The Wrath and the Dawn(97)

And not a single explanation.

She continued scanning the parchment, searching for a semblance of purpose behind such senseless death. Clinging to this thread of hope, she labored on.

Until finally, her eyes fell on the last page, and her heart faltered.

It was addressed to her, dated for that fateful sunrise with the silk cord.


Shahrzad,

I’ve failed you several times. But there was one moment I failed you beyond measure. It was the day we met. The moment I took your hand and you looked up at me, with the glory of hate in your eyes. I should have sent you home to your family. But I didn’t. There was honesty in your hatred. Fearlessness in your pain. In your honesty, I saw a reflection of myself. Or rather, of the man I longed to be. So I failed you. I didn’t stay away. Then, later, I thought if I had answers, it would be enough. I would no longer care. You would no longer matter. So I continued failing you. Continued wanting more. And now I can’t find the words to say what must be said. To convey to you the least of what I owe. When I think of you, I can’t find the air to

The letter stopped short there.

Shahrzad puzzled over it for the span of a heartbeat.

Then a conversation from their past echoed around her, like a song from a distant memory:

“And how will you know when you’ve found this elusive someone?”

“I suspect she will be like air. Like knowing how to breathe.”

The letter drifted to the floor, back to its scattered brethren. Everything around Shahrzad fell to shadow and silence. To the bitterness of knowledge and the brilliance of understanding.

In a rush, she was taken back to that awful dawn and the feel of the silk cord around her neck. She forced herself to recall each part of it—the silver light as it crept across the blue blades of grass, the mist in the early morning sun, the penitent soldier with the burly arms, and the old woman with the fluttering shroud. The fear. The anguish. The nothingness. But now, as she closed her eyes, her mind conjured a parallel world of sorrow—of a boy-king at his ebony desk writing a letter to a dying girl, with the sun ascending at his shoulder. Of this boy halting in unexpected awareness, with his hand poised over the parchment. Of him racing down the corridors, with his cousin at his heels. Bursting into a courtyard of silver and grey, punctuated by black ink and burning agony—

Wondering if he was too late.

Swallowing a tortured scream, Shahrzad threw the sleeve and its contents across the shining onyx.

Her own awareness had risen like the dawn at her back. Like a leaden sunrise veiled in a swirl of storm clouds. It was no longer enough to have answers for Shiva’s sake. Indeed, it had ceased to be about mere vengeance the moment Khalid’s lips touched hers in the alley by the souk. She had wanted there to be a reason for this madness, needed there to be a reason, so that she could be with him. So that she could be by his side, make him smile as she laughed, weave tales by lamplight, and share secrets in the dark. So that she could fall asleep in his arms and awaken to a brilliant tomorrow.

But it was too late.

He was the Mehrdad of her nightmares. She had opened the door. She had seen the bodies hanging from the walls, without explanation. Without justification.

And without one, Shahrzad knew what must be done.

Khalid had to answer for such vile deeds. Such rampant death.

Even if he was her air.

Even if she loved him beyond words.

? ? ?


His guards were on edge and much too close.

Their glaring torches and clattering footfall were not doing service to the torturous ache in his head. Nor were they of benefit to the fire that battled for dominion over his eyes.

When a nervous sentry dropped his sword with a noise to rouse the dead, it took all of Khalid’s willpower not to snap the young man’s arm from his shoulder.

Instead, Khalid paused in the darkened corridor and pressed his palms to his brows.

“Leave,” he grumbled to his guards.

“Sayyidi—”

“Leave!” Khalid’s temples pounded as the word reverberated down the halls.

The guards glanced at one another before bowing and taking their leave.

Jalal remained against the wall in somber watchfulness.

“That was rather childish,” he chastised, once the soldiers had turned the corner.

“You are free to leave, as well.” Khalid resumed his trek toward his chamber.

Jalal cut in front of Khalid. “You look terrible.” His eyes were bright, and his forehead was lined with worry.