THE PROMISE OF TOMORROW
TWO DAYS AFTER THE CALIPH RETURNED FROM Amardha, Shahrzad was ready to
put her plan to action.
Enough was enough.
It did not matter that Musa-effendi had hinted about a tragic past.
It did not matter that this world was far from as simple as she might have thought.
And it absolutely did not matter that her heart was . . . misbehaving.
She had come to the palace with a clear purpose.
The Caliph of Khorasan had to die.
And she knew just how to do it.
• • •
She sat across from him in her chamber that night, eating grapes while he drank
wine.
Biding time for the moment to strike.
“You’re very quiet,” he remarked.
“And you look very tired.”
“The journey from Amardha was not an easy one.”
She peered across the table into his tiger-eyes. The hollows beneath them were pronounced, and his bladed features seemed even more severe with such clear lines of fatigue at their edges. “But you came back over two days ago.”
“I haven’t slept well since I returned.”
“Would you rather not continue Aladdin’s tale? Perhaps you should sleep,”
Shahrzad suggested.
“No. That’s not what I want. At all.”
She looked away, unable to hold his piercing gaze. “May I ask you something, sayyidi?”
“You may do as you please. And I will behave in a similar fashion.”
“Why did you go to Amardha?”
His eyebrows drew together. “I heard Jalal arranged for you to meet Musa Zaragoza. Undoubtedly, you learned interesting facts about my childhood while he was here. I assume you know about my mother now?”
“He told me about her, yes.”
“The Sultan of Parthia and I have a tacit agreement. Every six months or so, I go to see him and make veiled threats, posturing like a peacock in a show of force meant to dissuade him from suggesting I am not the rightful heir to the
Caliphate of Khorasan.”
“Excuse me?” Shahrzad sputtered.
The caliph continued. “It’s logical, really. He openly calls my mother a whore. And everyone questions my parentage. Then he’s able to rally support and wage war for the caliphate. Only, he lacks the strength and the numbers to take a stand. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“He—would call your mother a whore?”
“It shouldn’t shock you. My father said as much to me. Many times.”
Shahrzad took a careful breath. “Did your father also question whether or not you were his son?”
The caliph raised the cup of wine to his lips and took a long sip.
“Again, it shouldn’t shock you.”
She almost wished she had misheard his words.
What kind of loveless childhood did he have?
“And this is normal to you?”
He set his cup down on the table. “I suppose I have a skewed understanding
of the word.”
“Do you want me to pity you, sayyidi?”
“Do you want to pity me, Shahrzad?”
“No. I do not.”
“Then don’t.”
Frustrated, she snatched his cup from the table and drank what remained of its contents.
A corner of his lips rose ever so slightly.
The wine burned; she cleared her throat and set the goblet before her. “By the way, I’ve decided how you can make amends. If you’re still willing, of course.”
He leaned back into the cushions, waiting.
She took a deep breath, preparing to spring her trap. “Remember last night,
when Aladdin saw the princess in disguise, roaming the city streets?”
The caliph nodded.
“You told me you envied the freedom the princess experienced in her city, without the mantle of royalty about her shoulders. I want to do that. With you,” she finished.
He stilled, his eyes scanning her face. “You want me to go out into Rey
without bodyguards?”
“Yes.”
“With just you?”
“Yes.”
He paused. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Why?”
He didn’t refuse outright.
“For the adventure,” she goaded him.
He cut his gaze.
Calculating.
“And you are indebted to me,” she pressed.
Please. Don’t deny me this chance.
“I agree. I am indebted to you. I accept.”
Shahrzad beamed.
His eyes widened at the brightness of her smile.
And, to her great surprise, he offered her one in return.
It looked foreign on his usually cold and angular face.
Foreign, yet wondrously striking.
The tightening in her chest . . . would have to be ignored.
At all cost.
• • •
They stood in a small alley next to the entrance of the souk. The sky above was purpled by dusk, and the mixture of spices, sweat, and livestock filled the spring air with the heady perfume of life, in all its abundance.
Shahrzad pulled her dark grey cloak tight about her. The crystal of poisoned sugar she had stolen away in her pocket felt like it would catch flame at a thought.
The caliph’s keen ochre eyes took in the scene around them. His black rida’ was bound across his brow by a slim circlet of matching leather.
