THE FALCON AND THE TIGER
SHAHRZAD STOOD AT THE MARBLE RAILING OF HER balcony, overlooking the pools of water below. A midday sun reflected back in their glistening surfaces, rippling with each passing breeze.
But this was not of particular interest to Shahrzad.
The arriving guests were far more fascinating.
It was a veritable menagerie of the absurd.
One nervous-looking young man entered the courtyard with a bevy of attendants, each waiting to remove a particular article of his clothing. First one leather mankalah. Then another. Then his rida’. Then his boots, which were quickly replaced by a pair of pristine sandals. Each of the servants stashed away the garments in methodical order before the young man ventured a single step from his steed.
Another man—the size of three men put together—swayed atop an elephant sporting hooked tusks, its grey trunk trailing across the gritty granite pavestones below. This man had an oiled mustache with ends that twitched at the slightest movement, and each of his fingers displayed immense rings of a different gemstone, glittering with abandon in the rays of the sun.
Shahrzad rested her chin in her palm and stifled a giggle.
Another nobleman galloped through the entrance on a creature Shahrzad had never seen before. It resembled a horse in size and build, yet its coat was covered in the strangest pattern of black and white stripes. The animal stomped its hooves and snorted, flinging its neck to and fro. As soon as Shahrzad saw it, she gasped and called Despina to her side.
Despina shook her head as she stood next to Shahrzad. “You really shouldn’t be out here.”
“Why not?” Shahrzad waved a flippant hand. “It’s perfectly safe. All weapons are surrendered at the palace gate.”
“I wish I could make you understand. You’re not a girl on a lark, watching an amusing display. You’re their queen.”
“They came here because of that wretched sultan from Parthia, not because of me.” Shahrzad leaned farther over the railing. “Despina, did you see that imbecile on the camel? The one with the brass bells and the finger in his nose?”
Despina’s eyes clouded over.
And Shahrzad ignored the lines creasing her handmaiden’s forehead.
Ignored them because she needed a lighthearted moment. Needed it enough to appear foolish, just for an instant, so she would not have to deal with the reality of her life in a palace of polished marble, with flashing gems at her throat and a shimmering pool of water at her feet.
In a marriage rife with growing tension . . .
With a husband who would not touch her. Nor venture near her, much less
share his secrets.
Shahrzad clenched her teeth.
Ever since that night two weeks ago, when she’d told the tale of Tala and Mehrdad, Khalid had come to have dinner with her each evening and hear a new story. He would listen at a distance, engage her in stilted conversation, and share pithy observations he’d made throughout the day.
Then he would depart, and she would not see him until the following night.
“Your husband is not a forgiving man.”
Shahrzad gripped the stone railing in both hands, the blood leaching from her fingertips. “Who are all these fools, anyway?” She tried to smile at Despina.
Despina’s lips puckered into a moue. “Most of them are the caliph’s bannermen. A general invitation was issued to every emir of Khorasan.”
A bubble of air caught at the top of Shahrzad’s throat. She twisted away from
the railing to look at her handmaiden.
“What?” she whispered.
Despina canted her head to one side. “I told you. You never listen. This gathering is not just for the Sultan of Parthia. The caliph wants to introduce you as his queen. He invited every nobleman in the kingdom to share in the spectacle. To meet you.”
A knot of panic started to gather in the pit of Shahrzad’s stomach.
Tariq wouldn’t. He may be a nobleman, but he’s not an emir. Not yet.
He wouldn’t dare.
Despina’s ongoing lecture dissolved into a muted din in Shahrzad’s ears.
Until a familiar, screaming cry echoed from above.
Shahrzad balled her hands into fists and spun back to the railing, pleading to the heavens that—
No.
Clattering across the granite pavestones on a dark bay al-Khamsa was her
first love.
Tariq Imran al-Ziyad.
“My, my, my,” Despina breathed.
Had Tariq not reined in his stallion at that moment and whistled to the skies, he still would have drawn attention. Even dust-worn and bedraggled, he cut an imposing figure. Broad-shouldered, with skin of the desert and eyes of silver and ash, he was the kind of boy who turned heads and never noticed. The faint shadow of hair that darkened his jaw served only to accentuate features hewn from stone by the hand of a master sculptor.
When Zoraya came plummeting from the clouds to land on his outstretched
mankalah, Tariq glanced up.
And saw Shahrzad.
His look was a touch.
Shahrzad’s heart began to pound, the fear rising. Taking hold.
But it was nothing compared to the panic that gripped her, that screamed a soundless scream at the scene unfolding before her . . .
When Khalid rode into the courtyard atop a black Arabian— A stone’s throw from her first love.
• • •
Shahrzad had disappeared from the balcony.
It was just as well.
For, as much as Tariq wanted to drink in the sight of her, now was not the time for distraction, even one as welcome as she.
His target had arrived.
Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.
Murderer of Shiva. Husband of Shahrzad.
Tariq gripped the reins in his free hand.
The monster rode past Tariq on a magnificent black Arabian. His dark rida’ billowed in his wake. A visceral hatred coiled in Tariq’s chest. When the monster stopped in the middle of the courtyard and pulled back the hood of his cloak, Tariq’s wrath flowed to his fists.
And he envisioned them smashing against the monster’s chilly regalness until nothing remained but blood and bits of bone.
To the right of the monster was a young man with an arrogant grin, curly
brown hair, and a cuirass with the standard of the Royal Guard embossed on its breastplate. To his left was an older man with a golden griffin stitched on his cloak, signifying his status as the Shahrban of Rey.
As the noise in the courtyard died down, the monster began to speak.
“Welcome to Rey.”
His voice was surprisingly unassuming.
“I trust your journeys were safe and uneventful. It is an honor to host you on this occasion, and I thank you for always striving to embody—in all the days past, present, and future—the greatness of Khorasan to those who would take notice.”
A polite cheer rose from the edges of the courtyard.
“Again, I welcome you to my home. I have the fervent hope that when you leave it, you will have come to care for it as much as I do. It is the city of my childhood.” The monster paused. “And the city of my queen.”
At this, the chorus of approval grew, mingled with a clear tenor of curiosity.
The arrogant boy to the monster’s right smirked appreciatively, while the shahrban sighed with seeming resignation.
It took all Tariq’s willpower to look away and not draw undue attention. The hate was too palpable. It roiled off him in murderous waves.
Death was too easy for this monster.
He dared to flaunt Shahrzad, as if she were a prize he had won?
Zoraya flapped her wings from her perch on his mankalah, aware of his fury.
Tariq raised a hand to soothe her while he observed the monster exiting the courtyard, his gold-clad retinue clamoring in his shadow.
Tariq was not impressed by the show.
Rahim was a far better rider. The Caliph of Khorasan was an above-average horseman, at best. For all his dour black and stern expressions, all the whispered rumors of trick swords and cold brutality, he did not appear worthy of genuine fear. He appeared bored with life. Bored and in need of a nap.
Tariq sneered to himself, his loathing mingled with a newfound distaste.
Monster? Hardly. Merely a boy-king.
And a dead one, at that.
