THE VEIL BETWEEN
SHAHRZAD SAT ALONE IN HER CHAMBER, IN THE CENTER of a platformed cushion piled high with pillows covered in vibrant fabrics. Surrounding the bed was a thin veil of spider-silk, blowing with eerie leisure at the slightest disturbance.
Her knees were drawn to her chest; her fingers were laced across her ankles.
And her hazel eyes were trained on the doors.
She had stayed in this position for the better part of the night. Each time she tried to venture from the spot, her nerves threatened to overcome her.
Where is he?
She exhaled loudly and clasped her hands even tighter above her feet.
Soon, the panic she had been fighting for the last hour began to bear down on her like a hammer on an ironsmith’s anvil.
What if he doesn’t come to see me tonight?
“Oh, God,” she murmured, breaking through the stillness.
Then I lied to everyone. I broke every last promise.
Shahrzad shook her head. Her heartbeat rose in her ears as each breath
became more labored.
I don’t want to die.
These macabre thoughts rubbed at the edges of her composure, pushing her down into the fathomless realms of terror—a terror she’d managed to keep at bay, thus far.
How will Baba survive if I’m killed? And Irsa?
Tariq.
“Stop it!” Her words echoed into the yawning darkness. Foolish, but she needed something—anything—to fill the torturous silence with sound, if but for an instant.
She pressed her hands to her temples and willed the terror back . . .
Back inside the steel-encased enclosure of her heart.
And then the doors swung open with a low creak.
Shahrzad dropped her palms to the soft cushion at her sides.
A servant stepped through, clutching tapers of aloewood and ambergris, which gave off a faint perfume and a delicate light; after a beat, a girl bearing a tray of food and wine followed. The servants placed their wares throughout the room and left without a glance in Shahrzad’s direction.
A moment later, the Caliph of Khorasan appeared at the threshold.
He waited, as if considering something, before entering the chamber and pushing the doors shut.
In the pale glow emitting from the candles, his tiger-eyes seemed even more calculating and remote. The lines of his face fell into shadow as he turned from the light, sharpening the bladed hollows of his features.
An immovable countenance. Cold and forbidding.
Shahrzad threaded her fingers beneath her knees.
“I’m told your father served under mine as one of his viziers.” His voice was low and unassuming. Almost . . . kind.
“Yes, sayyidi. He was an advisor to your father.”
“And he works as a custodian now.”
“Yes, sayyidi. Of ancient texts.”
He faced her. “Quite a change in position.”
Shahrzad bit back irritation. “Perhaps. He wasn’t a very high-ranking vizier.”
“I see.”
You see nothing.
She returned his gaze, hoping the mosaic of color in her eyes hid the thoughts running rampant behind them.
“Why did you volunteer, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran?”
She did not answer.
He continued. “What compelled you to do something so foolish?”
“Excuse me?”
“Perhaps it was the lure of marrying a king. Or the vain hope you might be the one to stay the course and win the heart of a monster.” He spoke without emotion, watching her intently.
Shahrzad’s pulse jumped to a martial beat. “I don’t suffer those delusions, sayyidi.”
“Then why did you volunteer? Why are you willing to throw away your life at seventeen?”
“I’m sixteen.” She cut her eyes. “And I don’t see why it matters.”
“Answer me.”
“No.”
He paused. “You realize you could die for that.”
The grip of her fingers tightened almost painfully. “I’m not surprised to hear that, sayyidi. But, if you truly want answers, killing me won’t help in the endeavor.”
A spark of something flashed across his face, lingering at the edges of his lips. It was gone too quickly to offer anything of significance.
“I suppose not.” He stopped, again in seeming consideration. She could see him withdrawing, a veil falling over the harsh angles of his profile.
No.
Shahrzad rose from the bed and took a step toward him.
When he glanced back at her, she moved closer.
“I told you. Do not think you will be the one to break the cycle.”
Shahrzad gritted her teeth. “And I told you. I don’t suffer delusions. On any account.”
She continued advancing until she stood but an arm’s length from him, her resolve unwavering.
He locked upon her face. “Your life is already forfeit. I do not expect . . . more than that.”
In response, Shahrzad reached up and began to unfasten the bejeweled necklace still hanging about her throat.
“No.” He caught her hand. “Leave it.”
