Omar refused to lose control. The calipha and her family were his guests. These were his lands. His people.
He wanted Reza’s men out of his camp. He wanted to keep those in his charge safe. It pained him greatly that he did not yet know from whom.
As he glanced across the way, Omar saw another face sporting a frown to match his own. Though he’d noticed this face for its troubled silence earlier, it rather surprised him now. For it was a face that failed to conceal its confusion . . . and the many questions lurking beneath.
The frowning boy stood in a place of esteem on Reza’s far right. He did not partake in the angry revelry. He did not say a word. Nor did he seem pleased with the news that his enemy’s position had weakened.
When Omar leaned forward to study the tang in the air between the boy and his uncle, he sensed brewing consternation. A strange uncertainty.
Perhaps a struggle for power. Or a lack of understanding.
Omar should speak to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad soon.
This had been a poor decision on Shahrzad’s part.
But it was too late now. If she left, the whispers would trail after her. The vitriol would spew in her wake.
Her escape would prove their point. Would prove she was afraid of them.
That their stares and their hatred had taken root.
Fear was a currency these soldiers understood well. A currency Shahrzad could ill afford at this time. Especially if she wanted to learn how best to sneak through the camp tomorrow night. And make her way to Musa Zaragoza.
So she sat with her feet to the fire. With a multitude of eyes glowing like embers in her direction. Like circling wolves, awaiting their alpha’s command.
Shahrzad’s gaze drifted around the ring of men seated near the crackling flames. Drifted past them to note the position of the sentries posted about the camp. Their position and their number. How often they wandered past.
The flickering flames threw everything into chaotic relief. Into distorted patterns of light and shadow.
Shadow that would hold her secrets. She hoped.
Irsa’s left knee bounced at a feverish pace, her chin in her palm and her fingers tapping her cheek. “We should go.”
“No.” Shahrzad did not move her lips, nor did she look her sister’s way. “Not yet.”
A steady stream of men trickled from the sheikh’s tent toward the immense blaze in the center of the encampment. As they took their places beside the fire, the men passed around pitchers of spiced wine with a liberal ease—an ease that spoke of recent discord and a pressing need to forget.
Apparently their war council had not gone well. And though Shahrzad was eager to discover why, she was not foolish enough to believe anyone would tell her.
Instead she watched the ghalyan coals being placed atop an iron brazier, while a gnarled-fingered old man packed several water pipes with sweet-smelling mu’assel. Their silk-wrapped hoses were kept carefully coiled beyond the reach of any sparks. A group of young women sat beside the towering ghalyans, giggling amongst themselves as they waited for the coals to catch flame. Their bright-colored shahminas hung loose about their shoulders, shielding their backs from the cool breeze of a desert night as the fire bathed the air before them in bristling heat.
Rahim lumbered from the depths of the Badawi sheikh’s tent, his face crimped into a scowl, Tariq on his heels. Without once breaking his stride, Tariq took up a pitcher of spiced wine and knocked it back. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, then moved toward the fire, the pitcher dangling from his fingertips. As always, Tariq wore his every emotion like ill-advised regalia. Sadness. Frustration. Anger. Bitterness. Longing. For the first time, Shahrzad seriously considered fleeing, but instead lifted her chin and met Tariq’s gaze.
Again, he did not falter.
Nor did he look away.
Shahrzad barely noticed when Rahim dropped beside Irsa, stirring up a cloud of sparks and grousing all the while. Though it took a great deal of effort, Shahrzad managed to curb her desire to pull away when Tariq took his place to her right—too close to be mistaken for a friend—his shoulder pressed against hers and a hand resting in the sand behind her . . .
Positioned with a cocky, proprietorial air.
Her body tensed; her eyes tapered to slits. She wanted to rail against him. And shove him away.
Tariq knew better. He knew how much she loathed this kind of behavior.
But she could not mistake the change around her.
The circling wolves—the eyes of judgment that had been upon her—continued their silent appraisal, but their hostility had diminished.
As though Tariq had willed it so.
While Shahrzad resented the insinuation that Tariq Imran al-Ziyad was her saving grace, she could not deny this change.
They listen to him.
Was Tariq the one behind the attack in Rey? Had he dispatched the Fida’i assassins to her bedchamber that night?
He could not have . . . done such a thing.
No. Even though Tariq despised Khalid, his love for her would bar him from resorting to such violence. From putting her at such risk.
From hiring mercenaries and assassins to achieve his goals.
Wouldn’t it?
A flare of doubt formed in Shahrzad’s chest. She banished it with a breath.
Shahrzad had to believe in the boy she’d known and loved for so long.
Beside her, Irsa’s leg continued its nervous twitching. Just when Shahrzad had decided she had to put an end to it—before it drove her mad—Rahim reached for Irsa’s knee.
“You’re shaking your luck away, Irsa al-Khayzuran.” He squeezed her knee still. “And we might need it soon.” His eyes drifted back toward the still-emptying tent. Back to the site of the recent war council and its unspoken meaning.
Rahim’s hand did not leave Irsa’s knee.
Flickering firelight or no, Shahrzad could see the tinge of pink on her sister’s skin.
And the odd slant of Rahim’s lips as he glanced down into the sand.
Dear God. Irsa and . . . Rahim?
Shahrzad snatched the pitcher from Tariq’s hand.
The heat from the fire had warmed the wine. Had heightened the spiciness of the cloves and cinnamon. The bite of the ginger. The rich sweetness of the honey, and the sharp citrus of the cardamom.
It tasted strong and delicious.
Heady and potent.
She swallowed more of it than she should have.
“Shazi.” It wasn’t an admonition. It was a warning.
When she glanced at Tariq, he was staring at her sidelong, his thick eyebrows set low across his forehead.
“Why are you permitted to drink to your heart’s content, yet I am not?” she countered, clearing her throat of the wine’s sting.
Tariq reached for the pitcher. “Because I have nothing to prove.”
“Ass.” She held it just beyond his grasp. “You are not my keeper, no matter how much you may wish it.” Though she’d meant the words as a rejoinder, she regretted them the instant they passed her lips. For she saw Tariq draw back into himself.
“I thank the stars for that,” he said in a hollow tone.
Shahrzad leaned closer, wanting to apologize but uncertain of how best to do so.
Without warning, Tariq snaked his arm around her. His hand shot forward, his long fingers taking hold of the pitcher.
“Let go of it this instant, or I’ll dump its contents on your head and leave you to wallow in honeyed misery,” he whispered in her ear, his amusement as plain as his threat.
Shahrzad froze, his breath tickling her skin.
“Do it and I’ll bite your hand,” she said. “Until you scream like a little boy.”
He laughed—a rich susurrus of air and sound. “I thought you were tired of bloodshed. Perhaps I’ll toss you over my shoulder. In front of everyone.”
Refusing to comply without a fight, she pinched his forearm until he grimaced.
“This isn’t over.” Nevertheless, Shahrzad relinquished the pitcher.
Tariq grinned. “It never is.” He took a celebratory swallow of wine.
Though she’d ceded this battle, a small part of her felt lightened by the exchange. It was the first time in almost a week—indeed, the first time since they’d left Rey—that they’d spoken to each other without the hint of anguish hanging in the air between them.