The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(15)
He edged closer. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do to Khalid, but you are the first person to rattle him in years. And he needs to be rattled.”
Shahrzad met his steady gaze, the arrow still pressed tight against her neck.
“Is there a favor in there somewhere?”
“Khalid is not my friend. He is not my enemy, either. He is my king. I remember the boy he was quite fondly . . . kind, with a bright and inquisitive mind. A wandering soul. The broken creature he is now—I’m tired of it. Will you help me fix it, Shahrzad?”
Shahrzad stared back in morose silence, wondering where such blind faith came from. Such misplaced faith in a boy with a murderous past and a girl with treacherous intent.
Jalal studied her, his sun-bronzed face a hairsbreadth from her own.
At that moment, Despina burst from the shadows, her features alight with horror. When Shahrzad traced the terror to its source, she felt the air leave her chest in a single, sharp gasp.
Across the courtyard, the Caliph of Khorasan stood watching them, his expression cool and composed.
Like the calm before a storm.
BY THE LIGHT OF A SINGLE CANDLE
AT THE SOUND OF SHAHRZAD’S WORDLESS exclamation, Jalal glanced over his shoulder. Humor washed across his features, mixed with a hint of defiance. “I guess neither of us will be able to meet our earlier terms.”
“I guess not.” Her hazel eyes were locked on her amber-eyed nemesis.
“But I hope we can continue this discussion at a later time.” Jalal stepped away from her with a mocking bow.
The caliph crossed the expanse. He was wearing a qamis of the finest white linen and grey sirwal trowsers. A tapered sword in a style Shahrzad did not recognize hung from the black tikka sash looped about his hips. As always, he embodied the antithesis of everything she found warm and good in the world.
All motion within the courtyard had ceased at his arrival. To his right was an older gentleman whose carriage and countenance were distinctly reminiscent of Jalal’s. At his left was a nervous-looking man, clutching an armful of scrolls. Flanking him was a retinue of soldiers and bodyguards.
For a perilous beat, Shahrzad considered turning her arrow on him. At this distance, she knew she could hit him. But the arrow’s tip was blunted—meant only for target practice.
It might not kill him.
She lowered the weapon.
It’s not worth the risk.
As he drew near, she willed her heart to cease its irrational pounding. If she intended to conquer this monster, she had to first quell all fears of him. Quickly.
He stopped several paces before her.
And turned to Jalal.
“Captain al-Khoury.” His voice was deathly quiet.
“Sayyidi.” Jalal dipped his head, touching his fingertips to his brow. “I was just showing the queen how to use a bow and arrow.”
“I can see that. The question is why.”
“Because I asked him,” Shahrzad interrupted, much too loudly.
His eyes shifted to her with dispassion. Shahrzad watched him take in her appearance—the lack of a mantle, the haphazard knot of hair . . . and the quiver of arrows dangling from her shoulder.
“Then I redirect the question to you,” he said.
She set her jaw, drawing on a sudden reserve of impudence. “Do I need a reason?”
“I asked for an explanation. Not a reason.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Actually, they are. Regardless of your perspective on the matter, I simply wanted to learn, and Jalal agreed to teach me.” As she spoke, wisps of hair began to uncoil from the knot at her nape.
“Jalal?” His eyebrows rose at this informality, the only sign of a reaction to her bold display.
“Yes. Jalal.” A lock fell forward into her face, and she shoved it behind her ear.
“And what have you learned from Jalal?”
“What?” she exclaimed, unable to conceal her surprise at his interest.
“If he’s been teaching you how to shoot a bow and arrow, you must have something to show for it. Unless he’s an abysmal tutor.”
Jalal started to laugh. “If you’ll recall, sayyidi, I believe I had a hand in teaching you when you were a boy.”
“Jalal-jan,” the shahrban rasped at his son, the lines of consternation further weathering his face.
“Though archery has never been my strong suit,” the caliph continued.
“Your words, sayyidi. Not mine.” Jalal grinned.
“Jalal! That’s enough,” the shahrban said sharply. “He is your king!”
Jalal bowed, his obedience still tinged by ridicule.
“Well?” The caliph looked again to Shahrzad.
She returned his expectant gaze. Then, without a word, Shahrzad refitted the arrow to the sinew, keeping the bow at her side for a moment.
She desperately wanted to show him how well she could shoot, to demonstrate to the entire contingent of onlookers that she was no one to trifle with. She also wanted to do justice to the many years of patient instruction she’d received at Tariq’s side.
When she’d first asked him, as a young girl of eleven, to teach her how to use a bow and arrow, she’d fully expected the twelve-year-old son of a powerful emir to ignore a silly child’s request. Yet, it was that summer in the desert, clutching a makeshift bow and arrow, that she first fell in love with Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. With his refreshing candor and his ready humor. With the charm of his beautifully devious smile. Granted, it had been nothing more than a starry-eyed infatuation at the time, but it was from those precious memories that she drew her strength whenever she felt darkness descend upon her.