A FLOATING CARPET AND A RISING TIDE
SHAHRZAD STOOD IN THE SMALL ROOM HOUSING all her garments. She watched Despina set aside parcel after parcel of wrapped silk in a wide assortment of colors.
“By Zeus, would you just pick one?” Shahrzad groaned, coiling her waves of black hair to one side.
“Be patient. I’m looking for something specific.”
“Then be specific about it, and I can help.”
Despina rose to her feet and stretched her arms above her head. She winced as she kneaded her left shoulder.
Shahrzad’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. I slept poorly last night.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Despina laughed with trilling dismissiveness. “I have many months before it
will be an issue, Shahrzad.”
“Have you told Jalal yet?”
“No.”
“When will you tell him?”
“When I muster the courage or when I’m left with no choice—whichever comes first. And I won’t discuss the matter further.” Despina twisted to the back corner of the room and stooped to rustle through more parcels of silk.
Shahrzad frowned at her handmaiden, wondering if Despina ever managed a decent night’s rest with such worries wreaking their silent havoc.
Why won’t she tell him?
When Despina resurfaced, her features were pinched by annoyance. “The garment may be in my room for mending. Come with me.”
The two girls left behind the piles of silk and damask to cross Shahrzad’s bedchamber. They paused before a single, polished wood door near the entrance.
Despina pushed it open and walked down a narrow corridor before grasping the silver handle leading to another chamber at the end.
Shahrzad had never been in Despina’s room before, even though it was so near her own. The chamber was small and tidy, with a neat arrangement of cushions on one side and a low table on the other. The wardrobe in the corner was made of the same honey-colored wood as the table, and the entire space was lightly perfumed in the floral scent of jessamine.
Despina walked to the wardrobe and opened one side to begin her search.
Shahrzad’s eyes wandered past the wooden chest, and she noticed something wedged against the wall, tied in a bundle secured by hemp cord.
It was the rug gifted to her by Musa Zaragoza.
“Why is that in here?” Shahrzad nodded toward the bundle.
Despina glanced over her shoulder and sighed. “I kept meaning to ask you if I
could throw it away.”
“It was a gift!”
“It’s old and threadbare, and it will likely attract vermin. I don’t want such a thing amongst your garments.”
Shahrzad rolled her eyes. “Give it to me.”
Despina shrugged before passing along the bundle. “Why anyone would gift the Calipha of Khorasan a tiny, shabby carpet is beyond me.”
Shahrzad held it in both hands as she recalled the day Musa-effendi had visited the palace.
“It is a very special carpet. When you are lost, it will help you find your
way.”
“I don’t think it’s a mere rug.”
“Then what is it?”
“It could be a map of sorts,” Shahrzad mused.
“If it’s a map, it’s outdated and, therefore, useless.”
Shahrzad turned from Despina’s room and strode down the narrow hall back to her bedchamber. She knelt on the floor and set the bundle down. Then she began tugging at the knot of hemp at its center. When her efforts proved futile, she remembered why her curiosity had failed to win out upon first receiving the gift.
“This knot is from hell itself,” Shahrzad grumbled as Despina peered over her shoulder.
“Let me try.” Her handmaiden crouched beside her and began pulling at the strings. Faced with similar results, she lifted the knot and studied it for a spell.
Then she removed a silver pin from the crown of hair atop her head. A cascade of golden-walnut curls spilled onto her shoulder, and Despina started working
the pin into the center of the knot.
“You shall not prevail, little hell-knot,” she whispered, squinching her blue eyes over the bundle.
Moments later, the knot tugged free, and both girls shouted in triumph.
Shahrzad unwrapped the rug and spread it out on the floor.
It was indeed as worn and threadbare as it initially appeared—rust colored, with a border of dark blue and a center medallion of black-and-white scrollwork.
Almost all the fringe of tassels had frayed away. The few that remained were dirty and yellowed with age, still clinging to misbegotten hope. Two corners boasted holes that resembled scorch marks.
As she ran her palms across it, an odd, tingling sensation began to form in her
chest. She drew back in sudden alarm.
