The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath & the Dawn, #2)(4)

Shahrzad said nothing as she studied her father’s hands. The burns there had blistered alongside bruised purples and garish reds.

What did he do on the night of the storm?

What have we done?

“You should eat. You barely ate anything when you arrived last night,” Irsa interrupted Shahrzad’s thoughts.

Before she could protest, Irsa removed the tumbler from Shahrzad’s hand, hauling her to her feet and dragging her into the dunes beyond their father’s tent. The scent of roasting meat hung heavy in the desert air, the smoke above them an aimless cloud. Silken grains of sand sifted between Shahrzad’s toes, just near too hot to bear. Harsh rays of sunlight blurred everything they touched.

As they walked, Shahrzad glanced around the Badawi camp through slitted eyes, studying the hustle and bustle of mostly smiling faces; people carrying bushels of grain and bundles of goods from one corner to the next. The children seemed happy enough, though it was impossible to ignore the gleaming assortment of weaponry—the swords and axes and arrows—lying in the shadow of curing animal skins. Impossible to ignore them or their unassailable meaning . . .

Preparations for the coming war.

“And I shall take from you these lives, a thousandfold.”

Shahrzad stiffened, then drew back her shoulders, refusing to burden her sister with these troubles. Such troubles were meant for those with unique abilities.

Those like Musa Zaragoza, the magus from the Fire Temple.

Though it took effort, Shahrzad shrugged off the curse’s interminable weight. She walked with Irsa through the enclave of tents toward the largest, at center. It was an impressive structure, patchworked though it was: a hodgepodge of sun-worn colors, with a faded pennant at its apex, gamboling about in the breeze. A hooded sentry cloaked in roughspun stood at the tent’s entrance.

“No weapons.” The soldier’s hand clamped down on Shahrzad’s shoulder with the force of a lifelong aggressor. The sort who enjoyed his role far more than he should.

Despite her wiser inclinations, Shahrzad’s response was immediate and automatic. She shoved his hand away, her scowl set.

I am in no mood for boorish men. Or their warmongering.

“Weapons are not permitted in the sheikh’s tent.” The soldier reached for her dagger, his eyes glittering with an unspoken threat.

“Touch me again, and I’ll—”

“Shazi!” Irsa moved to placate the soldier. “Please excuse my—”

The soldier pushed Irsa back. Without a moment’s thought, Shahrzad slammed both fists into his chest. He staggered to one side, his nostrils flaring. Behind her, she heard men begin to shout.

“What are you doing, Shahrzad!” Irsa cried, her shock at her sister’s recklessness etched across her face.

Enraged, the soldier took hold of Shahrzad’s forearm. She braced herself for the coming fight, her toes curled and her knuckles clenched.

“Let go of her immediately!” A tall shadow loomed upon the soldier.

Perfect.

Shahrzad winced, a flash of guilt warring with her fury.

“I don’t need your help, Tariq,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not helping you.” He strode closer, aiming a brief but quelling stare in her direction. His unconcealed pain was raw enough to rob her of mettle.

Will he never forgive me?

The soldier turned to Tariq with a deference that would, under normal circumstances, irritate Shahrzad immensely. “Apologies, sahib, but she refused to—”

“Release her at once. I didn’t ask for excuses. Follow orders or be met with the consequences, soldier.”

The soldier released her with reluctance. Shahrzad shoved off his grasp. Steeling herself with a breath, she faced those nearby. Rahim stood at Tariq’s shoulder; several young men were at his opposing flank. One was a reed-thin boy sporting the guise of a much older man. His beard was growing in patches over a long, lean face, and his comically stern eyebrows were cut over ice-cold eyes.

Eyes that watched her with abject hatred.

Her fingers shifted toward her dagger.

“Thank you, Tariq,” Irsa said, since Shahrzad had yet to offer a shred of gratitude.

“Of course,” he replied with an awkward nod.

Shahrzad chewed at the inside of her cheek. “I—”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Shazi. We’re beyond such things.” Tariq knocked the cowl of his rida’ back and ducked through the entrance of the tent, sparing himself more of her company. The boy with the ice-cold eyes glowered at Shahrzad before following suit. Rahim paused beside her, his expression grim, as though he had expected better. Then he stepped closer to Irsa, his head tilted in question. Her sister sent half a smile his way. Sighing softly, Rahim trudged past them into the tent, without a single word.

Irsa elbowed Shahrzad in the ribs. “What’s wrong with you?” she admonished in a whisper. “We’re guests here. You can’t behave in such a manner.”

Chastened, Shahrzad nodded curtly before striding through the cavernous hollow.

It took her eyes time to adjust to the sudden darkness. A series of brass lamps hung at lazy intervals from the wooden rafters above, their thready light pale after the desert sun. At the far end of the tent was a long, low table, crafted of roughhewn teakwood. Worn woolen cushions were thrown about in haphazard piles. Screaming children scurried past Shahrzad, blind to all but their single-minded quest for the most esteemed position at the breakfast table.