Better these men on a hunt for a fight not find their match in the young Calipha of Khorasan.
For it was unlikely Shahrzad would be gracious with them, either.
Her body slackened against his as they waited for the soldiers to pass. The desire for battle was slowly leaving her as the wine continued to exert its influence. When she rested against him and he saw her eyes flutter closed, Tariq took a deep breath.
The ache of loss for something not yet gone was sharp. Sharper than anything he’d ever felt before.
“You need to sleep,” he murmured.
“Mmm.”
Tariq exhaled, mentally cursing himself. “I’ll take you to your tent.”
Her head slumped forward in a nod. “Check their arms.”
“What?”
“Look for the scarab,” she said. “Don’t trust the scarab.”
“I won’t.” He rolled his eyes, glancing over his shoulder to make certain the soldiers were out of sight. Then he lifted Shahrzad from the sand, nearly thrown off-kilter by her weight, slight though it was. The wine did him no favors. Staving off its effects, Tariq staggered toward her tent.
Her arms circled around his neck. “I’m very sorry, you know.”
Tariq could hardly hear her. “For what?” Again, he almost laughed at the absurdity of her apology. Now, of all times.
“That you have to see me. And do this. It isn’t your pl—” Her eyes flew open, the crown of her head almost smacking him in the jaw. “Where is Irsa?”
“With Rahim.”
Irritation marred her brow. “I shall beat him to death’s doorstep. Make no mistake.”
“What?”
“That gangly imbecile,” she mumbled, her cheek falling against his chest. “I won’t stand for it. I’ll send the Rajput after him. He’ll chase him down with his fiery talwar . . .”
With a shake of his head, Tariq pushed through the opening of Shahrzad’s tent, nearly dropping her in the process. He left the tent flap wide, allowing the moonlight to brighten the relentless dark of the space.
True to form, Irsa al-Khayzuran’s bedroll was neatly bundled and stacked to one side. Shazi had not bothered to put hers away; it remained in the center of the small tent, her blanket askew, her pillow bunched in a fitful heap.
With barely concealed amusement, Tariq placed Shazi on her bedroll, not even bothering to drag her blanket across her body. She stirred when he tried to lift her pillow.
“Don’t.” She put a hand on his arm, her eyes slivering open.
“Or what?” he whispered, his lips twitching. “Empty threats do not move me, Shazi-jan.”
She wrinkled her nose, then curled into a ball, pressing a palm to her forehead.
Again, he tried to lift her pillow and place it beneath her head. After a time, he realized the futility of such efforts and decided the best course of action was to let her sleep off her stupor.
As Tariq moved to stand, he noticed a piece of parchment that had fallen from the folds of Shahrzad’s clothing. Most likely jarred loose when he nearly dropped her.
He lifted it into the moonlight.
It was creased in the manner of something that had been folded and unfolded numerous times.
Something with contents that mattered a great deal to someone.
He glanced down at Shahrzad’s sleeping form. Wavered for the span of a breath.
Then unfolded the parchment.
Shazi,
I prefer the color blue to any other. The scent of lilacs in your hair is a source of constant torment. I despise figs. Lastly, I will never forget, all the days of my life, the memories of last night—
For nothing, not the sun, not the rain, not even the brightest star in the darkest sky, could begin to compare to the wonder of you.
Khalid
With great care, Tariq refolded the letter along its creases, his fingers longing to crush it in his fists.
To tear it asunder. To burn it into nonexistence.
He knew Shahrzad loved the boy-king. He’d known it since Rey.
And he’d known the boy-king cared about Shahrzad.
But he had not known the boy-king truly loved her. Despite what the captain of the guard had said the night of the storm, Tariq had not wanted to believe the murdering madman capable of loving anything or anyone. At least not in a way Tariq could ever understand.
This?
Tariq understood.
Completely.
In a rather short letter, the Caliph of Khorasan had managed to put to words exactly how Tariq had always felt about the only girl he’d ever loved. Had always felt but never managed to say with quite such simple eloquence.
These were not the words of a madman.
For the first time, Tariq saw what Shahrzad saw when she looked at Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.
He saw a boy. Who loved a girl. More than anything in the world.
And he hated him all the more for it.
BOUNDLESS
SHAHRZAD PAID DEARLY FOR HER SILLY SHOW OF bravado with the spiced wine.
She spent the better part of the next morning with her face in a basin, emptying her stomach of its contents. Her insides were a jumble of knots; the dullest stream of light made her wince. There were moments she swore the very roots of her hair howled in protest.
Were it not for Irsa, Shahrzad felt certain these symptoms would have endured all day. When Shahrzad complained of feeling as though she were on a rolling ship in the midst of a storm, Irsa rummaged through her neat little pile of things and unraveled an old scroll. After scanning its contents, Irsa left their tent and returned with a tonic brewed from ground gingerroot and the peel of a dried lemon. Though Shahrzad protested at first—the concoction smelled quite strong and tasted rather bitter—she could not deny it helped in settling her stomach.
At Irsa’s behest, Shahrzad remained in their tent, nursing her wounds and forcing down more of the bitter tonic. Ordinarily, she would have disliked wasting an entire day in bed while Irsa sat at their low table, transcribing scrolls by the light of an oil lamp. But on this particular day, Shahrzad did not protest.
For on this day, these circumstances suited her just fine. If everyone thought her ill, they would be even more likely to leave her to her own devices.
Even more likely not to notice when she snuck out after dark . . .
With her magic carpet in tow.
It was time to find Musa Zaragoza.
Time to see what she—and the magic carpet—could do.
In stealthy silence, Shahrzad tucked her dagger into her waistband and skirted past her sleeping sister. She secured a shahmina about her shoulders before grabbing the magic carpet. Once outside, she stayed to the tent shadows, her heart beating like a caged bird.
If someone found her creeping about at night only days after her arrival, they would suspect her of trying to flee or perpetrating something more insidious. It would not help quell the suspicions those in the camp harbored against her. And it would be even worse if she came across another boy like Teymur.
Her skin crawled at the thought.
With careful steps, Shahrzad moved between patches of darkness, avoiding any stretches of light. Her gaze went to the sentry posts she’d noted the night before. She allowed herself to breathe freely when she cleared the edges of the Badawi camp and strode into the endless sweep of sand beyond.
As luck would have it, she’d chosen a night without wind—a night in which every sound she made would be distinct. If she fell or yelped or did anything that might attract attention, her secret would be a secret no more; her detractors would have proof their doubts were rooted in fact.
And they might send her away, along with her injured father and her innocent sister.
At the very least, they’d find Shahrzad alone in the desert, with a dagger and a rug. Everyone would suspect her of treachery. They would be unlikely to leave her to her own devices again.
It could not be helped. She had waited long enough.
Though her first instinct was to go to Khalid, Shahrzad knew it would only be more difficult to leave Rey once she returned. And now was not the time to place her wants above the needs of her family.
Especially the needs of her father.
Shahrzad had to find Musa. After Baba, he was the only person she knew with any aptitude for magic. It might be beyond the realm of possibility, but perhaps he would know how to help her father.
Or how to break a terrible curse.