“What’s wrong?” Despina asked.
The sensation was gone.
Shahrzad glanced down at her hands and ran her thumbs across her fingers.
“Nothing.”
Both girls stood to inspect the small rug.
“Well . . . that’s an ugly carpet,” Despina pronounced.
Shahrzad laughed.
“May I please throw it away?” Despina pressed.
“I thought it might be a map. Musa-effendi told me it would help me find my way.” Shahrzad’s brow furrowed.
“You mean the magus from the Fire Temple?”
“Is that what Musa-effendi is?”
Despina pursed her lips and looked away.
“You weren’t supposed to tell me that.” Shahrzad smirked. “Were you?”
Despina glared at her.
“Interesting,” Shahrzad continued. “Though I’m not surprised. Jalal does seem to be the talkative type. I wonder what he says in moments of—”
“Shahrzad!”
Shahrzad laughed as she dodged Despina’s threatening shove. Her bare heel grazed the rug, and the strange tingling flared in her chest once more.
Increasingly disturbed, she knelt before the carpet and placed her palm to its surface.
A prickly feeling, almost like losing sensation in a foot from sitting too long, began to warm around her heart. The warmth soon spread to her shoulders and down her arm. Then, when she ran her fingers along the edge of the rug— It curled into her hand, as though it had a life of its own.
Shahrzad gasped in shock and fell on her side in a graceless heap.
“What happened?” Despina demanded, kneeling beside her.
“The rug—moved!”
“What?”
Shahrzad scrambled to her knees, her heart tripping about in her chest.
“Look!” She pushed her hand to the carpet until the prickly sensation filled her palm . . . and one corner of the rug rose from the floor.
Despina shrieked a curse and jumped back. “What’s wrong with it?”
“How should I know?” Shahrzad yelled.
“Do—do it again.”
Shahrzad repeated the process, and another corner of the carpet lifted from the floor with the ease of a rising cloud.
At this, Despina regarded her with wary circumspection. “Have you ever
done that to anything before?”
“No! It’s the carpet, not me.”
Despina knelt and placed her own palms to the worn, rustcolored surface. She waited a beat. Nothing happened.
“It’s not just the carpet, Shahrzad. It’s you.”
Shahrzad chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“Then you are unaware. It lies dormant in your blood.”
Despina exhaled in a huff of exasperation. She held Shahrzad’s hand to the carpet. When its edges curled off the floor and Shahrzad tried to pull away, Despina refused to let go.
Soon, the entire rug was floating in the air beside their shoulders— weightless, as though woven from a dream. When the girls withdrew their touch, the carpet drifted back to the marble with the grace of a petal to the earth.
“Well,” Despina whispered in awe, “that certainly is a neat little trick.”
• • •
Tariq dismounted in the desert before Omar al-Sadiq’s large patchworked tent.
He grabbed his stallion’s bridle and led it to a trough of water nearby. As the horse drank, the mirrored surface rippled around its snout in concentric rings.
Tariq ran his palm along the magnificent animal’s neck.
The return journey had not been an easy one.
Despite her reassurances as to her safety, leaving the city of Rey—leaving Shahrzad—had been all but impossible. He’d acquiesced to her wishes, but it had been done with a heavy, bitter heart. For the past five days, Tariq had ridden through the blowing sands under a blazing sun, in constant war with his
thoughts.
How had it come to this?
Nothing made sense. The girl he knew was not capable of such fickleness.
The girl he loved was too smart, too resourceful . . . too loyal to be won over by a monster. Especially one who had murdered her best friend.
As this tempest raged about in his mind, Tariq found himself returning to its most salient point: none of this made sense.
Therefore, it required an explanation.
Tariq remembered hearing tales of captives losing their will to their captors.
Prisoners falling in love with their vanquishers. While he’d never believed in such a possibility before, it was the only thing that made sense of Shahrzad’s behavior.
She was not herself. That palace, that world . . . that monster had taken away the girl Tariq loved and driven her to forget all she held dear.
