A RIGHTEOUS BLAZE AND A RESTLESS SPIRIT
THE HALF-MOON OVER REY WAS A MILKY COLOR, framed by a thin haze of clouds.
Along the border of Reza bin-Latief’s elegant courtyard, the torches blazed in their sconces, throwing off shadows that danced with abandon against the walls of tan stone. The musky scent of smoke and ambergris hung heavy in the air.
“I feel human again,” Rahim announced as he crossed the courtyard and took a seat at the low table before him.
Reza smiled warmly. “You look a great deal more rested, Rahim-jan.”
“I was promised a cloud of perfume, and I was not disappointed, Reza- effendi.”
Tariq joined them a moment later, sitting across from Rahim in the open-air gallery.
Soon, platters of food were brought before them—steaming, buttery basmati rice with bright orange saffron staining its center, surrounded by lamb in a savory sauce of dates, caramelized onions, and tangy barberries; skewers of marinated chicken and roasted tomatoes, served alongside chilled yogurt and cucumbers; fresh herbs and lavash bread, with rounds of goat cheese and sliced red radishes splashing brilliant colors against a polished wood backdrop.
The aroma of the food mingled with the fragrance of the tapers, saturating the senses with spices and decadence.
“This almost makes me forget the last three days,” Rahim said. “Almost.”
“Did you sleep well, Tariq-jan?” Reza asked.
“As well as can be expected, Uncle.”
“Don’t sound so frustrated,” Rahim grumbled. “You’ve barely rested a moment since receiving Shazi’s letter. Do you think you’re invincible? That you live off nothing but fresh dew and cold fury?”
Tariq glared at his friend before grabbing a skewer of chicken.
“He’s right. I know you are eager to discuss our plans, but it’s important to
take care of yourself first.” Reza glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you. Please leave us,” he directed his servants. Once they were gone, he served himself a portion of basmati rice and lamb stew.
“While you were resting this afternoon, I made a few inquiries,” Reza began in a low voice. “First, I will sell everything I have here. We will need money and mobility. Following this, we will need the support of others with money and mobility. Am I correct in assuming your father does not share our point of view?”
“My father will not want to be a part of this,” Tariq replied with resignation.
“It is likely he will forswear all involvement, if put to question.”
Reza nodded, seemingly unfazed. “Then this presents us with our next problem. If your father does not wish to be linked to this endeavor, you cannot brandish your family’s name about freely without risking their lives and, possibly, the lives of Shahrzad’s family as well. The same goes for you, Rahim; the al-Din Walad name is an old one, and your elder brothers will not take kindly to you jeopardizing their families. You must conceal your identities.”
Tariq considered this. “You’re right, Uncle.”
“I am of the same mind, but how are we to garner support if no one knows who we are?” Rahim interjected. “What will inspire them to follow?”
“Leave that to me,” Reza continued. “I was one of the foremost merchants of Rey for decades, and I understand the notion of a commodity. Something is rare and desirable when it is made to seem so.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Uncle,” Tariq said.
The light from the torches blazed in Reza’s eyes. “I will make you what they want to see. You need only be what you already are—strong young men and gifted warriors.”
Tariq’s forehead creased, his gaze uncertain. “But that still doesn’t explain how we intend to persuade others to follow a leaderless cause.”
“It will not be leaderless. You will be its leader, Tariq-jan. You will give this cause a voice. The lack of a voice is the reason the riots in the city streets are quelled time and again. Your voice must be one that resonates, that demands we see what truly lies at the heart of our kingdom: a boy-king who does not deserve to rule Khorasan. A boy-king who must be destroyed, at all cost.”
Rahim pounded his palm against the table in approval.
“So we mean to organize a force and storm the city? That is my greatest hope, but is such a feat even possible?” Tariq asked.
Reza took a sip of wine. “It will work if we build on our beliefs and make them a reality. Your hope will be our tinder, and my righteousness, our blaze.”
Tariq looked to his uncle once more. “Where do we begin?”
Reza pushed his plate aside. “Return home. I need time to clear my affairs in Rey and determine who might be willing to assist with our cause. The Emir of Karaj will likely provide some form of aid . . . his wife’s cousin suffered the same fate as Shiva a few weeks ago. Once I am in the position to do so, I will send for you.”
“What about Shazi? I won’t leave Rey until—”
“The caliph left for the city of Amardha this afternoon. He does not—”
Traces of hidden rage settled around Reza’s mouth. “He does not murder his brides unless he’s in Rey, presumably to witness the spectacle. She will be safe for at least a week.”
Tariq paused for a beat before nodding. “Then, after we collect Irsa and Jahandar-effendi, Rahim and I will return home and await your missive.”
“Jahandar and Irsa? Did you not know? They left Rey the night of the wedding. No one has seen or heard from them since.”
“Gone? But where could they—”
“I assumed they were going to you, Tariq-jan. Did you not receive a letter from them?”
“Shazi’s letter. Did she not make mention of her family in it?” Rahim asked.
