The Wrath and the Dawn(89)

“Your story is a lesson, Omar,” Tariq said in a flat tone. “I am not that big a fool.”

Omar grinned. “Did I ever tell you that, to this day, I still fight the urge to chase falling stars?”

“I can well understand it, as I’m currently fighting the urge to flee.”

Omar threw his head back and laughed. “Not until our lesson concludes, my young friend! You cannot rob an old man of this well-deserved right.”

“No. I cannot.” Despite the heaviness around his heart, Tariq could not help but smile. “Conclude your lesson, my esteemed effendi.”

“Some things exist in our lives for but a brief moment. And we must let them go on to light another sky.”

Tariq stared into the darkness beyond the enclave of tents. “You want me to leave things as they are. But I can’t. I won’t.”

“And I will always respect your choice, Tariq-jan. Though we may disagree, I shall try to offer whatever support I can. Come with me. Your uncle is waiting for you.”

“Uncle Reza is here?” Tariq looked over Omar’s shoulder.

“He arrived two days ago with your friend Rahim and has been anxiously awaiting your return ever since.” Omar led Tariq to the entrance of the largest tent in the desert enclave. He pushed aside the flap, and the two men stepped inside.

“Our prodigal hero has returned!” Omar announced as he strode to the back corner and took a seat beside Reza with a jocular flourish.

Tariq removed his shoes and discarded his cloak before pacing farther into the semidarkness. The patchwork of carpet at his feet was soft and worn. It mirrored the dark collage of woven fabric shaping the walls of the tent around him. A thin haze of smoke suffused the air about his head. It smelled of tobacco and molasses.

“Come, have some tea,” Omar said with a smile. “I’ve been having the most wonderful time with your uncle these past few days, for he is quite fond of love stories as well.”

Tariq sat on the woolen cushions around a knotted wood table with a silver pot of tea, several etched glasses, and a towering ghalyan. The ghalyan was made of deep green glass, with a long pipe wrapped in copper silk, snaking around the table to Reza bin-Latief’s outstretched palm. The coal atop it burned bright orange as he puffed on the carved mouthpiece, and the water within its glass basin bubbled at a slow roil. The sweet smoke rose into the air, curling into tendrils of blue grey, mingling into the haze above.

“Uncle.” Tariq extended his hand toward Reza, and Reza took it.

“You have been quite busy, Tariq-jan,” Reza said quietly.

Tariq inhaled through his nose. “I know you asked me to wait at Taleqan for your missive.”

Reza continued puffing on the ghalyan in silence.

“But I could not allow you to do all the work,” Tariq finished.

“See? I told you. He is quite the hero already.” Omar cackled.

“Part of being a hero is knowing when to be still,” Reza countered.

In response, Tariq said nothing, and Omar laughed heartily.

“So what did you learn in this foolhardy excursion to Rey?” Reza asked.

“I learned I have a great deal to learn.”

Reza passed Omar the pipe. “What else?”

“I learned the Caliph of Khorasan is dangerous, in addition to being a madman.”

“How so?”

“He’s smart, for a madman. Rather . . . surprising.”

“Madmen tend to be.” Omar’s eyes glittered in the shadows as streams of smoke emitted from his nostrils.

“What else?” Reza asked.

Tariq leaned back into the cushions. “He’s arrogant, and he has a quick temper.”

“What of weaknesses?” Reza prodded.

Tariq hesitated.

“Tariq?”

Before Tariq could respond, the flap of the tent opened once more, and Rahim stepped beneath its wing, with Jahandar al-Khayzuran in tow. The three men seated around the ghalyan gazed their way. Rahim shot Tariq an apologetic glance, and Jahandar cleared his throat with a cough.

“May—may I join you?” Jahandar asked.

Omar smiled brightly. “Of course! You are most welcome.”

Tariq rose from the table, trying his best to conceal his irritation as Jahandar crossed the carpets. He bowed his head with a hand to his brow. “Jahandar-effendi.”

“Tariq-jan.” Jahandar looked into the silver eyes, eager and hopeful. When he was met with nothing but steely judgment, his face fell to the soundless specter of shame.