WHERE YOUR HEART
LONGS TO BE
SOMEONE HAD TRIED TO POISON HER.
And it was not the tea, as Shahrzad had first suspected.
It was the sugar.
Jalal was furious.
When he confronted all those with access to her food, each person staunchly proclaimed innocence. As was customary when serving any member of the royal family, the cook had tasted all the items on Shahrzad’s tray before sending it to her room, and numerous individuals had attested to this fact.
Though no one had thought to taste the sugar.
Unsurprisingly, Shahrzad did not eat anything else the rest of the day.
And now a young servant girl accompanied every tray of food brought to Shahrzad’s room. A girl whose sole purpose in life was to taste the queen’s food and drink one last time before it entered her mouth.
A young girl who must mean something to someone.
It disgusted Shahrzad.
As did the knowledge that her time feeling safe—those fleeting moments without the weight of her impending doom hovering about her like a dark specter—had been taken away from her before she’d had a true chance to enjoy it.
But the worst part was that she knew now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she could not trust her handmaiden.
After all, Despina was the last person who had handled her tray of food.
The one who had prepared that fatal cup of tea.
For some reason, this fact disheartened Shahrzad more than anything else.
She had not trusted Despina before, but some part of her had wanted to. Had
hoped that, one day, she could be a real friend, despite everything.
That hope was shattered.
And it made Shahrzad angry.
Three nights of mostly uninterrupted sleep had not dulled the anger.
This afternoon, Shahrzad had elected to wander one of the many terraced courtyards in search of a perfect rose. The banality of this task added a feeling of uselessness to her already irritated disposition.
She wandered past another flowering hedge, her eyes squinted against the sun, and her forehead creased with frustration.
“If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, I can help,” Despina offered.
“No. You can’t.”
“My, but you’re in a mood.”
“You really can’t help me. There’s an art to a perfect rose. The scent. The color. The arrangement of the petals. My father even argues that one too many petals can ruin the entire flower . . . can disturb the way it grows.”
“And I would argue the prettiest flowers are the ones that seem a little imperfect.”
“See? You can’t help me,” Shahrzad groused.
Just then she felt Despina stiffen by her side.
“What’s wrong?” Shahrzad asked.
“Cap—Captain al-Khoury is coming down the stairs.” Her flush spread from
throat to hairline.
“So? Why are you nervous?”
Despina hesitated. “Ever since the incident with the tea, I’ve felt uncomfortable around him.”
“I see.” Shahrzad pursed her lips, fighting to contain the accusations.
As Jalal stepped into view, Despina took special pains to scramble behind the Rajput, out of sight. Jalal curved a languid eyebrow in her direction and then turned to Shahrzad.
“How are you this afternoon, Shahrzad?” He bowed with an easy grin, his gold-trimmed cloak spilling over one shoulder and a hand resting casually on the
hilt of his scimitar.
“Alive.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m glad to see it. Are you in the midst of something important?”
“Of course. I have a possible coup in the works. Then I intend to draw up plans for a new form of trade involving elephants at sea and sails of spun silk.
Would you care to join me?”
He smiled. “Only in the coup. The rest sounds a bit commonplace, if you ask
me.”
Shahrzad laughed. “No, of course I’m not doing anything important. I’m firmly entrenched in the mundane. Please rescue me.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could do something . . . queenly for me.”
“Queenly? What do you mean?”
“We have an unexpected visitor. I was wondering if you could receive him, in
the caliph’s absence.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s—a scholar, so to speak. He was Khalid’s first tutor, as well as the lifelong tutor of Khalid’s mother. He has not seen Khalid since he was a little boy. I know he meant a great deal to his mother, and I would hate to send him along without receiving him formally.” He winked.
Shahrzad could not help but smile.
“Additionally, I assume the visit may satisfy some . . . lingering curiosities.”
Jalal grinned knowingly.
“Why, Captain al-Khoury, you make it sound so . . . intriguing.”
He laughed. “So are you coming, Shahrzad?”
She nodded, her hazel eyes sparkling.
“I have to warn you, he’s a bit—odd,” Jalal stated as he began retracing his steps, with Shahrzad and her tiny retinue in tow.
“How so?”
“He’s a relic of days past. Very devoted to the ancient arts. But I think you’ll like him, and I know he’ll be very pleased to meet you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Musa Zaragoza.”
“That’s a very unusual name,” Shahrzad said.
“He’s Moorish.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
They continued up the numerous flights of stairs and into the cool marble hallways. Jalal led them to a large room with a domed ceiling five times the height of a man. Its walls were tiled and covered with painstakingly carved reliefs, depicting battle scenes long forgotten of warriors brandishing their weapons and vanquishing their foes.