He hesitated before shifting his fingers to the nape of her neck.
At this disturbingly familiar touch, Shahrzad fought the urge to pull back in disgust and strike out at him with all the pain and rage she possessed.
Don’t be foolish. There will only be one chance. Don’t waste it.
This boy-king, this murderer . . . she would not permit him to destroy another family. To rob another girl of her best friend—of a lifetime filled with memories that had been and never would be.
She raised her chin and swallowed the rising bile, the bitter taste remaining on her tongue.
“Why are you here?” he whispered, his tiger-eyes ever searching.
A corner of her mouth rose in sardonic reply.
She brought her palm to his hand.
Carefully.
Then she lifted the heavy mantle from her shoulders and let it slide to the floor.
• • •
Irsa sat astride her dappled mare in the alley closest to the structure housing Rey’s most ancient and obscure texts. The city’s library was once a grand edifice, columned and swathed in judiciously hewn stones quarried from the finest pits in Tirazis. Over the years, its façade had darkened, and deep cracks marred its surface, the worst filled with slipshod efforts at repair. Every visible edge was worn, and the glorious lustre of yesteryear had faded to a mottling of greys and browns.
When the team of horses behind her stirred in the dense silence before dawn, Irsa glanced over her shoulder apologetically. She opened her mouth to reassure the young driver, but the brittleness in her voice forced her to clear her throat before speaking.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the boy, after a discreet cough. “I don’t know what’s taking so long. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.” Her mare’s left ear twitched as Irsa shifted around in her seat.
“No concern of mine, miss. As long as I’m paid in full. But if your father wishes to clear the gates of the city before dawn, we should leave soon.”
She nodded, another knot forming in her stomach at the boy’s words.
Soon, she would be leaving the city of her childhood—the city she had lived in for fourteen years. So, under the haven of night, with barely a moment’s notice, she had thrown everything of value into the covered cart behind her, knowing her life would never be the same.
Odd that none of this mattered to her. At least, not yet.
The only thing she could think about—the reason for her scratched throat and
knotted stomach—was Shahrzad.
Her stubborn tyrant of an older sister.
Her brave and loyal friend.
Again, hot tears welled in her eyes, even after she’d sworn not to shed a single drop more. Frustrated, she swiped at her already raw cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Is something wrong, miss?” the driver asked, his tone approaching sympathetic.
Of course something was wrong. But if they were to remain safe from prying eyes, he could never learn what it was. Shahrzad had been specific on this point.
“No. Nothing’s wrong. Thank you for asking.”
The boy nodded before resuming his posture of disinterest.
Irsa thought instead of the journey before them. It would take three days of hard traveling before they reached Taleqan, the stronghold of Tariq’s family.
She shook her head in bemusement; after all that had transpired, only Shahrzad would have the audacity to send them to the home of her childhood sweetheart.
Every time Irsa stopped to think of Tariq and his family, her gamine features
constricted with worry . . .
And remorse.
She heaved a weary sigh and stared down at the reins. Her spotted white horse flipped its mane as a gust of wind whipped through the alley.
“What’s taking him so long?” Irsa said to no one in particular.
As if on cue, the heavy wooden door to the side entrance of the library scraped open, and her father’s hooded figure stumbled into the night.
He was clutching something in his arms, pulled tight against his chest.
“Baba? Is everything all right?”
“I’m so sorry, dear. Everything’s fine. We can leave now,” Jahandar murmured. “I just . . . had to make sure all the doors were secure.”
“What is that?” Irsa asked.
“Hmm?” Jahandar made his way to his horse and reached for his satchel.
“What are you holding?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a tome I particularly enjoyed.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“Did we come all the way here for a book, Baba?”
“Just one, my child. Just one.”
“It must be a special book.”
“All books are special, dear.”
“What kind of book is it?”
Jahandar tucked the aging, leather-bound volume into the satchel with great care and swung into his saddle with infinitely less consideration. Then he motioned for the driver to proceed.
The small caravan made its way down the still slumbering streets of Rey.
Irsa directed her mount to walk alongside her father’s black stallion. When Jahandar gazed down at her with a kind smile, she reached for his hand, seeking the same reassurance she offered.
“All will be well, dearest girl,” he said, almost absentmindedly.
She nodded.
It did not escape Irsa’s notice that he had failed to answer her question.
