The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath & the Dawn, #2)(7)

His growing sensitivity to light was a recurring problem of late. An unfortunate effect of continued sleeplessness. Soon, those around him would become all too aware of this issue. He was too comfortable in the dark—a hollow-eyed creature that slithered and slunk through the broken hallways of a once-majestic palace.

As the faqir had cautioned him, this behavior would be construed as madness.

The mad boy-king of Khorasan. The monster. The murderer.

Khalid squeezed his burning eyes shut. Against his better judgment, he let his mind drift to memory.

He recalled being a boy of seven, standing in the shadows, watching his brother, Hassan, learn the art of swordplay. When his father had finally permitted Khalid to learn alongside Hassan, Khalid had been surprised; his father had often disregarded such requests in the past.

“You might as well learn something of value. I suppose even a bastard should know how to fight.” His father’s scorn for Khalid seemed endless.

Strangely, the one and only time his father had ever shown pride in him had been the day, several years later, when Khalid had bested Hassan with a sword.

But the following afternoon, his father had forbidden Khalid from studying alongside Hassan any further.

He’d sent Hassan to study with the best. And left Khalid to fend for himself.

That night, an angry eleven-year-old prince of Khorasan had pledged to become the best swordsman in the kingdom. Once he had, then perhaps his father would realize the past did not give him the right to deny his son a future.

No. That would take a great deal more.

And the day he held a sword to his father’s throat, his father would know it.

Khalid smiled to himself as the memory brought back with it the bittersweet taste of childish fury.

Yet another promise he’d failed to keep.

Yet another failed revenge.

He did not know why he was remembering these things on this particular morning. Perhaps it was because of that boy and his sister from yesterday.

Kamyar and Shiva.

Whatever it was that drew Khalid to their door had also bade him to stay and help. It was not the first occasion on which he had done such a thing. Since the storm, there had been several times Khalid had ventured into sections of his city, cloaked in the anonymity of silence and shadow.

The first day, he had wandered into a beleaguered quarter of Rey, not far from the souk. While there, he had given food to the wounded. Two days past, he’d helped repair a well. His hands—unaccustomed to the harshness of physical labor—had bled and blistered from the strain.

Yesterday was the first time he had spent in the company of children.

At first, Kamyar had reminded Khalid of Shahrzad. So much so that, even now, it brought the beginnings of another smile to Khalid’s face. The tiny boy was bold and insolent. Unafraid. The best and the worst of Shahrzad.

Then, as the hours had passed, it was the girl who’d brought to mind Shazi’s spirit the most.

Because she hadn’t trusted him. Not in the slightest.

She’d watched Khalid out of the corner of her eye. She’d waited for him to betray her—to shed his snakeskin and strike. Like a wounded animal, she’d warily taken food and drink, never dropping her guard, not even for a moment.

She was smart, and she loved her brother with a fierceness Khalid almost envied.

He’d appreciated her quiet honesty the most. And he’d wanted to do more for their family. So much more than clear their tiny home of destruction and leave behind a pittance in a leather pouch. But he’d known nothing would ever be enough.

Because nothing could ever replace what they’d lost.

Khalid opened his eyes.

With his back to the sun, he began his drill.

The shamshir cut through the sky in swooping arcs. In flashes of silver and streaks of white light. It whistled around him as he tried to quiet the clamor of his thoughts.

But it wasn’t enough.

He put both hands on the hilt and twisted it in two.

The blades were forged of damascene steel, tempered in the Bluefires of Warharan. He’d commissioned them himself. None were their equal.

A sword in either hand, Khalid continued moving across the sand.

Now, the sound of dully shrieking metal rasped about his head with the fury of a desert sirocco.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

A trickle of blood slid down his arm.

He felt nothing. He only saw it.

Because nothing hurt like missing her.

He suspected nothing ever would.



“Has it come to this?”

Khalid did not turn around.

“Have Khorasan’s coffers been so depleted?” Jalal continued to jest, though his tone sounded oddly forced.

His back to his cousin, Khalid wiped his bloodied palms on the ends of his crimson tikka sash.

“Please tell me the Caliph of Khorasan—the King of Kings—can still afford to procure a set of gauntlets or, at the very least, a single glove.” Jalal sauntered into view, a dark eyebrow crooked high into his forehead.

Khalid returned his shamshir to its sheath and glanced at the captain of his Royal Guard. “If you need a glove, I can procure one for you. But only one. I am not made of gold, Captain al-Khoury.”

Laughing, Jalal propped his hands on the hilt of his scimitar, his grip tight. “Procure one for yourself, sayyidi. It appears you are sorely in need of it. What happened?” He nodded at Khalid’s bloodstained palms.