In the corner stood a very tall man draped in garments of vibrant fabric. His deep blue rida’ fell to the floor, and its hood was wound about his head, secured by a circlet of leather and gold. Thick mankalah cuffs were wrapped around both wrists, and his beautiful dark skin reminded Shahrzad of the finest Medjool date.
When he turned to face her, he smiled so widely his teeth seemed to glow
white, like pearls set against ebony.
Jalal and Despina left her at the door, and the Rajput stood inside nearby, his sword at the ready.
Shahrzad returned her guest’s smile and walked toward him.
What do I say?
“Welcome!” she began. “I am—Shahrzad.”
He glided to her in a swirl of colors, his hands outstretched.
“And I am Musa. What a privilege to meet you.” It was an intense voice, like honey and smoke.
Shahrzad took his hands. Standing so close to him, she realized he was actually a great deal older than he appeared. His eyebrows were peppered with white, and the fine lines etched about his face indicated a propensity for deep thought and a predilection for amusement. As he grasped her hands, Shahrzad saw something register in his rich brown eyes, but it came and went in a flash.
“Thank you so much, Musa-effendi. I am so sorry my—the caliph is not here to greet you.”
He shook his head. “It is my fault for coming here unannounced. I was hoping to see him as I was passing through, but, alas, it appears I must save our reunion for another journey.”
“Please sit.” Shahrzad gestured toward the cushions surrounding the low table to her right, and they took their places across from each other. “Would you care for something to eat?”
“No, no. I cannot stay. Again, this was not meant to be anything but a short visit. I do not wish to impose on anyone.”
“It is not an imposition, in any way. I would not have such an esteemed guest leave the palace hungry.” Shahrzad grinned.
He laughed. The sound seemed to leap from wall to wall.
“And how do you know I am esteemed? Were you not told the truth?” His
mouth twitched with humor.
“And what is the truth, Musa-effendi?”
“That the last time I was in this palace, I was thrown out on my heels, with nothing but the clothes on my back.”
Shahrzad controlled her expression. She took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, it seems we owe you at least a meal, then, sir.”
His laughter burst from his mouth once more, even bolder than before.
“Thank the stars for you, my lovely child. What light you must bring to my
poor Khalid.”
Light may not be the appropriate word.
She offered him a small smile in response.
“As I feared, this is not a harmonious marriage,” Musa said gently. “Is there any hope for one?”
“In truth, it is too soon to tell. We have only been married a few days. And marriage to the caliph is—somewhat difficult.”
“So I’ve heard.” His voice was knowing and sad. “And do you wish for a harmonious marriage with him?”
Shahrzad shifted uncomfortably in her seat. For some reason, lying to this strangely garbed man with the rich laugh and the probing eyes seemed . . . wrong.
“I long for a marriage based on love and mutual respect, Musa-effendi.
Whether it is possible with the caliph remains to be seen.”
“Ah, so honest. Khalid values such honesty above all else. He craves it. Even as a small child, he sought the truth with a kind of fervor I’ve rarely encountered in any individual. Do you know this about him?”
“I know very little about his past.”
He nodded. “Tell me, beyond the rumors, what kind of man has Leila’s son become?”
Shahrzad paused and studied the kind face of the stranger across from her.
If I answer his questions, will he answer mine?
“A quiet one. A smart one.”
“These things I could find out on the streets of Rey. I want to know the things you know. The things a clever young girl has deduced, even in such a short time.”
Shahrzad chewed on her lower lip for a moment.
“A joyless one. A calculating one. A bitter one . . .” she whispered.
She thought of his raw fist and the punishing fury.
“An angry one.”
“It was not always thus.” Musa sighed. “He was such a kind boy.”
“I’ve been told. But it is difficult to believe.”
“Understandably.” He paused. “Will you permit me to share a story with you, my lovely Shahrzad? About the night I was thrown out on my heels?”
“Of course, Musa-effendi.”
“It is a sad story.”
“I imagine any story that ends in such a manner would be.”
Musa sat back in remembrance before he began.
“I was the tutor for Khalid’s mother, Leila. And Leila was a joy. Beautiful and talented. A lover of books and poetry. When she married Khalid’s father and became his second wife, she was young—only fifteen years old. I came along with her to Rey, at her insistence. She was very headstrong. Unfortunately, it
was not an easy marriage. Her husband was a good deal older than she, and he had clearly loved his first wife very much. Leila did not appreciate the constant comparisons. I tried hard to rein in her tantrums and bouts of despair, but the disparity between them in age and interests was oftentimes too difficult to breach. It was no one’s fault, really. Khalid’s father was quite set in his ways.
And Leila was a spirited young woman.”
He stopped, his features growing sad.
“After Khalid was born, I hoped everything would change. I had never seen a more devoted mother. Leila kissed his feet and sang to him as an infant. When he was older, she told him stories every night before he went to sleep. And Khalid loved her more than anything.”
