The Wrath and the Dawn(57)
Jalal took a step forward, balancing his longbow across his shoulders. “Where is your family, my lady?” he said in a low voice.
They’re looking for my family . . . as I expected.
She smiled up at him. “Safe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“In a place of sand and stone.”
“That’s also not an answer. Everything is made of sand and stone.”
“You cannot force a better answer out of me, Jalal. These are my answers. If you dislike them, we can cease with our game.”
His eyes moved across her face with an odd mixture of ready discernment and playful diversion. Yet, in that instant, she saw more of his father in him than she had ever seen thus far. And she understood.
This was not merely his occupation. Jalal al-Khoury was protecting his family. To him, family always came first.
And she was not family.
“No,” he countered, “but I would like to ask another question in lieu of the last. Since your answer was quite unsatisfactory, I feel it only appropriate I be permitted another question.”
“Excuse me?”
“I promise to grant you the same right, should the occasion arise on your end.”
“Jalal—”
“Why do you always close your eyes before you aim?”
“Because . . .” Shahrzad hesitated. “I—”
What is the harm?
“I learned to shoot in a place where the sun played tricks on the mind. You could not rely on it if you wanted to aim well. So you had to practice until you were good enough that you only needed its light for the blink of an eye.”
Jalal braced both palms on the yew of his longbow. A slow grin spread across his sun-drenched face.
It unnerved Shahrzad. And made her want to provoke him.
“That was much better,” he said loudly. “You know, not everything has to be so difficult, Shahrzad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Exactly what I said. Next time, just answer the question.”
“We shall see. Choose the next target, Jalal.”
His grin grew even wider. “Yes, my lady.” He studied the courtyard. Then he pointed to a slender pillar with a tabarzin axe embedded in its side. “The winner is the archer with the arrow closest to the axe blade.”
It was by far the most difficult shot. The tabarzin’s wooden handle was quite narrow by the blade, and it was wedged into the pillar at an odd angle that all but obscured it from view. To make matters worse, the impending storm had now added a wind factor that would put to rout even the most gifted of archers.
As the winner of the last match, Jalal was given the first shot. He waited for the gusts to calm as much as possible before he positioned the arrow to the string and let it fly. It spiraled toward the tabarzin and managed to strike the wood of the handle.
An impressive achievement.
Shahrzad pulled an arrow from the quiver at her back. She fitted it to the sinew and nocked it tight. Closing her eyes, she let the breeze blow against her face, calculating its trajectory. Her fingers curled around the white-feathered fletchings.
She opened her eyes and pinpointed the small stretch of wood fixed before the gleaming axe blade.
Then she loosed the arrow.
It sailed through the wind, over the sand . . . and thudded into the handle, a mere hairsbreadth from the metal.
The soldiers shouted in collective disbelief.
Jalal began laughing. “My God. Perhaps I should try my hand at not aiming.”
Shahrzad mimicked his previous bow, her arms outstretched at her sides.
His laughter grew. “Well, you’ve earned this next question, my lady. Do your worst.”
Yes. I believe I will.
It’s time I learned the truth.
She strode forward. “What is the real reason all of Khalid’s brides must die?”
It was posited in a ghost of a whisper. Only Jalal could have heard it.
But it was as though she had shouted it from the rooftops.
Jalal’s amusement vanished, doused by an urgent gravity she had never seen on his face before. “This game is over.”
Shahrzad pursed her lips. “Why is it you get to decide the rules on all fronts?”
“It’s over, Shahrzad,” he said, confiscating the recurve bow from her grasp.
“At least give me the right to ask another question.”
“No.”
“You promised me that right!”