The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(17)

Pleading for Jahandar to save her from the wasting disease.

He thought of the instant he failed her, of the helplessness he felt holding her lifeless form in his arms.

And of the crippling powerlessness as he watched his elder daughter march toward a monster only two sunsets ago.

Whatever the cost, he would fix it. If Shahrzad had managed to survive the dawn, he would work to be worthy of such a daughter. And if she had not . . .

He clenched the spine of the book tight between his fingers.

No. He would not let himself cower in the darkness of doubt again.

Jahandar reached into his nightshirt and pulled out the long silver chain hanging from his throat. Dangling on its end was a black key. He bent over the ancient tome and inserted the key into the lock. When the volume sprang open, a faint silver light emanated from the pages. Jahandar reached for the first page . . .

And stifled a cry.

It burned his hand.

No matter.

He dragged his sleeve onto his fingertips and tried again.

The text was an early form of Chagatai. Translating it would be a painstaking process, even for a man as learned as Jahandar. And especially with such pressing time constraints.

Again, no matter.

His heart thundered as he drew the single candle closer to begin his work.

For his children, he would move mountains.

He would not fail again.





ALADDIN AND THE WONDERFUL LAMP


THIS TIME, SHAHRZAD KNEW BETTER THAN TO WAIT for him.

So it was no surprise when he failed to make an appearance until well into the night.

The servants who delivered the food and wine found no trace of Shahrzad anywhere within the chamber. It was the caliph who discovered her standing on the terrace, overlooking a side entryway flanked by fountains.

She did not turn around when he arrived. Instead, she leaned over the railing and smiled to herself.

He paused for a moment and then joined her.

A crescent moon hung high in the sky, reflecting back into the shimmering pools of water below.

“You can’t see them, but I love how you can smell the citrus blossoms from here . . . the suggestion of something beautiful and alive,” she began.

He didn’t respond immediately. “You’re partial to citrus blossoms?”

“Yes. But I prefer roses above all. My father has a beautiful rose garden.”

He turned to her, studying her profile in the moonlight. “I think a father who tends to flowers must have objected to . . . this.”

Shahrzad continued to stare ahead. “I think a king who hopes to be beloved by his people shouldn’t execute their daughters at dawn.”

“Who said I hoped to be beloved by my people?” the caliph replied in a staid monotone.

At this, Shahrzad twisted to meet his gaze. “And all this time, I could have sworn you were a smart man.” She mimicked his quietly aloof tone as she pronounced this judgment, and the effect of her subtle mockery was not lost on him.

A corner of his lips twitched. “And all this time . . . I could have sworn you didn’t want to die.”

Shahrzad blinked.

And then decided to laugh.

The sound carried over the terrace, bubbling out into the night, filling the sky with the tinkling music of bells.

The caliph watched her, his spark of surprise quickly masked by somber reflectiveness.

“You’re very strange,” Shahrzad commented, once her laughter had subsided.

“So are you, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”

“At least I know it.”

“I’m aware of it as well.”

“But I don’t punish people for it.”

He sighed. “I envy people who see the world as you do.”

“Are you insinuating I’m simpleminded?” Anger seeped into her words.

“No. You see things the way you live your life. Without fear.”

“That’s not true. I’m afraid of a lot of things.”

He cast her a searching glance. “What are you afraid of?”

Just then, as if the night had foretold the moment, a vicious breeze raked across the terrace, whipping through Shahrzad’s long black hair. Tendrils flew into her face, obscuring her features.

“I’m afraid of dying,” she announced over the wind.

And I’m afraid of losing to you.

He stared at her as the gust died down . . . as it finished toying with Shahrzad’s tresses, winding them to and fro.

When the last vestiges disappeared, that same errant lock from earlier in the day still hung in her eyes. She started to reach for it— But he caught her hand in one of his own and brushed the curl behind her ear, gently.

The fluttering in her stomach returned with a vengeance.

“Tell me why you’re here.” It sounded entreating in his low voice.

I’m here to win.

“Promise me you won’t kill me,” she breathed back.

“I can’t do that.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say.”

? ? ?


As with the first night, Shahrzad was amazed by her ability to detach from reality.

And again, she remained strangely grateful he never once tried to kiss her.

Grateful . . . yet somewhat perplexed.

She had kissed Tariq before—stolen embraces in the shadows of vaulted turrets. The illicit nature of these encounters had always thrilled her. At any time, a servant could have found them; or worse, Rahim could have caught them kissing . . . and he would have needled Shahrzad mercilessly, as he’d done from the moment he’d crowned himself the brother she’d never had.