The Wrath and the Dawn(20)

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.





ALADDIN AND THE WONDERFUL LAMP


THIS TIME, SHAHRZAD KNEW BETTER THAN TO WAIT for him.

So it was no surprise when he failed to make an appearance until well into the night.

The servants who delivered the food and wine found no trace of Shahrzad anywhere within the chamber. It was the caliph who discovered her standing on the terrace, overlooking a side entryway flanked by fountains.

She did not turn around when he arrived. Instead, she leaned over the railing and smiled to herself.

He paused for a moment and then joined her.

A crescent moon hung high in the sky, reflecting back into the shimmering pools of water below.

“You can’t see them, but I love how you can smell the citrus blossoms from here . . . the suggestion of something beautiful and alive,” she began.

He didn’t respond immediately. “You’re partial to citrus blossoms?”

“Yes. But I prefer roses above all. My father has a beautiful rose garden.”

He turned to her, studying her profile in the moonlight. “I think a father who tends to flowers must have objected to . . . this.”

Shahrzad continued to stare ahead. “I think a king who hopes to be beloved by his people shouldn’t execute their daughters at dawn.”

“Who said I hoped to be beloved by my people?” the caliph replied in a staid monotone.

At this, Shahrzad twisted to meet his gaze. “And all this time, I could have sworn you were a smart man.” She mimicked his quietly aloof tone as she pronounced this judgment, and the effect of her subtle mockery was not lost on him.