“I don’t know. I never finished reading it.”
“Of course not.” Rahim harrumphed.
Reza gazed thoughtfully at his nephew. “In the future, you must be more deliberate in your actions. Take time before making decisions. It will be of great benefit to you.”
Tariq inhaled through his nose. “Yes. I’ll do better, Uncle.”
“You’ve always done better, Tariq-jan. Which is why I know we will succeed.”
“Thank you. For taking on such a task so willingly.”
“I am the one who should be grateful to both of you. It has been a long time since I’ve felt hope spark within me.”
The three men rose from the table and moved farther into the courtyard, where Zoraya remained perched on her makeshift mews, patiently awaiting Tariq. He donned his mankalah cuff and whistled for her. She soared to his outstretched arm, reveling in his attention. Then, with a flick of his right hand, Tariq directed Zoraya into the sky so she could hunt. She shrieked once, her cry filling the courtyard, before she ascended into the hazy darkness.
The shadow of her body in flight drew across Tariq’s face, masking his features from the torchlight for an instant.
Reza smiled to himself.
Something to fight for.
And something to use.
• • •
The following morning, Rahim was jarred awake by the sound of metal thumping into the wood just outside his open window. He rolled from his bed and lumbered to the sill.
“What the hell are you doing?” he grumbled to Tariq.
“What does it look like?” Tariq lifted the recurve bow and nocked an arrow to the sinew. “We need to leave.”
Rahim glanced up at the sky. The sun had yet to crest above the horizon; it was nothing but a jagged ribbon of light along the eastern rooftops of Rey.
“Did you even sleep?” Rahim yawned.
Tariq let the arrow fly. It thudded into the wood beside Rahim’s head.
Rahim did not flinch. “Was that truly necessary?”
“Get your things. Before my uncle returns and insists we eat with him.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He left while it was still dark outside.” Tariq fitted another arrow to the string and took aim.
“Why are we vanishing like thieves in the night?”
Tariq shot him a look to skewer a stone. “Because I don’t want him to know
what we’re doing.”
“Oh? What are we doing?”
“You and your infernal questions!” Tariq loosed the arrow. It coiled in a tight spiral and thunked into the wood, perfectly grouped alongside seven other arrows with matching fletchings.
“All hail Tariq, son of Nasir, Emir of Taleqan. Congratulations. You can shoot an arrow,” Rahim said in a flat tone.
Tariq swore under his breath and started for the window. “I knew I never should have—”
“Calm down.” Rahim scratched at his scalp. “I’ll get my things. But can you tell me the reason for such secrecy?”
Tariq stopped near the open window and took a steadying breath.
“You’re starting to worry me,” Rahim continued. “I know you’re concerned about Shazi, but Reza-effendi said we should wait until—”
“No. I won’t wait. I can’t wait.”
Rahim pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are you planning to do?”
“Something. Anything.”
“We still don’t have a plan. And Reza-effendi said to wait. We should wait.”
Tariq leaned a shoulder into the tan stone wall. “I’ve been thinking.”
“I’m listening,” Rahim sighed. “Despite my wiser inclinations.”
“The Badawi tribes along the border of Khorasan and Parthia . . . they’ve notoriously claimed no allegiance to either kingdom. What if we offered them a
reason to change their position?”
“What kind of reason?”
“The reason any man fights for a cause. Purpose.”
“Sounds vaguely poetic,” Rahim rejoined. “You’re going to need more than that.”
“Land. The rights to land. The organization they need to demand those rights.”
Rahim shifted his lips to one side in contemplation. “Interesting. But they’re nomadic by nature. Why would they have any interest in land?”
“Some of them may not. But they’ve fought against each other over the centuries, and save an influx of gold, land is the quickest way to gain power and influence. Perhaps one of their leaders might take an interest in fighting alongside us. They may be notoriously ruthless, but they’re also some of the best horsemen I’ve ever encountered. I see nothing but an advantage for both
parties.”
Rahim hedged. “It sounds dangerous.”
“It’s worth speaking to them. The worst that can happen is a refusal.”
“Actually, the worst that can happen is that they slit your throat.”
“Yes.” A series of vertical lines formed along the bridge of Tariq’s nose.
“There is that. But it was not on my agenda to insult them, in the process.”
“Well, if anyone can talk their way out of a beheading, it’s you.”
“I thank you, Rahim. As always, your abiding confidence in me casts any possibility of doubt astray.”
Rahim countered with a lopsided grin. “Actually, if anyone can talk their way out of a beheading, it’s Shazi. Thankfully, some of that charisma managed to rub off on you.”
“It was never charisma. It was unmatched nerve,” Tariq said in amused remembrance.
“Perhaps you’re right. I could see her daring a cobra to strike, swearing her
venom would kill first.”
Tariq smiled. “And she would win.”
“Of that, there is no doubt. In fact, I’m almost certain she terrorized the mighty Caliph of Khorasan until he was nothing but a mewling kitten, cowering in the corner. Who knows—we might be deposing her one day.”