He had to get her out of there. Soon.
The sound of Zoraya’s piercing cry tore him from his thoughts. Tariq whistled for her, and she landed on his outstretched mankalah, impatient for her evening meal. He was preoccupied, but he managed to smile at the falcon as he offered her a strip of dried meat.
“Our nameless sahib returns!” a familiar voice crowed from behind him.
“Though, if the rumors are to be believed, he is nameless no more.”
Tariq turned to the sun-weathered face of Omar al-Sadiq. “Rumors?”
Omar grinned, wide and gaptoothed. “Such is the way of rumors. We are often the last to know the ones in our honor.”
Tariq closed his eyes for a spell. The eccentric sheikh was trying his last bit of patience. “There are rumors in my honor?”
“About the White Falcon. The savior of Khorasan.”
“What are you talking about?” Tariq heaved a weary sigh.
“Have you not heard of him? They say he rides under a banner emblazoned by the standard of a white falcon. That he intends to storm the city of Rey and overthrow its evil king.” Omar’s eyes twinkled. “As it turns out, I believe you’re quite familiar with the White Falcon. His friends call him Tariq.”
“I’m sorry,” Tariq said brusquely, knocking back the hood of his dusty white rida’. “But I’m in no mood for your games.”
“Games? War is not a game, my friend. Games are for small children and old men like me. War is a young man’s blighted delight.”
“Cease with the word games, Omar! I can’t stomach—”
“Would you like to see your banner, instead?” Omar winked. “It’s quite—”
“Please!” The single word cracked against the desert sky, filling it with
frustration and the lasting hint of pain.
Omar’s keen eyes took in Tariq’s aggrieved face. “What happened while you were in Rey, my friend?”
Tariq released Zoraya into the clouds and leaned back against the trough.
“Tell me what troubles you so,” Omar pressed in a gentle voice.
“I—I have to get Shazi out of there. Away from that place. Away from that monster.”
“You are worried for her safety.” Omar nodded slowly. “Then why have you returned?” His concern eclipsed his bluntness.
Tariq cringed, unable to respond.
“Can you not tell me what happened, my friend?”
Tariq gazed into the settling dusk on the horizon. A trace of the sun’s warmth lingered along the edge, fading into blues that bled their way to black.
“I suspected he might care for her. After all, he let her live when so many others . . .” Tariq’s silver eyes chilled in thought. “But I did not expect this.”
Omar scratched at his beard. “I see.”
“What? What do you see?” Tariq turned toward the Badawi sheikh.
“You believe the young caliph . . .” Omar lifted a gnarled hand to Tariq’s shoulder. “Is in love with your Shahrzad.”
Tariq fixed his gaze on the coarse linen of Omar’s sleeve.
“And what led you to believe this?” Omar continued in the same kind tone.
“The—it’s the way he looks at her,” Tariq whispered. “It’s the only time I even begin to understand him.”
Omar squeezed his shoulder. “Perhaps . . . it is for the best. I’ve heard the young caliph has lived a life of profound loss. If Shahrzad can—”
“I will not leave Shazi in the arms of a murdering madman!”
Omar blinked hard. The heavy creases of his eyelids rose and fell with a purposeful weight. “Tariq, why are you doing this? Why are you fighting this battle?”
“Because I love her,” Tariq said without hesitation.
“But . . . why do you love her?”
“What kind of a ridiculous question—”
“It is not a ridiculous question. It is a very simple one. The difficulty lies in the answer. Why do you love her?”
“Because—” Tariq rubbed at the back of his neck. “All of my most cherished memories are of her. I’ve suffered alongside her. And . . . we’ve laughed at nothing together.”
Omar’s hand fell from Tariq’s shoulder. “A shared history does not entitle you to a future, my friend.”
“How could I expect you to understand?” Tariq said. “No one ever tried to take Aisha from you. No one—”
“I do not have to lose my wife to understand the meaning of loss, Tariq. A child with a broken toy understands such things.”
Anger coiled through Tariq’s chest. “Are you likening my suffering to that of a child?”
