“Tariq Imran al-Ziyad?” the caliph began, his thinly veiled anger giving the name the rancor of an oath.
Irsa saw Tariq’s fists clench tight.
“Lead the way . . . before I rethink the matter and kill you outright.”
A BROTHER AND A HOME
IRSA DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF HER SISTER’S husband.
He was a confusing mixture of extremes, cloaked behind a black rida’.
With everyone else, he was chipped ice on a mountain. With her sister, he was a summer breeze across the sea.
Alas, this did little to change the fact that Irsa remained terrified of him. For she was quite certain he’d almost killed Tariq no less than three times since returning to the Badawi camp.
The first incident occurred not long after they arrived at Tariq’s tent. Though on that score, Irsa supposed the caliph’s enmity was somewhat warranted.
As soon as they concealed themselves within the tent, Irsa tried to remove Shahrzad’s bloodstained qamis, so as to better see the wound in question. Of course it was not appropriate for Tariq to assist her with this. Especially in the presence of Shahrzad’s husband. Surely Tariq could not have thought it was. Irsa was not quite certain why he’d even attempted to do so.
Foolish at best. A death wish at worst.
And in the face of a murdering madman?
A death likely to come about in any number of colorful ways.
Then, once the wound was cleaned, she and the caliph attempted to remove the arrowhead. Since neither of them was versed in such matters, it proved to be a challenging task, especially with Shahrzad’s combativeness coming to the fore. In the end, they were forced to consult with Tariq, as he had been the one to fashion the arrowhead in question.
With the purpose of exacting a great deal of damage.
With the intention of shredding skin and shattering bone.
Irsa was certain the caliph meant to murder Tariq at this admission. Unfortunately, it did not much help Tariq’s cause when he was the one to extract the arrowhead. After all, he was the one with the strongest understanding of its design. Not to mention the steady hands of a skilled archer. He managed to remove the arrowhead intact, which Irsa had been most grateful to see, despite the difficulty accompanying the effort.
Shahrzad bit down on a piece of worn leather while it was being done, and tears stained her cheeks for the duration. Though they all witnessed Shazi curse Tariq quite soundly afterward—which implied all was on its way to being mended—Irsa was still sure the caliph intended to do Tariq physical harm in the near future.
The last incident in which Tariq narrowly escaped an early demise occurred not long after Irsa cleaned Shahrzad’s wound a final time with a mixture of old wine and warm water. Not long after Irsa realized the wound would not stop bleeding anytime soon.
When she knew it would have to be sealed shut with a hot blade.
Shahrzad was not a girl to flinch away from such a thing. Nor was she a girl to lament a scar.
But Irsa knew this would not be a small thing to stomach. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Shahrzad had already lost a fair amount of blood. Any more and it would no longer be a matter they could successfully conceal from the rest of the camp. When Irsa brought her suggestion to light, Shahrzad agreed it was not to be further debated.
In the end it was done using the slender tip of Rahim’s khanjar dagger, so as to ensure the smallest scar. The caliph was the one to do it. At her sister’s behest.
Shahrzad lost consciousness in the process. In truth, Irsa was glad of it. For the smell of burnt flesh alone was enough to sicken her.
Again, Tariq nearly escaped death. Of that Irsa was quite certain.
For after the wound was sealed shut—when it was clear Shahrzad had lost all sense of herself—the caliph seized the front of Tariq’s qamis with his left hand, still clutching the hilt of the red-hot dagger in his right. Irsa felt the hatred gather in the space between them as sure as she felt the weariness take hold of her bones. The only thing stopping the caliph from seeing his wishes come to fruition was Rahim.
Rahim pulled Tariq away. Forced him to leave. Then followed him, an apologetic glance thrown over a shoulder.
Tariq had been quick to oblige, disappearing into the darkness, his face a storm of regret. But—thanks to Rahim—at least Tariq was still alive.
Now it was just Irsa and the caliph alone with Shahrzad. Alone in Tariq’s tent.
Irsa, alone . . . with an infamous murderer of young girls.
She finished wringing out the bloodied linen in a bowl of lukewarm water and stood, trying to stave off the settling fatigue. The caliph remained beside Shahrzad, studying the wound in her back and the fresh wrappings draped over it.
“When she wakes, I’ll bring her some barley tea with valerian root. It should help fend off the fever and let her sleep through the worst of the pain.” Irsa bit her lip, briefly lost in thought.
The caliph did not respond, nor did he look her way. Instead he remained focused on Shazi, his expression unreadable.
Irsa could not ignore her compulsion to fill the torturous silence with sound. “Though it seems foolish to say so,” she babbled. “I’m—grateful the arrow struck at such an odd angle, for the wound is not terribly deep. She’ll be sore for a few days, and I’m certain her shoulder will hurt her for a while, but . . . it could have been much worse.”
The caliph finally shifted his gaze from Shahrzad to regard Irsa with a set dispassion. “Yes,” he agreed. “It could have been much worse.” His eyes narrowed. “Had you not been there, many things could have been much worse. I thank you for that, Irsa al-Khayzuran.”
A nervous flush bloomed across her cheeks. After all, it was not every day the Caliph of Khorasan considered her as though she were a question he sought to answer. “Rahim . . . brought you a change of clothes.” Irsa took a calming breath. “There’s clean water in that pitcher there, and—should you need more—there’s a trough not far from here. I’m sure you’d like to wash away all the—blood. I can step outside if you wish . . . sayyidi.”
At that, the caliph waited to respond, as though he were gathering his thoughts. It was impossible for Irsa to tell, for he was impossible to read.
Impossible in every which way.
“There’s no need for you to call me that.”
A flare of surprise shot through Irsa, stilling her hands of their fidgeting. “But—”
“I’d like for you to call me Khalid.” The caliph braced his elbows on his knees. “Since you’ve already scolded me in typical al-Khayzuran fashion, it shouldn’t be too difficult.” An odd trace of humor flickered across his face.
Irsa’s flush spread from throat to hairline. “I—I apologize for that. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“I disagree. I think—of all of us—you were the only one precisely in your right mind.”
The intense way the caliph looked at her—as though he could see past her eyes into her very mind—only deepened Irsa’s feeling of awkwardness. She brushed back the strands of wispy hair that had fallen into her face. “I suppose you were a bit . . . hot-tempered.”
The suggestion of a smile played across his lips. “A fault for which I’m sure to be reprimanded in the near future.” He glanced down at the sleeping figure of Shahrzad. “Deservedly.”
“Yes.” Irsa smothered a grin, despite her unease. “You probably will be—though how Shahrzad can manage to reprimand anyone for possessing a bad temper, I will never understand.”
At that, the caliph truly smiled. The gesture managed to soften all the edges of his profile, rendering him almost . . . boyish. Almost beautiful.
Absolutely less monstrous.
The realization caught Irsa off guard. It was the first time she truly grasped the fact that the Caliph of Khorasan was still only a few years older than she.
Still only a boy in his own right.
And perhaps a boy with a bit more to him than the stories foretold.
Irsa wove her braid between her fingers in careful consideration of this fact.
Once again, they both fell silent.
“I understand your discomfort around me,” the caliph said quietly. “My behavior earlier was reprehensible. And I’d like to apologize for it.”