It curled into her hand, as though it had a life of its own.
Shahrzad gasped in shock and fell on her side in a graceless heap.
“What happened?” Despina demanded, kneeling beside her.
“The rug—moved!”
“What?”
Shahrzad scrambled to her knees, her heart tripping about in her chest.
“Look!” She pushed her hand to the carpet until the prickly sensation filled her palm . . . and one corner of the rug rose from the floor.
Despina shrieked a curse and jumped back. “What’s wrong with it?”
“How should I know?” Shahrzad yelled.
“Do—do it again.”
Shahrzad repeated the process, and another corner of the carpet lifted from the floor with the ease of a rising cloud.
At this, Despina regarded her with wary circumspection. “Have you ever done that to anything before?”
“No! It’s the carpet, not me.”
Despina knelt and placed her own palms to the worn, rustcolored surface. She waited a beat. Nothing happened.
“It’s not just the carpet, Shahrzad. It’s you.”
Shahrzad chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“Then you are unaware. It lies dormant in your blood.”
Despina exhaled in a huff of exasperation. She held Shahrzad’s hand to the carpet. When its edges curled off the floor and Shahrzad tried to pull away, Despina refused to let go.
Soon, the entire rug was floating in the air beside their shoulders—weightless, as though woven from a dream. When the girls withdrew their touch, the carpet drifted back to the marble with the grace of a petal to the earth.
“Well,” Despina whispered in awe, “that certainly is a neat little trick.”
• • •
Tariq dismounted in the desert before Omar al-Sadiq’s large patchworked tent. He grabbed his stallion’s bridle and led it to a trough of water nearby. As the horse drank, the mirrored surface rippled around its snout in concentric rings. Tariq ran his palm along the magnificent animal’s neck.
The return journey had not been an easy one.
Despite her reassurances as to her safety, leaving the city of Rey—leaving Shahrzad—had been all but impossible. He’d acquiesced to her wishes, but it had been done with a heavy, bitter heart. For the past five days, Tariq had ridden through the blowing sands under a blazing sun, in constant war with his thoughts.
How had it come to this?
Nothing made sense. The girl he knew was not capable of such fickleness. The girl he loved was too smart, too resourceful . . . too loyal to be won over by a monster. Especially one who had murdered her best friend.
As this tempest raged about in his mind, Tariq found himself returning to its most salient point: none of this made sense.
Therefore, it required an explanation.
Tariq remembered hearing tales of captives losing their will to their captors. Prisoners falling in love with their vanquishers. While he’d never believed in such a possibility before, it was the only thing that made sense of Shahrzad’s behavior.
She was not herself. That palace, that world . . . that monster had taken away the girl Tariq loved and driven her to forget all she held dear.
He had to get her out of there. Soon.
The sound of Zoraya’s piercing cry tore him from his thoughts. Tariq whistled for her, and she landed on his outstretched mankalah, impatient for her evening meal. He was preoccupied, but he managed to smile at the falcon as he offered her a strip of dried meat.
“Our nameless sahib returns!” a familiar voice crowed from behind him. “Though, if the rumors are to be believed, he is nameless no more.”
Tariq turned to the sun-weathered face of Omar al-Sadiq. “Rumors?”
Omar grinned, wide and gaptoothed. “Such is the way of rumors. We are often the last to know the ones in our honor.”
Tariq closed his eyes for a spell. The eccentric sheikh was trying his last bit of patience. “There are rumors in my honor?”
“About the White Falcon. The savior of Khorasan.”
“What are you talking about?” Tariq heaved a weary sigh.
“Have you not heard of him? They say he rides under a banner emblazoned by the standard of a white falcon. That he intends to storm the city of Rey and overthrow its evil king.” Omar’s eyes twinkled. “As it turns out, I believe you’re quite familiar with the White Falcon. His friends call him Tariq.”
“I’m sorry,” Tariq said brusquely, knocking back the hood of his dusty white rida’. “But I’m in no mood for your games.”
“Games? War is not a game, my friend. Games are for small children and old men like me. War is a young man’s blighted delight.”
“Cease with the word games, Omar! I can’t stomach—”
“Would you like to see your banner, instead?” Omar winked. “It’s quite—”
“Please!” The single word cracked against the desert sky, filling it with frustration and the lasting hint of pain.
Omar’s keen eyes took in Tariq’s aggrieved face. “What happened while you were in Rey, my friend?”
Tariq released Zoraya into the clouds and leaned back against the trough.
“Tell me what troubles you so,” Omar pressed in a gentle voice.
“I—I have to get Shazi out of there. Away from that place. Away from that monster.”
“You are worried for her safety.” Omar nodded slowly. “Then why have you returned?” His concern eclipsed his bluntness.