Omar shook his head with a bemused smile. “Loss is loss. And the lesson is
always the same.”
“I am not in the mood for a lesson.”
“Nor am I.” Omar laughed. “So I will share a story instead.”
“Please don’t—”
“On a clear night, many years ago, I watched a thousand stars fall from the sky. I was only a small boy, but I possessed a very curious heart, so I decided to chase them into the desert, far beyond the horizon. You see, I wanted to know where stars went when they fell. I ran and ran until I could run no more. And still I could not see where the stars went.”
“Your story is a lesson, Omar,” Tariq said in a flat tone. “I am not that big a fool.”
Omar grinned. “Did I ever tell you that, to this day, I still fight the urge to chase falling stars?”
“I can well understand it, as I’m currently fighting the urge to flee.”
Omar threw his head back and laughed. “Not until our lesson concludes, my young friend! You cannot rob an old man of this well-deserved right.”
“No. I cannot.” Despite the heaviness around his heart, Tariq could not help but smile. “Conclude your lesson, my esteemed effendi.”
“Some things exist in our lives for but a brief moment. And we must let them go on to light another sky.”
Tariq stared into the darkness beyond the enclave of tents. “You want me to leave things as they are. But I can’t. I won’t.”
“And I will always respect your choice, Tariq-jan. Though we may disagree, I shall try to offer whatever support I can. Come with me. Your uncle is waiting for you.”
“Uncle Reza is here?” Tariq looked over Omar’s shoulder.
“He arrived two days ago with your friend Rahim and has been anxiously awaiting your return ever since.” Omar led Tariq to the entrance of the largest tent in the desert enclave. He pushed aside the flap, and the two men stepped inside.
“Our prodigal hero has returned!” Omar announced as he strode to the back corner and took a seat beside Reza with a jocular flourish.
Tariq removed his shoes and discarded his cloak before pacing farther into the semidarkness. The patchwork of carpet at his feet was soft and worn. It mirrored the dark collage of woven fabric shaping the walls of the tent around him. A thin haze of smoke suffused the air about his head. It smelled of tobacco and molasses.
“Come, have some tea,” Omar said with a smile. “I’ve been having the most wonderful time with your uncle these past few days, for he is quite fond of love stories as well.”
Tariq sat on the woolen cushions around a knotted wood table with a silver pot of tea, several etched glasses, and a towering ghalyan. The ghalyan was made of deep green glass, with a long pipe wrapped in copper silk, snaking around the table to Reza bin-Latief’s outstretched palm. The coal atop it burned bright orange as he puffed on the carved mouthpiece, and the water within its glass basin bubbled at a slow roil. The sweet smoke rose into the air, curling into tendrils of blue grey, mingling into the haze above.
“Uncle.” Tariq extended his hand toward Reza, and Reza took it.
“You have been quite busy, Tariq-jan,” Reza said quietly.
Tariq inhaled through his nose. “I know you asked me to wait at Taleqan for your missive.”
Reza continued puffing on the ghalyan in silence.
“But I could not allow you to do all the work,” Tariq finished.
“See? I told you. He is quite the hero already.” Omar cackled.
“Part of being a hero is knowing when to be still,” Reza countered.
In response, Tariq said nothing, and Omar laughed heartily.
“So what did you learn in this foolhardy excursion to Rey?” Reza asked.
“I learned I have a great deal to learn.”
Reza passed Omar the pipe. “What else?”
“I learned the Caliph of Khorasan is dangerous, in addition to being a
madman.”
“How so?”
“He’s smart, for a madman. Rather . . . surprising.”
“Madmen tend to be.” Omar’s eyes glittered in the shadows as streams of
smoke emitted from his nostrils.
“What else?” Reza asked.
Tariq leaned back into the cushions. “He’s arrogant, and he has a quick
temper.”
“What of weaknesses?” Reza prodded.
Tariq hesitated.
“Tariq?”
