BY THE LIGHT OF A SINGLE CANDLE
AT THE SOUND OF SHAHRZAD’S WORDLESS exclamation, Jalal glanced over his shoulder. Humor washed across his features, mixed with a hint of defiance. “I guess neither of us will be able to meet our earlier terms.”
“I guess not.” Her hazel eyes were locked on her amber-eyed nemesis.
“But I hope we can continue this discussion at a later time.” Jalal stepped away from her with a mocking bow.
The caliph crossed the expanse. He was wearing a qamis of the finest white linen and grey sirwal trowsers. A tapered sword in a style Shahrzad did not recognize hung from the black tikka sash looped about his hips. As always, he embodied the antithesis of everything she found warm and good in the world.
All motion within the courtyard had ceased at his arrival. To his right was an older gentleman whose carriage and countenance were distinctly reminiscent of Jalal’s. At his left was a nervous-looking man, clutching an armful of scrolls.
Flanking him was a retinue of soldiers and bodyguards.
For a perilous beat, Shahrzad considered turning her arrow on him. At this distance, she knew she could hit him. But the arrow’s tip was blunted—meant
only for target practice.
It might not kill him.
She lowered the weapon.
It’s not worth the risk.
As he drew near, she willed her heart to cease its irrational pounding. If she intended to conquer this monster, she had to first quell all fears of him. Quickly.
He stopped several paces before her.
And turned to Jalal.
“Captain al-Khoury.” His voice was deathly quiet.
“Sayyidi.” Jalal dipped his head, touching his fingertips to his brow. “I was just showing the queen how to use a bow and arrow.”
“I can see that. The question is why.”
“Because I asked him,” Shahrzad interrupted, much too loudly.
His eyes shifted to her with dispassion. Shahrzad watched him take in her appearance—the lack of a mantle, the haphazard knot of hair . . . and the quiver of arrows dangling from her shoulder.
“Then I redirect the question to you,” he said.
She set her jaw, drawing on a sudden reserve of impudence. “Do I need a reason?”
“I asked for an explanation. Not a reason.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Actually, they are. Regardless of your perspective on the matter, I simply wanted to learn, and Jalal agreed to teach me.” As she spoke, wisps of hair began to uncoil from the knot at her nape.
“Jalal?” His eyebrows rose at this informality, the only sign of a reaction to her bold display.
“Yes. Jalal.” A lock fell forward into her face, and she shoved it behind her
ear.
“And what have you learned from Jalal?”
“What?” she exclaimed, unable to conceal her surprise at his interest.
“If he’s been teaching you how to shoot a bow and arrow, you must have something to show for it. Unless he’s an abysmal tutor.”
Jalal started to laugh. “If you’ll recall, sayyidi, I believe I had a hand in teaching you when you were a boy.”
“Jalal-jan,” the shahrban rasped at his son, the lines of consternation further weathering his face.
“Though archery has never been my strong suit,” the caliph continued.
“Your words, sayyidi. Not mine.” Jalal grinned.
“Jalal! That’s enough,” the shahrban said sharply. “He is your king!”
Jalal bowed, his obedience still tinged by ridicule.
“Well?” The caliph looked again to Shahrzad.
She returned his expectant gaze. Then, without a word, Shahrzad refitted the arrow to the sinew, keeping the bow at her side for a moment.
She desperately wanted to show him how well she could shoot, to demonstrate to the entire contingent of onlookers that she was no one to trifle with. She also wanted to do justice to the many years of patient instruction she’d received at Tariq’s side.
When she’d first asked him, as a young girl of eleven, to teach her how to use a bow and arrow, she’d fully expected the twelve-year-old son of a powerful
emir to ignore a silly child’s request. Yet, it was that summer in the desert, clutching a makeshift bow and arrow, that she first fell in love with Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. With his refreshing candor and his ready humor. With the charm of his beautifully devious smile. Granted, it had been nothing more than a starry-eyed infatuation at the time, but it was from those precious memories that she drew her strength whenever she felt darkness descend upon her.
For the wonder of a first love can never be matched.
She closed her eyes.
Tariq.
No. Today is not the day to make a point.
She drew in a breath.
But it is also not a day to appear weak.
With her eyes still shut, she raised the bow and drew back the arrow.
She did not need to aim. She knew precisely where she wanted the arrow to fly.
From the age of thirteen, she had aimed purely on instinct, relying on her ability to gauge her surroundings at a glance.
She exhaled slowly.
As soon as she opened her eyes, she loosed the arrow. It flew toward the
target in a perfect spiral.
And struck exactly where she intended.
“Amazing. Despite never taking care to aim, you actually hit the target that time,” Jalal intoned drily. “In a fashion.”
“It’s because you’re such a good teacher,” she replied in a blithe manner.
