“Oh.” She frowned. “How long will you be gone?”
“Two, maybe three weeks.”
“I see.” Shahrzad chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to remain silent.
His smile returned. “Two weeks, then.”
“Not three?”
“Not three.”
“Good.”
He regarded her with steady amusement. “Again, I’m glad.”
“I’d rather you be careful than glad. And return safe.” She dropped her voice. “Or you’ll be met with a platter of figs.”
His eyes gleamed gold. “My queen.” He bowed with a hand to his brow before shifting it over his heart.
Respect. And affection.
As he made his way toward the entrance, disappointment began eking a hole in Shahrzad’s spirits.
It was not the kind of good-bye she wanted.
“Khalid?”
He pivoted to face her.
She ran to him and grabbed the front of his rida’ to pull him down for a kiss.
He froze for a moment, then reached a hand behind her waist to pull her closer.
The guards in the hall shuffled nervously, their swords and armor jangling together. Jalal’s soft laughter echoed from beside the double doors.
Shahrzad did not care.
For this was a kiss of definition. A kiss of understanding.
For a marriage absent pretense. And a love without design.
Khalid’s palm pressed against her back. “Ten days.”
Her grip on his cloak tightened. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
ONE ELEMENT OF A STORM
JAHANDAR RODE THE DAPPLED MARE TO THE TOP of a hill overlooking Rey.
The sky above was dark and starless.
Perfect.
He took a deep breath and swung from the saddle. Then he reached into his leather satchel and withdrew the battered, ancient tome from its depths.
It pulsed at his touch.
With careful reverence, he knelt before a small grouping of rocks and set the volume on a flat surface. He lifted the black key from around his neck and inserted it into the rusted lock in the book’s center. As soon as he raised the cover, a slow-spreading silver light emanated from the pages.
He was thankful they no longer burned his hands.
Jahandar turned the well-worn vellum until he reached the spell. The words were already committed to memory, but the book’s magic assisted him in channeling the power for such a daunting task. He closed his eyes and let the silver light wash across his face and palms, imbuing him with soundless strength. Then he withdrew the dagger from its sheath and ran its tip across the newly formed scar on his left palm. As soon as his blood dripped onto the blade, the metal started to glow a white-hot blue.
He stood and turned back toward the dappled mare. She tossed her mane and snorted, her deep brown eyes wide. Skittish. Jahandar hesitated for a heartbeat.
But people were expecting great things from him.
And he refused to disappoint them again.
Gritting his teeth, he strode forward and sliced the dagger across the mare’s throat in a single, quick motion. Hot blood spewed onto his hands in a crimson torrent. The mare staggered to her knees as she struggled against the inevitable. Soon she keeled over; her breaths were shallow at first, then nonexistent.
The blade’s edge was fire red, its center burning more brilliant than ever.
Utterly fearsome in its greatness.
He stepped back from the carcass and inhaled through his nose. Then he touched the dagger to the wound on his palm.
The power raged through him, searing into his bones. From atop its throne of mottled stones, the book’s silver light pulsed brighter than a star.
Jahandar gasped and dropped the blade as the power collected in his chest, visceral in its magnificence. The ground beneath his feet trembled.
He began to laugh.
Holding his bloodstained arms up to the sky, he muttered the ancient words and watched the clouds churn at his behest. Reveled as they bowed to his whims.
The book’s pages fluttered. His wind-whipped beard coiled about his throat.
There would never be cause to disappoint anyone ever again.
Tonight, he would prove his worth, once and for all.
He would rescue his daughter. And save a kingdom.
For he was Jahandar the Great.
Jahandar the All-Powerful.
Jahandar . . . the King of Kings.
• • •
The first of the raindrops started to fall.
And Tariq ignored his growing sense of disquiet.
He stood shrouded in darkness, with his back against a wall of discolored mortar and stone. The palace gate was in the distance over his shoulder. It stretched high, constructed of solid wood bound in black iron. Armed sentries were positioned above and below, standing watch from torchlit battlements.
He exhaled, trying to release the tension from his body.
Trying to silence the doubt.
“He really didn’t tell you how he plans to breach the gate?” Rahim tugged the hood of his brown rida’ lower onto his brow.
“For the last time, he said he would create a diversion.”
“And you trust him?”
“No,” Tariq admitted. “But if he fails, I am no worse off than before.”
“Actually, that’s false. You have yet to be accused of sedition by association.”
“Jahandar-effendi would not betray us. In that, I trust him implicitly.”
“I wish I possessed your particular brand of optimism,” Rahim grumbled.
“And what brand would that be?”