Shahrzad looked over at Jalal. He remained dubious.
“Did your ‘cousin’ explain draw weight to you?”
She shook her head.
He exhaled before stepping closer to her. “I chose this bow because it has a lower draw weight. I suspect this is the reason you chose that particular quiver of arrows. Meaning this bow and this arrow will work in tandem to help you draw back without having to use a great deal of upper body strength. Which is especially beneficial for smaller archers, like you.”
“So draw weight is about size?”
“I think it’s more about speed and accuracy. If you don’t have to expend a lot of energy firing a single arrow, it makes it easier to nock another one into position quickly. You also tend to be more accurate when you’re not straining yourself.”
“It makes sense,” Shahrzad agreed.
“I’m sure it does.” He grinned.
She ignored his meaningful tone as she reached back for another arrow. After she fitted it into position on the sinewed bowstring, her eyes darted to his face.
“You must know the caliph well,” she began.
His amusement faded slightly. “I’ve known Khalid since he was a little boy.”
“Are you good friends?”
“No.”
“I see.” She drew back the arrow farther and released it. This time, it sailed much closer to its target, but still managed to land buried in the sand.
“I’m older than he is, by two years. His brother, Hassan, and I grew up together; we were very close. When Hassan died, I tried to extend a hand to Khalid, but . . .” He shrugged. “He never took it.”
Shahrzad turned to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“It isn’t easy to lose your best friend. At least, I can’t imagine it would be.”
“Thank you for saying so. But Khalid lost his older brother. His father died the following year. And because of that terrible incident with his mother . . . he was only fourteen when he took the throne. Fourteen and alone. I’m sure you have an idea of what came after.”
I don’t care. There is no excuse for the monster he’s become. He’s had four years to grow accustomed to being king. And as for what came after . . .
When Jalal saw the look on Shahrzad’s face, he took a step in her direction.
“Please understand; I’m not making . . . excuses.” His voice was very soft.
Shahrzad twisted away from him and snatched another arrow from the quiver at her back. She stopped herself when she realized she had fitted the arrow and nocked it in a seamless motion ill-befitting a novice.
Jalal laughed. “I’m sorry, but I’m now convinced I’ve earned the right to ask for a favor, Shahrzad.”
“And why do you think that?” she said under her breath.
“Because my silence has a price.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He edged closer. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do to Khalid, but you are the first person to rattle him in years. And he needs to be rattled.”
Shahrzad met his steady gaze, the arrow still pressed tight against her neck.
“Is there a favor in there somewhere?”
“Khalid is not my friend. He is not my enemy, either. He is my king. I remember the boy he was quite fondly . . . kind, with a bright and inquisitive mind. A wandering soul. The broken creature he is now—I’m tired of it. Will you help me fix it, Shahrzad?”
Shahrzad stared back in morose silence, wondering where such blind faith came from. Such misplaced faith in a boy with a murderous past and a girl with treacherous intent.
Jalal studied her, his sun-bronzed face a hairsbreadth from her own.
At that moment, Despina burst from the shadows, her features alight with horror. When Shahrzad traced the terror to its source, she felt the air leave her chest in a single, sharp gasp.
Across the courtyard, the Caliph of Khorasan stood watching them, his expression cool and composed.
Like the calm before a storm.
BY THE LIGHT OF A SINGLE CANDLE
AT THE SOUND OF SHAHRZAD’S WORDLESS exclamation, Jalal glanced over his shoulder. Humor washed across his features, mixed with a hint of defiance. “I guess neither of us will be able to meet our earlier terms.”
“I guess not.” Her hazel eyes were locked on her amber-eyed nemesis.
“But I hope we can continue this discussion at a later time.” Jalal stepped away from her with a mocking bow.
The caliph crossed the expanse. He was wearing a qamis of the finest white linen and grey sirwal trowsers. A tapered sword in a style Shahrzad did not recognize hung from the black tikka sash looped about his hips. As always, he embodied the antithesis of everything she found warm and good in the world.
All motion within the courtyard had ceased at his arrival. To his right was an older gentleman whose carriage and countenance were distinctly reminiscent of Jalal’s. At his left was a nervous-looking man, clutching an armful of scrolls. Flanking him was a retinue of soldiers and bodyguards.
For a perilous beat, Shahrzad considered turning her arrow on him. At this distance, she knew she could hit him. But the arrow’s tip was blunted—meant only for target practice.
It might not kill him.
She lowered the weapon.
It’s not worth the risk.
As he drew near, she willed her heart to cease its irrational pounding. If she intended to conquer this monster, she had to first quell all fears of him. Quickly.