Musa closed his eyes for a moment, and Shahrzad took a careful breath.
His mother told him stories at night.
“I was there the night Khalid’s father learned of Leila’s betrayal . . . when he discovered she had been carrying on an affair with a member of the palace
guard.”
His tenor became low and grave.
“He dragged Leila through the halls of the palace by her hair. She was screaming at him, calling him horrible names. I tried to help her, but his soldiers prevented me from doing so. In the atrium, he called for Khalid. Leila kept telling Khalid everything would be fine. That she loved him. That he was her
world.”
Shahrzad’s hands curled into fists.
“And there, in front of her six-year-old son, Khalid’s father slit Leila’s throat.
When Khalid started to cry, his father yelled at him. I will never forget what he said. ‘A woman is faithful, or she is dead. There is no in-between.’ After that, I was thrown out of the palace, with nothing but the clothes on my back. I should have fought harder. For Leila’s sake. For Khalid’s sake. But I was weak. Afraid.
Later, I heard what had become of Leila’s son. And I always regretted it. From the bottom of my soul, I regretted it.”
Something had risen in Shahrzad’s chest, forming a barrier that prevented her from speaking. She swallowed hard. Not knowing what else to do, she reached across the table and took Musa’s hand. He wrapped her small hands in both of his, and they sat in this manner for a time.
And then, with careful respect, Shahrzad attempted to break the silence.
“Musa-effendi . . . I feel certain you should not hold yourself responsible for anything that transpired, not that night or any of the nights after. I am young, and, therefore, I know my words only carry a certain weight with the world, but I do know enough to realize you cannot control the actions of others. You can
only control what you do with yourself afterward.”
His grip on her hand tightened. “Such wise words. Does Khalid know what a treasure you are, my dearest star?”
Shahrzad’s eyes furnished him with the smile her lips could not.
Musa shook his head. “He has suffered a great deal. It troubles me immensely to know he inflicts suffering on others as a result. And it vexes me because these are not the actions of the boy I knew. But as you are young, I am old, and in my age, wisdom becomes less of a birthright and more of an expectation. In my life, the one thing I have learned above all is that no individual can reach the height of their potential without the love of others. We are not meant to be alone, Shahrzad. The more a person pushes others away, the clearer it becomes he is in need of love the most.”
I could never love such a man . . . such a monster.
Shahrzad started to withdraw her hand from his.
But he held on to it.
“Tell me,” he pressed. “How long have you possessed the gift?”
Taken aback, Shahrzad merely stared at him, her hazel eyes blank.
Musa returned her gaze, his warm eyes searching.
“Then you are unaware. It lies dormant in your blood,” he said to himself.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“Perhaps a parent?” he continued. “Does your mother or father possess any . . . unique abilities?”
Realization dawned on Shahrzad. “My father. He can do certain things. Very small things. But he’s never been adept at controlling it.”
Musa nodded. “If ever you wish to learn about these abilities, send word to me. I would be happy to share my knowledge with you. I am not extremely proficient, but I’ve learned to . . . control it.” He grinned slowly. As he spoke, Shahrzad saw the flame dancing in the nearby lamp flicker out and spark back to life, unbidden.
“And I could learn to do this?” she whispered.
“In truth, I do not know. It is impossible to gauge an individual’s abilities. I only know what I knew the moment I first held your hands in my grasp: that you and I share a common bond. And now that bond extends beyond this mere twist of fate. I beseech you, my star . . . please see past the darkness. There is potential for boundless good in the boy I knew. Trust that the man you see now is a shadow of what lies beneath. If you would, give him the love that will enable him to see it for himself. To a lost soul, such a treasure is worth its weight in gold. Worth its weight in dreams.” As he spoke, Musa leaned over their still- clasped hands, a bright smile of affection lighting his features.
“Thank you, Musa-effendi. For the wisdom, the story, and so much more.”
“Thank you, my star.” He released her hand and stood from the table.
“Will you not stay for a meal?” Shahrzad asked again.
He shook his head. “I must be on my way. But I promise to visit again very soon. I shall not let so many years pass by this time. And I will cling to the hope that, when I see you next, it will be with Khalid at your side. At your side and the better for it.”
A strange twinge of guilt knifed through Shahrzad’s stomach.
Musa made his way to the satchel of belongings he had left in the corner. He lifted the pack from the floor and paused, as if in consideration. Then he reached inside and withdrew a threadbare, moth-eaten rug rolled tightly in a bundle and
bound by a hemp cord.
“A gift for you, dearest Shahrzad.”
“Thank you, Musa-effendi.”
What an odd gift.
“Keep it with you always. It is a very special carpet. When you are lost, it will help you find your way,” he said, with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Shahrzad took the parcel and held it against her chest.
Musa reached over and placed his warm palm on her cheek.
“Let it take you where your heart longs to be.”
