The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath & the Dawn, #2)(9)
She watched in amazement as her sister trailed the tiny, shabby rug around the center of their tent, using nothing but the tips of her fingers as a guide.
The magic carpet swirled through the air with the languid grace of a falling leaf. Then, with a gentle flick of her wrist, Shahrzad sent the floating mat of wool back to the ground.
“Well?” Shahrzad said, staring up at her with a look of worry.
“Merciful God.” Irsa sank down beside her. “And the magus from the Fire Temple was the one to teach you this?”
Shahrzad shook her head. “He merely gave me the carpet and said Baba had passed along his abilities to me. But I need to speak to him further about it, very soon. I have . . . many important questions for Musa-effendi.”
“Then you intend to seek him out?”
“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “Once I determine how best to travel to the Fire Temple without being seen.”
“Perhaps”—Irsa hesitated—“perhaps when you go, you could speak to Musa-effendi about Baba as well? In the event that he . . .” She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought she knew they were both most concerned with at the moment.
The thought that their father would never awaken from the effects of whatever foul misdeed had befallen him the night of the storm.
What would happen to them if Baba died? What would happen to her?
Irsa folded her hands over her knees and chided herself for such selfish thoughts amidst such suffering. This was neither the time nor the place to worry about herself. Not when there were so many others to worry about. Most especially Baba.
As Shahrzad leaned forward to stow the magic carpet beneath her belongings, the twine around her neck slipped into view.
The ring stayed safely hidden, but its story still begged to be told. And Irsa could not help but pry.
“How could you forgive him, Shazi?” Irsa asked softly. “For what he did to Shiva? For—everything?”
Shahrzad’s breath caught. In one quick motion, she turned to Irsa.
“Do you trust me, Jirjirak?” Shahrzad took Irsa’s hands in her own.
Cricket. Ever since she was a little girl, Irsa had hated that nickname. It hearkened back to a time when she’d been cursed with reedy legs and a voice to match. Shahrzad was the only one who could use the dreaded sobriquet and not elicit a cringe—or something worse—from her.
For the tenth time in as many moments, Irsa studied her sister’s face, seeking an answer she hoped to understand. Her sister was just as lovely as ever, though her features had changed in the few short months she’d been at the palace. Not by much, and not in a way most people would notice. Her cheeks had lost some of their roundness, and the bronze of her skin had lost a bit of its glow. Thankfully, her chin was just as stubborn, her nose just as pert. But a shadow had fallen over her face; some kind of weight she refused to share. Her hazel eyes looked almost lucent in the nearby lamplight. Their colors had always been so changeable. So unpredictable. Much like her sister’s moods. One moment, she was bright and full of laughter, ready for any kind of mischief. The next, she was stark and serious, prepared to battle to the death.
Irsa had never known what to expect from Shahrzad.
But trust had never been an issue. At least not for Irsa.
“Of course I trust you,” she said. “But can you not tell me—”
“It isn’t my secret to tell, Irsa-jan.”
Irsa bit her lower lip and looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Shahrzad said. “I don’t wish to hide these matters from you. But if anyone were to discover that you knew of such things, they might hurt you to learn the truth, and . . . I couldn’t live through that.”
Irsa drew back. “I’m not as weak as you think I am.”
“I never said you were weak.”
Irsa’s smile was small and fleeting. “Some things do not have to be said. You didn’t have to tell me you were in love with Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. And I didn’t have to tell you I cried myself to sleep for weeks after you left. Love speaks for itself.”
Shahrzad pulled her knees to her chest and blinked at Irsa in silence. Sighing to herself, Irsa collected her satchel of tea herbs and reached for a sprig of fresh mint. “Are you coming with me to see Baba?”
With a brisk nod, Shahrzad unfurled to her feet.
A dry desert wind circulated through the Badawi camp. It blew spirals of sand around the warren of billowing tents. Irsa tucked her braid into her qamis to prevent its tail from lashing her face.
Shahrzad unleashed a colorful stream of curses when the end of her plait whipped against her cheek, tousling her hair loose. Black waves coiled above her head in a wicked tangle.
“Oh my.” Irsa suppressed a grin at her sister’s language. “Who taught you to say such things? Was it the caliph?”
“I hate it here!”
Though Shahrzad’s unwillingness to answer even the most innocuous question stung, Irsa ignored the twinge. “Give it some time. You’ll find it’s not so terrible.” She linked arms with her sister and pulled her close.
“Of all places, why are we in this godforsaken desert? Why has the old sheikh granted us refuge?” Shahrzad spoke in as low a voice as the wind would permit.
“I am not privy to the details. I only know he sold Uncle Reza horses and weapons. His tribe trades in both. Perhaps that is why we are allowed to stay.” She paused in thought. “Or perhaps it is merely a result of his closeness with Tariq. The sheikh treats him as though he were a son.”