“Have you been to Rey’s souk before?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Stay close. It’s very much like a labyrinth. Each year it grows bigger, its corridors snaking about without rhyme or reason.”
“And here I had every intention of leaving you behind to explore on my
own,” he murmured.
“Are you trying to be funny, sayyidi?”
His brow furrowed. “You can’t use that word here, Shahrzad.”
A fair point. Especially considering the riots against him in the city streets.
“You’re right . . . Khalid.”
He expelled a quick breath. “And what should I call you?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do your friends call you?”
She hesitated.
Why am I trying to protect a silly nickname Rahim gave me when I was ten?
“Shazi.”
A suggestion of a smile played across his lips.
“Shazi. It suits you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come with me.”
With that, Shahrzad left the safety of the shadows and darted out into the bustling crowds of Rey’s most active outdoor market. The Caliph of Khorasan followed closely behind as they passed under the archway and into the sweltering maze of people and goods.
To their right were vendors plying food wares—sugared dates and other dried fruits, an assortment of nuts in water-stained wood barrels, mountains of spices piled high in vivid hues—and to their left were vendors of spun cloth, dyed fabric, and skeins of yarn idling in a faint breeze, their colors like a banner cut from a rainbow. Many salesmen pounced on the couple, trying to coax them to taste a pistachio or sample a delicious dried apricot. At first, Khalid tensed at every one who approached them, but soon he fell into the leisurely gait of an ordinary patron wandering around the souk on a warm spring evening.
Until a young man leapt from behind a post to wrap Shahrzad in a bolt of bright orange silk. “So beautiful!” he sighed. “You must buy this. It suits you so.”
“I think not.” She shook her head, pushing his hands away.
He pulled her closer against him. “Have I seen you before, miss? I would not forget such beauty.”
“No, you have not,” Khalid said in a low tone.
The young man smirked back at him. “I am not having a conversation with
you. I am having a conversation with the most beautiful girl I have seen in a long time.”
“No. You are having a conversation with my wife. And you are quite close to having the last conversation of your life.” His voice was as cold as the edge of a dagger.
Shahrzad glared at the young man. “And if you want to sell me fabric, being a lecherous bastard is not the way to go about doing it.” She shoved against his
chest, hard.
“Daughter of a whore,” he muttered.
Khalid froze, his knuckles turning a perilous shade of white.
Shahrzad grabbed his arm and dragged him away. She could see the muscles ticking along his jaw.
“You know, you have quite a temper,” she remarked after they had cleared
some distance.
He said nothing.
“Khalid?”
“Is that kind of disrespect . . . normal?”
Shahrzad lifted a shoulder. “It’s not normal. But it’s not unexpected. It’s the curse of being a woman,” she joked in a morose manner.
“It’s obscene. He deserves to be flogged.”
Says the king who murders a bride every morning.
They continued strolling through the souk, and Shahrzad was surprised to note that Khalid now walked firmly in her shadow, with his hand grazing her lower back. His eyes, which were usually vigilant, appeared even more watchful
than before.
She sighed to herself.
He notices everything. This will be even more difficult than I thought.
Shahrzad led him through a maze of small alleyways, past vendors of oil and imported vinegar, rugs and fine lamps, perfumes and other cosmetics, until she came to a thoroughfare filled with purveyors of food and drink. She directed him to a small, crowded establishment with outdoor seating.
“What are we doing here?” Khalid demanded quietly as she pushed him into a chair by an available table near the front.
“I’ll be right back.” She smiled at his irritation as she weaved her way through the crowd.
When she returned a short time later with two cups and a pitcher of wine, the corners of his eyes constricted.
“They are famous for their sweet wine,” Shahrzad explained.
He crossed his arms.
Shahrzad grinned knowingly. “You don’t trust me?” She poured some wine into a cup and drank from it first before handing it to him.
“Where did you get the money?” He took the cup from her.
She rolled her eyes. “I stole it. From the perfidious Sultan of Parthia.” As he raised the cup to his lips, she saw him smile. “Do you like it?”
He tilted his head in consideration. “It’s different.” Then he reached over and filled the other cup for her.
They sat for a time in comfortable silence, taking in the sights and sounds of the souk, drinking wine and enjoying the raucous conversations of those in various states of inebriation around them.
