He stopped several paces before her.
And turned to Jalal.
“Captain al-Khoury.” His voice was deathly quiet.
“Sayyidi.” Jalal dipped his head, touching his fingertips to his brow. “I was just showing the queen how to use a bow and arrow.”
“I can see that. The question is why.”
“Because I asked him,” Shahrzad interrupted, much too loudly.
His eyes shifted to her with dispassion. Shahrzad watched him take in her appearance—the lack of a mantle, the haphazard knot of hair . . . and the quiver of arrows dangling from her shoulder.
“Then I redirect the question to you,” he said.
She set her jaw, drawing on a sudden reserve of impudence. “Do I need a reason?”
“I asked for an explanation. Not a reason.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Actually, they are. Regardless of your perspective on the matter, I simply wanted to learn, and Jalal agreed to teach me.” As she spoke, wisps of hair began to uncoil from the knot at her nape.
“Jalal?” His eyebrows rose at this informality, the only sign of a reaction to her bold display.
“Yes. Jalal.” A lock fell forward into her face, and she shoved it behind her ear.
“And what have you learned from Jalal?”
“What?” she exclaimed, unable to conceal her surprise at his interest.
“If he’s been teaching you how to shoot a bow and arrow, you must have something to show for it. Unless he’s an abysmal tutor.”
Jalal started to laugh. “If you’ll recall, sayyidi, I believe I had a hand in teaching you when you were a boy.”
“Jalal-jan,” the shahrban rasped at his son, the lines of consternation further weathering his face.
“Though archery has never been my strong suit,” the caliph continued.
“Your words, sayyidi. Not mine.” Jalal grinned.
“Jalal! That’s enough,” the shahrban said sharply. “He is your king!”
Jalal bowed, his obedience still tinged by ridicule.
“Well?” The caliph looked again to Shahrzad.
She returned his expectant gaze. Then, without a word, Shahrzad refitted the arrow to the sinew, keeping the bow at her side for a moment.
She desperately wanted to show him how well she could shoot, to demonstrate to the entire contingent of onlookers that she was no one to trifle with. She also wanted to do justice to the many years of patient instruction she’d received at Tariq’s side.
When she’d first asked him, as a young girl of eleven, to teach her how to use a bow and arrow, she’d fully expected the twelve-year-old son of a powerful emir to ignore a silly child’s request. Yet, it was that summer in the desert, clutching a makeshift bow and arrow, that she first fell in love with Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. With his refreshing candor and his ready humor. With the charm of his beautifully devious smile. Granted, it had been nothing more than a starry-eyed infatuation at the time, but it was from those precious memories that she drew her strength whenever she felt darkness descend upon her.
For the wonder of a first love can never be matched.
She closed her eyes.
Tariq.
No. Today is not the day to make a point.
She drew in a breath.
But it is also not a day to appear weak.
With her eyes still shut, she raised the bow and drew back the arrow.
She did not need to aim. She knew precisely where she wanted the arrow to fly.
From the age of thirteen, she had aimed purely on instinct, relying on her ability to gauge her surroundings at a glance.
She exhaled slowly.
As soon as she opened her eyes, she loosed the arrow. It flew toward the target in a perfect spiral.
And struck exactly where she intended.
“Amazing. Despite never taking care to aim, you actually hit the target that time,” Jalal intoned drily. “In a fashion.”
“It’s because you’re such a good teacher,” she replied in a blithe manner.
The shadows from a passing cloud seemed to cast a small smile across the caliph’s lips.
“Is it?” Jalal murmured.
“In a fashion.” She grinned. “Nevertheless, I did hit the target . . . rather, I hit one of its legs.”
“Which would have been a remarkable shot, had it been intentional.”
“But we’ve already established that I didn’t aim. Regardless, I think I did fairly well, don’t you?”
“What do you think, sayyidi?” Jalal asked. “Does the queen pass your test of merit?”
It was a brazen question on his part. Shahrzad felt a hint of color rise in her neck as she faced the caliph.
He was merely watching them interact in detached silence.
“She missed the target,” he stated simply.
Shahrzad’s eyes narrowed. When the wayward lock of hair fell forward yet again, she stabbed it behind her ear with undue vehemence.
“Perhaps my king would care to demonstrate the proper technique?” she asked in a cool tone. Reaching back, she extracted an arrow and offered it, alongside the bow, to the caliph.
That same incomprehensible flash of emotion flitted across his sharp profile.
And Shahrzad found herself growing ever more curious as to the thoughts behind it.
It doesn’t matter what he’s thinking. It will never matter.
It should never matter.
He strode forward and extricated the weapons from her hands. When his fingers grazed hers, he hesitated before pulling away. Then his tiger-eyes clouded over and he drew back, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he nocked the arrow into position on the string.