Before Tariq could respond, the flap of the tent opened once more, and Rahim stepped beneath its wing, with Jahandar al-Khayzuran in tow. The three men seated around the ghalyan gazed their way. Rahim shot Tariq an apologetic glance, and Jahandar cleared his throat with a cough.
“May—may I join you?” Jahandar asked.
Omar smiled brightly. “Of course! You are most welcome.”
Tariq rose from the table, trying his best to conceal his irritation as Jahandar crossed the carpets. He bowed his head with a hand to his brow. “Jahandar- effendi.”
“Tariq-jan.” Jahandar looked into the silver eyes, eager and hopeful. When he was met with nothing but steely judgment, his face fell to the soundless specter of shame.
Once everyone was seated again, Reza resumed his line of questioning. “You were speaking of the boy-king’s weaknesses?”
Tariq inhaled protractedly. “Yes, Uncle.”
Reza’s frown deepened at Tariq’s obvious discomfort. “Tariq-jan, what—”
“Shahrzad,” Tariq ground out. “He cares about Shahrzad.”
Reza’s face was expressionless. “A great deal?”
“I don’t know. I only know that he cares. And that I wish to take her out of there. Now.”
At this, Reza’s eyebrows arched. “Did something happen while you were there?”
“Every day she’s in that palace, she’s at risk. I cannot abide it any longer.”
“Such a hero.” Omar laughed softly.
Reza raised his glass of tea to his lips and took a sip. “I understand your concern, but—”
“Please, Uncle. Let me do this. Help me.”
Reza stared back at his nephew, calm in his assessment. “I’m sorry, Tariq- jan, but we are just beginning to gather our strength; we are nowhere near laying siege to a city like Rey. The Emir of Karaj has pledged seven hundred soldiers, as well as a large cache of weapons. They should be arriving soon. His friend from the north is sending two hundred more, and I am in contact with numerous other friends of mine—men of trade and means—who are weary of being ruled by a cruel tyrant. By a boy-king who kills without reason. They are willing to unite under the banner of the White Falcon. They are willing to fight for you.”
“Then, if you would give me a few—”
“No. If all of these men are willing to fight, it must be for something more than your love, Tariq. You cannot march into the biggest city in Khorasan with a fledgling army just to save one girl. Be a true leader. Be still. You must wait.
When the time comes, your patience will be manifestly rewarded. Trust me.”
Tariq closed his eyes and clenched his fists, fighting to control a rising tide of emotions. “Omar—”
Omar sighed. “Ah, my friend. You do so prey upon my fondness for love stories. Alas, I am an old man without brothers or sons—the last of my line. I will not fight. It is too hard to wash away blood from an old sword. Know that I would gladly risk my lowly life for love. But the lives of my people and those who ride under my name? I cannot risk such a treasure. I’m very sorry, my friend.”
Tariq drank his tea in silence as Omar and his uncle moved the discussion along to other matters. Their words drifted around him, echoing in his ears, filtering up into the smoke . . . meaningless. When the tea grew cold, Tariq took his leave. The anger continued roiling within him like the water in the ghalyan, and each time he thought of the boy-king, he saw eyes that burned like the coal atop its tower.
A madman with a temper and a penchant for death— And Shahrzad’s face at peace in his arms.
“Tariq-jan?” A meek voice called out from behind him.
“What?” Tariq whirled around.
Jahandar backed away, his mouth agape and the ends of his wispy beard curling in the balmy night breeze.
Tariq exhaled with care. “I’m sorry, Jahandar-effendi. Forgive me.”
Jahandar shook his head. “No, no. I apologize for disturbing your thoughts.”
“It’s fine.” Tariq gritted his teeth. “I should learn to control them better.”
Jahandar nodded. He gathered his hands before him, fidgeting with the front of his tikka sash.
“Is there something you wish to discuss with me?” Tariq asked.
“Yes.” Jahandar swallowed. “Yes, there is.” He straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands still. “Are—are you willing to do whatever it takes to save my daughter?”
Tariq’s gaze widened. He took a step forward. “You know I am.”
Jahandar’s eyes shone in the surrounding torchlight.
“Then let me help you.”