Tariq sombered immediately at the mention of their king. “No. He is not a man to rescind any kind of power with ease.”
“And how would you know this?”
“I just know it,” Tariq snapped. “He murdered my cousin. And now he has Shahrzad. This is a man with nothing but evil in his blood. The only thing to consider when it comes to Khalid Ibn al-Rashid is how many times I wish he could die at my hands. And how unfortunate it is that the answer is only once.”
“I despise him, too. With the fire of a thousand suns, I despise him. But it is always a good idea to know your enemy, Tariq.”
“Don’t mistake my vehemence for foolishness. I intend to learn everything I can about him. But that will never happen locked in the walls of my family’s fortress. With that in mind, I’m going into the desert to seek out the Badawi.”
Tariq’s face was set with determination. “Alone.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. I need you to go to Taleqan in case my uncle sends word. I’ll dispatch Zoraya every two days with my location.”
“You’d leave me with your parents?”
“You could always go home.”
“To my brothers and their screaming children?” Rahim scoffed. “To the constant attempts to marry me off to a cousin’s friend’s ugly sister? I think not.
Besides, I owe you this much for all these years of friendship. And I owe Shazi even more.”
Tariq laughed softly. “I thank you, Rahim-jan. As I always should, yet seldom do.”
“You’re welcome, you selfish bastard. In any case, I can look forward to one good thing coming from all this secret plotting.”
“And that would be?”
“A full night of sleep . . . without being shot at for it.”
• • •
The first morning Shahrzad awoke in the palace without fearing the dawn was a strange one.
Her heart clenched reflexively at the light, and then relaxed when she heard the sound of Despina bustling about the room. She breathed deeply and settled back into the pillows, allowing her body to bask in this newfound ease.
“Maybe he should just stay in Amardha,” Shahrzad mumbled to no one.
“I was about to wake you up,” Despina replied. “Your food is getting cold.”
Shahrzad paused. Then made a decision.
Honey catches more flies than vinegar.
“Thank you for using your better judgment. And not resorting to your usual churlishness,” Shahrzad teased.
“Churlishness? You’re not exactly pleasant in the morning.”
Shahrzad grinned before rising to her feet. She pushed aside the thin silk surrounding the bed and strode to the table, where her customary tray of food sat waiting. When she glanced over at Despina, she was surprised to see her handmaiden’s face was not as glowing and perfect as usual. Her skin was wan,
and her forehead appeared strained.
“What’s wrong?” Shahrzad asked.
Despina shook her head. “I’m fine. Just a bit piqued.”
“Piqued? You look ill.”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“Do you need to rest?”
“I’m fine, Shahrzad. Truly.” Despina raised the lid from the tureen of soup and dropped a crystal of rock sugar into the bottom of a small etched-glass cup.
Then she lifted the ornate silver pot from its resting place above a low-burning candle. As she raised it high above the glass cup and began to pour, her hand trembled, and the stream of tea splashed back from inside the cup before hitting
the teapot.
“I’m sorry,” Despina mumbled.
“You’re permitted to make mistakes, on occasion.” Shahrzad smiled impishly.
“All evidence to the contrary,” she shot back under her breath.
“When did I ever make such outrageous demands?”
The lines on Despina’s brow deepened.
“Despina. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!”
She’s lying. Again.
Shahrzad cut her eyes and tore a piece of lavash in half.
“I’m sorry.” Despina finished pouring the tea. “What were you saying about Amardha?”
“I was just commenting on the caliph’s recent journey. Do you know why he went there?”
“He’s most likely visiting the Sultan of Parthia—his uncle.”
“I see. Does he visit him often?” Shahrzad began eating her soup.
Despina shook her head. “No. They are not exactly . . . friendly. The sultan is not his uncle by blood. He’s the brother of the former caliph’s first wife. And he
despised our caliph’s mother.”
Interesting.
“Why?”
Despina shrugged. “I suppose it’s for the logical reason any man would hate his dead sister’s replacement. In addition, our caliph’s mother was beautiful, smart, and vivacious. By all accounts, the first wife was . . . not.”
“Then why would the caliph visit the sultan?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it’s for diplomatic reasons. You should ask him
when he returns.”
“He won’t tell me.”
Despina gave her a half grin. “I’m glad you’re talking to me again.”
“Staying silent isn’t a good option for someone like me.”
“A wise decision. For someone like you.”
“I just said that.”
“I know.”
Shahrzad snorted. She reached for her glass of tea. Just then she noticed an unusual smattering of small, dark spots on the side of the silver teapot. She grasped the handle and drew it closer, her eyebrows tufting together. With a linen napkin, she rubbed at one of the areas of discoloration.
It did not clear away.
Shahrzad pursed her lips.
She lifted her cup of tea and poured a drop of its contents onto the pot. As soon as the liquid hit the shining surface, the silver changed color.
Black.
Like death.
“Despina?” Shahrzad began in an even tone.
“Yes?”
“I think there’s something wrong with my tea.”
