakery on a summer afternoon. How could Baba stand it?

Irsa studied his sallow complexion once more, then finished mopping the sweat from his forehead. “Please wake up, Baba. It’s my birthday today. And it would be the best gift of all to hear your voice. Or see your smile.” She pressed a kiss to his brow before collecting her things and striding to the entrance of her father’s tent.

Lost in thought, Irsa failed to notice the lanky figure standing just outside.

“Irsa al-Khayzuran.”

She stopped short. Turned. Almost tripped over a sandaled heel. Then raised a hand to shield her eyes from the searing rays above.

“I waited a long time in the sun for you . . . so that I could make sure all was well after yesterday’s ordeal,” Rahim al-Din Walad stated quietly. “But I suppose I’m rather easy to ignore?”

Heat rose in her neck. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

His attempt at laughter sounded like anything but. “I’m only teasing, Cricket.”

Irsa cleared her throat. “Well, don’t.” Rahim knew she hated that nickname.

He managed a soft laugh. It sounded kind of dry, like parchment being torn in two, but Irsa felt strangely soothed by it. Odd things had always soothed her in such a way.

Like the peculiar expression on Rahim’s face.

“As you can see, I’m quite well.” Color sprang into her cheeks. “Did you need—something else?”

“Do people only talk to you when they need something?”

Why did he always ask so many questions? And why did it irritate her so? “No. They only talk to me when they need to. Or when they think
I
need something, as you usually do,” she retorted. “But I suppose you’re waiting in the hot sun for your health?” As soon as the question rolled off her tongue, Irsa wanted to clap her hand over her mouth.

What was wrong with her? After all Rahim had done for her recently! Teaching her to ride horses on sweltering afternoons when he could have been with Tariq or the other soldiers. Then helping her to rescue Shahrzad just yesterday.

Truly, there was no conceivable reason for her to be so awful to him.

Beyond complete stupidity.

Another dry rasp of laughter. “If I recall correctly, Shazi was also a bit of a wretch on her fifteenth birthday.”

Rahim knew it was her birthday?

“I—did Shazi tell you?” Irsa stammered, all too aware of his nearness, her pulse starting to pound in her ears. She felt the same warmth that had brushed across her hand only yesterday, when he’d given her the reins.

“No.” Rahim pressed his lips together as a gust of wind blew a shower of sand through his tightly marcelled curls. “You thought I would forget?”

“No. I thought no one would remember.”

He stared down at her, unblinking. His look the same—strangely soothing.

The blood rose in Irsa’s cheeks again. She swiped the sweaty hair back from her face—

And suddenly remembered that her braid was in a disheveled knot at the back of her neck. That she resembled a ragamuffin of the highest order. Her eyes wide, she unwound her braid and tried to arrange the sticky chaos atop her head.

“What are you doing?” Rahim finally blinked, his eyelashes as thick as brushstrokes across a canvas.

“Trying not to look like a street urchin.”

“What?” Tiny vertical lines formed along the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“Because—I—girls should be beautiful!” Irsa shot back, dabbing her forehead with her sleeve. “Not sweaty, stinking disasters.”

“Is that a rule?”

“No, it’s—you’re . . . troubling.” Irsa couldn’t help it. He truly was. With his unceasing questions. And his unwavering warmth.

A light caught within his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”

Rahim had never looked at her like that before.

“I brought you something,” he said after several moments of steady deliberation.

“What?” She stepped into his shadow and dropped her hand from her brow. “Why?”

He reached into the brown linen of his
rida’
and removed a scroll bound by hemp cord. “I borrowed it from Omar. So you have to return it. But . . . I thought you might like it.” He
shrugged, then held the weathered bit of parchment out to her.

Still taken aback, it took her too long to reach for it.

Rahim waited, unperturbed, though she could see another question forming on his lips.

She beat him to it. “What is it?”

“Omar told me how you thought to put tea herbs and milk in your father’s water. This is a scroll on plants and their healing properties. I thought you might like it. I’ll bring some parchment and ink for you tomorrow. Perhaps you can transcribe it.” He shrugged again. “Or . . . I can do it for you. Though my handwriting leaves a great deal to be desired.”

Irsa was flabbergasted. Of all the things she’d expected sensible Rahim to do or say, it was not this.

He’d brought her a gift?

“I—well—I suppose I could do that. Yes. I mean, I’ll transcribe it. Not you.”

“You’re welcome.” He laughed; again, the sound was brittle in the air yet warm on her skin. When he turned to leave, Irsa felt a sudden urge to ask him to stay.

But to what end?

As though he could sense her consternation, Rahim looked over his shoulder. “Are—are you coming to the gathering following the war council tonight?”

Irsa started to nod, then stopped herself. “Will Shahrzad be allowed to attend?”

“I cannot see why anyone would object. Not with Tariq at her
side. Nothing of import will be discussed around the fire. And everyone is rather curious about her. But, if she decides to come, it won’t be easy. All eyes will be upon her,” Rahim warned, ever the vigilant friend.

“I’ll be sure to keep her apprised. And . . . I’ll make certain nothing happens to her.” Irsa lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. Steady. Stalwart.

At least she hoped that was how she appeared. She could very well appear mad, for all she knew—sweaty-haired and clutching a scroll of curatives to her chest.

“I expected nothing less.” Again, Rahim paused in consideration of her. “
Tavalodet mobarak
, Irsa al-Khayzuran. May you have a hundred birthdays to come.”

“Thank you, Rahim al-Din Walad.”

He bowed with a hand to his forehead. When he straightened, he smiled that same almost-smile, as though he alone were aware of something important. “What you said earlier? You have nothing to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re better than beautiful.” Rahim took a careful breath. “You’re interesting. Never forget that.”