“So,” she interjected in a conversational tone. “Why are you having difficulty sleeping?”
Her question seemed to catch him off guard.
He stared at her over the rim of his cup.
“Do you have nightmares?” she probed.
He inhaled carefully. “No.”
“What was your last dream?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How come you don’t remember?”
“Do you remember your last dream?”
Shahrzad canted her lips to the side in thought. “Yes.”
“Tell me what it was about.”
“It’s a bit a strange.”
“Most dreams are.”
“I was in a grassy field with . . . my best friend. We were twirling. I was holding her hands. We were spinning slowly, at first. And then faster and faster.
So fast it felt like we were flying. But it didn’t seem dangerous at all. It’s strange now that it didn’t seem dangerous, but I guess that’s the way of dreams. I remember hearing her laughter. She has the most beautiful laugh. Like a lark on a crisp morning.” Shahrzad smiled to herself in memory.
Khalid stayed silent for a moment.
“You have a beautiful laugh. Like the promise of tomorrow.” He said it gently, with the poise of an afterthought.
And Shahrzad’s heart hurtled about in response, roaring for attention.
Shiva, I swear to you, I will ignore the fickle little beast.
She refused to look at him as she drank from her cup and remained proud of herself for this display of fortitude, until she felt his entire body go rigid across from her.
A sandaled foot came crashing to a stop on the empty seat nearby.
“If it isn’t the beautiful girl with the barbed tongue,” a voice slurred from above.
When she gazed upward, her eyes thinned in disgust.
“Apparently, this is too popular a venue,” Khalid said, the tension banding across his features.
“For lecherous bastards and kings of old alike,” Shahrzad retorted under her breath.
“What?” the young man drawled, the wine clearly impairing his comprehension.
“Never mind. What do you want?” Shahrzad asked with a spark of annoyance.
The young man leered down at her. “Perhaps I may have been a bit forward earlier. But I’d like to share a recent observation. This one here?” He gestured toward Khalid with his thumb. “He seems entirely too grumpy for a girl like you.
I think you’re much better suited for a man with charm. Such as myself.”
At this, Khalid made a motion to stand. Shahrzad placed her palm against his chest, her flashing eyes never wavering from the young man’s glazed stare.
“You seem to have forgotten—in a rather short time, I might add—that you called my mother a whore. In what world do you think I would prefer you to any man, grumpy or not?”
He grinned at her, his friends behind him laughing at her temerity.
“Don’t take it to heart, beautiful girl. What if I told you my mother really was a whore? Would that make it better? In any case, I happen to have a great appreciation for women of that ilk.” He winked at her.
The laughter behind him grew louder.
Again, Shahrzad felt the fury beneath her palm as she pressed against Khalid, keeping him in his seat with nothing more than the force of her will.
She nodded. “I can’t say I’m surprised. As for me? I believe I’ll leave this set of goods on the rack, as well. I have no interest in . . . tiny cucumbers.”
At this, Khalid’s head twisted to hers, his eyes registering shock. And the edge of his lips twitching.
The silence around them was deafening for a painful beat.
Then a wild chorus of amusement filled the air.
The young man’s friends slapped their knees and pounded one another’s backs as they guffawed at his expense. His face turned several shades of red once he comprehended the full breadth of Shahrzad’s insult.
“You—” He lunged for her.
Shahrzad bolted out of the way.
Khalid grabbed the man by the front of his qamis and hurled him into his
passel of friends.
“Khalid!” Shahrzad shouted.
Once the young man managed to scramble to his feet, Khalid reared back and struck him in the jaw so hard he staggered into a table of dangerous-looking men, heavily engrossed in their dice match, with the betting at an all-time high.
The coins and the astragali dice crashed to the ground as the table shuddered under the young man’s weight.
The gamblers roared with rage as they shot to their feet, everything around them falling to shambles.
And their precious game destroyed beyond repair.
All eyes turned on Khalid.
“Holy Hera,” Shahrzad moaned.
With grim resignation, he reached for his shamshir.
“No, you idiot!” Shahrzad gasped. “Run!” She grabbed his hand and spun in the opposite direction, the blood pummeling through her body.