The shadows from a passing cloud seemed to cast a small smile across the
caliph’s lips.
“Is it?” Jalal murmured.
“In a fashion.” She grinned. “Nevertheless, I did hit the target . . . rather, I hit one of its legs.”
“Which would have been a remarkable shot, had it been intentional.”
“But we’ve already established that I didn’t aim. Regardless, I think I did fairly well, don’t you?”
“What do you think, sayyidi?” Jalal asked. “Does the queen pass your test of merit?”
It was a brazen question on his part. Shahrzad felt a hint of color rise in her neck as she faced the caliph.
He was merely watching them interact in detached silence.
“She missed the target,” he stated simply.
Shahrzad’s eyes narrowed. When the wayward lock of hair fell forward yet
again, she stabbed it behind her ear with undue vehemence.
“Perhaps my king would care to demonstrate the proper technique?” she asked in a cool tone. Reaching back, she extracted an arrow and offered it, alongside the bow, to the caliph.
That same incomprehensible flash of emotion flitted across his sharp profile.
And Shahrzad found herself growing ever more curious as to the thoughts behind it.
It doesn’t matter what he’s thinking. It will never matter.
It should never matter.
He strode forward and extricated the weapons from her hands. When his fingers grazed hers, he hesitated before pulling away. Then his tiger-eyes clouded over and he drew back, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he nocked the arrow into position on the string.
Shahrzad watched him assume his stance. His lean form struck unnervingly precise lines as he pulled the arrow far back, bending the recurve bow until the arches at each end became all but unnoticeable.
He exhaled while he took aim.
Shahrzad resisted the urge to smile.
He uses the sights.
The arrow flew in a tight spiral toward the target, striking near the center, but
not within the bull’s-eye.
He lowered the bow.
“Not bad, sayyidi,” Jalal said with a smile.
“It’s acceptable,” he replied under his breath. “Nothing to boast about.”
The caliph extended his left arm to return the bow to Shahrzad. He refused to meet her eyes, and then he turned to leave.
“Sayyidi?” she attempted.
He halted, but did not face her.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind—”
“Jalal can teach you. He is far more proficient than I.”
Irritation flared in Shahrzad at the assumption she desired anything from him.
Beyond his death.
“Fine,” she bit out.
He took a few steps before he stopped again. “Shahrzad?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
She snatched an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to the string.
I despise him. As if he could truly teach me anything about a bow and arrow . . . a boy who still uses sights! Tariq could tear him apart. Second-best
swordsman in Rey—ha!
She tried to ignore the flutter of uncertainty in her stomach.
• • •
Jahandar studied the wall of the tent as it flapped in the cool night air.
He lay on his side, listening. Waiting.
Once he was certain Irsa’s soft breaths had deepened into a restful sleep, he turned with great care and lifted his blankets.
She stirred on the other side of the tent, and he froze. When she rotated in place so that her back faced him, he exhaled and rose to his feet. With a careful stretch, he warded away the weariness of a full day’s travel.
One foot in front of the other, Jahandar padded his way to his satchel.
As soundlessly as possible, he raised the fold and eased the worn leather volume from between the sleeves. His heart pounded when he felt the warmth of the tome settle against his chest.
The raw power of the pages now within his grasp . . .
He shuffled to a corner of the tent and placed the ancient manuscript atop a trunk of clothes. Then he lit a single candle.
And took a deep breath.
The cover of the tome was tattered and illegible. The edges were degraded, and a rusted lock bound its center.
He stared at the blackened, aged book before him.
If he started down this path . . .
He closed his eyes and swallowed. He thought of his wife in her final days, as she lay gasping for breath, begging for a moment more with her children.
Pleading for Jahandar to save her from the wasting disease.
He thought of the instant he failed her, of the helplessness he felt holding her lifeless form in his arms.
And of the crippling powerlessness as he watched his elder daughter march toward a monster only two sunsets ago.
Whatever the cost, he would fix it. If Shahrzad had managed to survive the dawn, he would work to be worthy of such a daughter. And if she had not . . .
He clenched the spine of the book tight between his fingers.
No. He would not let himself cower in the darkness of doubt again.
Jahandar reached into his nightshirt and pulled out the long silver chain hanging from his throat. Dangling on its end was a black key. He bent over the ancient tome and inserted the key into the lock. When the volume sprang open, a
faint silver light emanated from the pages. Jahandar reached for the first page . . .
And stifled a cry.
It burned his hand.
No matter.
He dragged his sleeve onto his fingertips and tried again.
The text was an early form of Chagatai. Translating it would be a painstaking process, even for a man as learned as Jahandar. And especially with such
pressing time constraints.
Again, no matter.
His heart thundered as he drew the single candle closer to begin his work.
For his children, he would move mountains.
He would not fail again.
