The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(22)

Reza bin-Latief walked into the sun with a sad smile on his face. The dark hair on his head had thinned out even more since the last time Tariq had seen him, and his neatly trimmed mustache was peppered with a good deal more grey as well. The lines at his eyes and mouth that Tariq had always associated with humor had deepened to reflect something decidedly incongruous— The smile of a soul haunted by specters.

All a part of the masquerade put on by a grief-stricken man whose cherished seventeen-year-old daughter had died one morning . . . only to be followed by his wife, three days later.

A wife who couldn’t bear to live in a world without her only child.

“Uncle.” Tariq put out his hand.

Reza grasped it warmly. “You made it here quite quickly, Tariq-jan. I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”

“What happened to Shazi? Is she . . . alive?”

Reza nodded.

“Then—”

Reza’s sad smile turned faintly proud. “By now, the whole city knows about our Shahrzad . . .”

Rahim paced closer, and Tariq’s empty fist clenched at his side.

“The only young queen to survive not one, but two sunrises in the palace,” Reza continued.

“I knew it,” Rahim said. “Only Shazi.”

Tariq’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in two days. “How?”

“No one knows,” Reza replied. “The city is rife with speculation. Namely, that the caliph must be in love with his new bride. But I am not of the same mind. A murderer such as this is not capable of—” He stopped short, his mouth drawn in sudden fury.

Tariq leaned over, clasping his uncle’s hand tighter. “I have to get her out of there,” he said. “Will you help me?”

Reza stared back at his handsome nephew. At the determined lines and the set jaw. “What are you planning to do?”

“I’m going to rip out his heart.”

Reza gripped Tariq’s palm hard enough to hurt it. “What you’re suggesting—it’s treason.”

“I know.”

“And, to succeed, you’d have to break into the palace or . . . or start a war.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t do this alone, Tariq-jan.”

Tariq held Reza’s gaze in silence.

“Are you prepared to start a war for her? Regardless of whether or not she . . . continues to survive?” Reza asked in a gentle tone.

Tariq grimaced. “He deserves to die for what he’s done to our family. I won’t permit him to take anything else from me . . . or from anyone else, for that matter. It’s time for us to take something from him. And if it means seizing his kingdom in order to do it—” Tariq took a deep breath. “Will you help me, Uncle?”

Reza bin-Latief looked around at his beautiful courtyard. Ghosts tormented him in every corner. His daughter’s laughter lilted into the sky. His wife’s touch slipped through his fingers like a handful of sand.

He could never let them go. Their memories, no matter how faded and broken, were the only things he had left. The only things worth fighting for.

Reza glanced back at the Emir Nasir al-Ziyad’s son—the successor to the fourth-largest stronghold in Khorasan. With a lineage of royalty.

Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—a chance to right a wrong . . .

And make his memories whole again.

“Come with me.”





THE SHAMSHIR

GET UP.”

Shahrzad moaned and drew the pillow over her face in response.

“Get up. Now.”

“Go away,” Shahrzad grumbled.

At that, the pillow was unceremoniously snatched from her grasp and slammed against her cheek with a force that shocked her.

She sat upright, sheer outrage eclipsing her exhaustion.

“Are you deranged?” she shouted.

“I told you to get up,” Despina replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Not knowing what else to do, she pelted the pillow back at Despina’s head.

Despina caught it with a laugh. “Get up, Shahrzad, Brat Calipha of Khorasan, Queen of Queens. I’ve been waiting all morning for you, and we have someplace to go.”

When Shahrzad finally rose from the bed, she saw yet again that Despina was flawlessly garbed in another draped garment and polished until every facet of her pale skin was artfully rendered in the light flowing from the terrace.

“Where did you learn—that?” Shahrzad asked with begrudging admiration.

Despina positioned her hands on her hips and peaked an eyebrow.

“The clothes, the hair, the—that.” Shahrzad raked her fingers through her tangled mane as she clarified.

“At home in the city of Thebes. My mother taught me. She was one of the most famous beauties in all of Cadmeia. Perhaps in all of the Greek Isles.”

“Oh.” Shahrzad studied Despina’s glossy curls and then proceeded to toss back the snarled mess in her hands.

“I wouldn’t.” Despina smirked.

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Attempt to bait me into complimenting you.”

“Excuse me?” Shahrzad sputtered.

“I’ve encountered your kind many times before—the effortlessly lovely ones; the green sylphs of the world. They flail about, without concern for their charms, but they suffer the same desire to be liked that we all do. Just because you don’t know how to make the best of your many gifts does not mean they go unnoticed, Shahrzad. But I could teach you, if you like. Although it seems you don’t need my help.” Despina winked. “Obviously, the caliph appreciates your charms as they are.”