“Get out of the way!” she cried as they dodged past a vendor’s cart, her sandaled feet flying above the dirt. The sound of their pursuers only spurred her faster, especially with Khalid’s broader strides propelling them along the narrow thoroughfare of the souk.
When he yanked her down a small side alleyway, she pulled him back.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” she demanded.
“For once in your life, stop talking and listen.”
“How dare—”
He wrapped his right arm around her and pressed their bodies together in between a shadowed alcove. Then he shoved his index finger onto her lips.
Shahrzad listened as their pursuers ran past the alleyway, still shouting and carrying on in a drunken haze. When the sounds faded away, he removed his
finger from her lips.
But it was too late.
Because Shahrzad could feel his heart beating faster.
Just like hers.
“You were saying?” He was so close, his words were more breath than sound.
“How—how dare you say that to me?” she whispered.
His eyes glittered with something akin to amusement.
“How dare I imply you caused this mess?”
“Me? This is not my fault! This is your fault!”
“Mine?”
“You and your temper, Khalid!”
“No. You and your mouth, Shazi.”
“Wrong, you wretched lout!”
“See? That mouth.” He reached up and grazed his thumb across her lips.
“That—magnificent mouth.”
Her traitor heart thudded against his, and when she peered up at him through her eyelashes, his hand at the small of her back pulled her impossibly closer.
Don’t kiss me, Khalid. Please . . . don’t.
“They’re here! I’ve found them!”
Khalid grasped her hand in his, and they took off down the alleyway once again.
“We can’t keep running,” he said over his shoulder. “We might have to stand
and fight, eventually.”
“I know,” she huffed back.
I need a weapon. I need a bow.
She began scanning everyone in sight for a quiver or a possible bow left strewn against the side of a building, but all she saw was the occasional shimmer of a sword. In the distance, she noticed a burly man with a huge, straightbacked bow across his body, but she knew there was little chance of getting it from him quickly. And it was even less likely that she could draw an arrow on such a large
bow.
It seemed a futile exercise.
Until she finally saw a young boy playing with his friends in a back alley.
With a makeshift bow and a quiver of exactly three arrows lashed to his shoulder.
Shahrzad tugged on Khalid’s arm, yanking him farther into the alleyway. She crouched before the boy, lifting the hood of her cloak.
“Can you give me your bow and arrows?” she asked breathlessly.
“What?” he replied in surprise.
“Here.” Shahrzad offered him the five gold dinars in her cloak. A veritable fortune in the eyes of the boy.
“Are you crazy, lady?” the boy said, his mouth agape.
“Will you give them to me?” Shahrzad pleaded.
He passed the weapons to her without a word. She placed the money in his dirty hands and threw the quiver over her shoulder.
Khalid observed this exchange, his eyes tight and his mouth drawn.
“Do you know them, miss?” The boy glanced behind Shahrzad.
Khalid whirled around, unsheathing his shamshir in a single metallic rasp and knocking the black rida’ from his brow.
“Get out of here,” Shahrzad said to the boy and his friends.
The boy nodded and took off, his friends scampering alongside him.
Somehow, the group of men Shahrzad and Khalid had managed to offend numbered seven. Of this seven, three showed signs of obvious injury, while the other four appeared at a loss of pride more than anything else. Not counting
money, of course.
And money counted for a lot.
At the sight of Khalid with his sword at the ready, several of them withdrew
their own piecemeal weapons.
Without a word, Khalid advanced.
“Gentlemen!” Shahrzad cut him off. “This seems a bit—premature. I believe this whole situation can be attributed to a misunderstanding. Please accept my sincere apologies for our part in the matter. In truth, this is between myself and the . . . gentleman with the questionable manners from earlier.”
“My questionable manners? Why, you shrewish bitch!” The young man stepped forward.
“That’s enough!” Khalid raised his shamshir into the moonlight, its silver
edge glistening with menace.
Poised to kill.
“Stop!” Shahrzad’s tone verged on desperation.
“I said, that’s enough, Shazi. I’ve heard enough,” Khalid said with deadly inflection.
“Yes. Let him do as he pleases, Shazi. Seven to one? I like our odds,” the imbecile continued.
You have no idea what you’re saying. The second-best swordsman in Rey will cut you down, one by one. Without hesitation.
