The Wrath and the Dawn(32)

A shroud.

And in the soldier’s hand . . .

A single stretch of silk cord.

The tears continued their final trek down her face, but Shahrzad refused to utter a sound. She stepped to the soldier. His arms were thick and burly.

I hope it will be quick.

Without a word, she turned around.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered so softly it might have been the wind.

Startled by his kindness, she almost looked back at her would-be murderer.

“Thank you.” An absolution.

He lifted her hair, gently, and brought the dark waves over her head—a veil, shielding her from the nameless witnesses.

The ones who already refused to see her.

The silk cord felt so soft at her throat, at first. Such an elegant way to die.

Shiva died this way.

The thought that Shiva died like this, surrounded by people who saw nothing, made the tears flow harder. Shahrzad gasped, and the cord tightened.

“Baba,” she breathed.

It cinched tighter . . . and she couldn’t stop her hands from flying to her throat.

Irsa. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

As her fingers battled against her pride’s directive, the soldier lifted her from the ground by her neck, pulling the cord as he did.

“Tariq,” she choked.

Her chest was falling in on itself. Silver stars ringed the edges of her vision.

The pain in her chest grew. The silver stars were rimmed in black now.

And her neck was on fire.

Shiva.

The tears and the pain all but blinding her, she forced open her eyes one more time, to a curtain of dark hair; to a waterfall of black ink spilling across the last page of her life.

No.

I’m not nothing.

I was loved.

Then, from the distant reaches of her mind, she heard a commotion . . .

And the cord was released.

She fell to the ground, her body striking the granite, hard.

Sheer will to live forced air down her throat, despite the burning agony of each breath.

And someone grasped her by the shoulders and took her into his arms.

As her vision struggled to clear, the only things she saw were the amber eyes of her enemy, close to her own.

Then, with the last dram of strength she possessed—

She struck him across the face.

Another man’s hand seized her forearm, yanking it back so hard she felt something pop.

Shahrzad screamed, a harsh and anguished cry.

For the first time, she heard the caliph raise his voice.

It was followed by the sound of a fist against flesh.

“Shahrzad.” Jalal grabbed her, enveloping her in his embrace. She collapsed against him, her eyes swollen shut by tears, and the burning sensations in her arm and throat almost unbearable.

“Jalal,” she gasped.

“Delam.” He stroked the hair out of her eyes, comforting her, bringing her back from a place of nothingness.

Then he glanced behind him, to the sound of continuing commotion.

To a chorus of whimpers and fury.

“Stop it, Khalid!” he yelled. “It’s done. We have to get her inside.”

“Khalid?” Shahrzad murmured.

Jalal smiled ruefully. “Don’t hate him too much, delam . . .”

Shahrzad buried her face in Jalal’s shirt as he lifted her from the ground.

“After all, every story has a story.”

? ? ?


Hours later, Shahrzad sat on the edge of her bed with Despina.

At her throat was a ring of purple bruises. Her arm had been pushed back into place with a sickening sound that made her cringe in remembrance. Afterward, with Despina’s assistance, she’d bathed carefully and changed into comfortable clothes.

The entire time, Shahrzad had not uttered a single word.

Despina lifted an ivory comb to untangle Shahrzad’s still-damp hair. “Please say something.”

Shahrzad closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t in my room.” Despina’s gaze flicked toward the small door by the entrance, leading to her chamber. “I’m sorry I didn’t know . . . they were coming for you. You have every right not to trust me, but please talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Obviously, there is. You might feel better if you talked about it.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”