“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.”
NOT A SINGLE DROP
CUT 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.