Then the imbecile lifted his rusted scimitar from its sheath.
At that, Shahrzad nocked an arrow to the sinew and loosed it, all in one swift motion. It flew in a perfect spiral, despite the bow’s humble origins and the arrow’s mud-stained fletchings.
And it pierced clean through the imbecile’s wrist.
He howled in agony, dropping the scimitar to the ground with a resounding clang.
Before anyone had a chance to react, Shahrzad had fitted and nocked another arrow onto the string. As she pulled it tight, she felt something give in the sinew.
Oh, God.
Nevertheless, she stalked past Khalid, the arrow held in position against the side of her neck.
“This is where all of you were sorely mistaken. It was never seven to one.
And I strongly suggest the seven of you take to your heels and return home.
Because the next one who draws a weapon—the next one who takes a single step forward—will find an arrow through his eye. And I can assure you my friend is even less forgiving.”
At the sight of movement to her left, Shahrzad swiveled quickly, her grip on the bow tightening. Again, the sinew unraveled by her ear.
“Don’t test me. You mean nothing to me.”
Her knees shook, but her voice was as cool as a stone beneath the water.
“This is not worth it,” one of the gamblers muttered. He sheathed his weapon and left the alley. Soon, others took his lead, until the only ones remaining were the original troublemaker and his trio of miscreants.
“I believe you’ve had enough, sir.” Shahrzad’s fingers were still wrapped around the bow and arrow.
He grasped his arrow-skewered wrist as his friends exited the alley. His face was contorted with fury and the anguish of a man bested in all ways. Tears of pain trickled down his cheeks, and a glimmer of crimson stained his forearm.
Gritting his teeth against the sting, he snarled, “Have a care, grumpy. Before she ruins you, too.” He left, choking on his wounds.
Shahrzad did not lower the bow until the alley was completely clear.
When she turned around, Khalid was standing there with his shamshir at his
side— His expression devoid of emotion.
“That day in the courtyard,” he began. “You didn’t miss the target.”
Shahrzad took a deep breath. “No. I didn’t.”
He nodded.
Then he sheathed his sword.
Do it now. He’s unarmed. This is perfect. Even better than your original plan to ply him with wine and eventually poison him.
“Shazi.”
Do it. Get justice for Shiva—justice for all those girls who died as nothing,
without cause or explanation.
“Yes?”
Loose the arrow.
He took a step toward her. His gaze swept down her body, searing wherever it touched.
End this. End this and go to Baba. To Irsa.
To Tariq.
Shahrzad tensed her grip on the weapon still nocked at her side. She inhaled, preparing to fire . . . and the frayed sinew came undone at one end.
Such a worthless coward.
“You are—remarkable. Every day, I think I am going to be surprised by how remarkable you are, but I am not. Because this is what it means to be you. It means knowing no bounds. Being limitless in all that you do.”
With each word, he broke past every barrier, every wall. And Shahrzad’s will fought him, screamed a silent scream, while her heart welcomed the intrusion as a songbird welcomes the dawn.
As the dying find grace in an answered prayer.
She closed her eyes, clenching the useless bow and arrow.
Shiva.
When she opened them again, he was standing before her.
“I didn’t like it when you called me your friend,” he said, a light in his amber eyes.
He raised both palms to either side of her face, angling her chin upward.
“Do you prefer ‘my king’ or ‘sayyidi’?” she choked in dry disgust.
He leaned forward, his brow almost brushing against hers.
“I prefer Khalid.”
Shahrzad swallowed.
“What are you doing to me, you plague of a girl?” he whispered.
“If I’m a plague, then you should keep your distance, unless you plan on being destroyed.” The weapons still in her grasp, she shoved against his chest.
“No.” His hands dropped to her waist. “Destroy me.”
The bow and arrow clattered to the ground as he brought his mouth to hers.
And there was no turning back.
She was drowning in sandalwood and sunlight. Time ceased to be more than a notion. Her lips were hers one moment. And then they were his. The taste of him on her tongue was like sun-warmed honey. Like cool water sliding down her parched throat. Like the promise of all her tomorrows in a single sigh. When she wound her fingers in his hair to draw her body against his, he stilled for breath, and she knew, as he knew, that they were lost. Lost forever.
In this kiss.
This kiss that would change everything.
