The Wrath & the Dawn (The Wrath & the Dawn, #1)(16)

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.