The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(6)

She pressed her hands to her temples and willed the terror back . . .

Back inside the steel-encased enclosure of her heart.

And then the doors swung open with a low creak.

Shahrzad dropped her palms to the soft cushion at her sides.

A servant stepped through, clutching tapers of aloewood and ambergris, which gave off a faint perfume and a delicate light; after a beat, a girl bearing a tray of food and wine followed. The servants placed their wares throughout the room and left without a glance in Shahrzad’s direction.

A moment later, the Caliph of Khorasan appeared at the threshold.

He waited, as if considering something, before entering the chamber and pushing the doors shut.

In the pale glow emitting from the candles, his tiger-eyes seemed even more calculating and remote. The lines of his face fell into shadow as he turned from the light, sharpening the bladed hollows of his features.

An immovable countenance. Cold and forbidding.

Shahrzad threaded her fingers beneath her knees.

“I’m told your father served under mine as one of his viziers.” His voice was low and unassuming. Almost . . . kind.

“Yes, sayyidi. He was an advisor to your father.”

“And he works as a custodian now.”

“Yes, sayyidi. Of ancient texts.”

He faced her. “Quite a change in position.”

Shahrzad bit back irritation. “Perhaps. He wasn’t a very high-ranking vizier.”

“I see.”

You see nothing.

She returned his gaze, hoping the mosaic of color in her eyes hid the thoughts running rampant behind them.

“Why did you volunteer, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran?”

She did not answer.

He continued. “What compelled you to do something so foolish?”

“Excuse me?”

“Perhaps it was the lure of marrying a king. Or the vain hope you might be the one to stay the course and win the heart of a monster.” He spoke without emotion, watching her intently.

Shahrzad’s pulse jumped to a martial beat. “I don’t suffer those delusions, sayyidi.”

“Then why did you volunteer? Why are you willing to throw away your life at seventeen?”

“I’m sixteen.” She cut her eyes. “And I don’t see why it matters.”

“Answer me.”

“No.”

He paused. “You realize you could die for that.”

The grip of her fingers tightened almost painfully. “I’m not surprised to hear that, sayyidi. But, if you truly want answers, killing me won’t help in the endeavor.”

A spark of something flashed across his face, lingering at the edges of his lips. It was gone too quickly to offer anything of significance.

“I suppose not.” He stopped, again in seeming consideration. She could see him withdrawing, a veil falling over the harsh angles of his profile.

No.

Shahrzad rose from the bed and took a step toward him.

When he glanced back at her, she moved closer.

“I told you. Do not think you will be the one to break the cycle.”

Shahrzad gritted her teeth. “And I told you. I don’t suffer delusions. On any account.”

She continued advancing until she stood but an arm’s length from him, her resolve unwavering.

He locked upon her face. “Your life is already forfeit. I do not expect . . . more than that.”

In response, Shahrzad reached up and began to unfasten the bejeweled necklace still hanging about her throat.

“No.” He caught her hand. “Leave it.”

He hesitated before shifting his fingers to the nape of her neck.

At this disturbingly familiar touch, Shahrzad fought the urge to pull back in disgust and strike out at him with all the pain and rage she possessed.

Don’t be foolish. There will only be one chance. Don’t waste it.

This boy-king, this murderer . . . she would not permit him to destroy another family. To rob another girl of her best friend—of a lifetime filled with memories that had been and never would be.

She raised her chin and swallowed the rising bile, the bitter taste remaining on her tongue.

“Why are you here?” he whispered, his tiger-eyes ever searching.

A corner of her mouth rose in sardonic reply.

She brought her palm to his hand.

Carefully.

Then she lifted the heavy mantle from her shoulders and let it slide to the floor.

? ? ?


Irsa sat astride her dappled mare in the alley closest to the structure housing Rey’s most ancient and obscure texts. The city’s library was once a grand edifice, columned and swathed in judiciously hewn stones quarried from the finest pits in Tirazis. Over the years, its fa?ade had darkened, and deep cracks marred its surface, the worst filled with slipshod efforts at repair. Every visible edge was worn, and the glorious lustre of yesteryear had faded to a mottling of greys and browns.

When the team of horses behind her stirred in the dense silence before dawn, Irsa glanced over her shoulder apologetically. She opened her mouth to reassure the young driver, but the brittleness in her voice forced her to clear her throat before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the boy, after a discreet cough. “I don’t know what’s taking so long. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.” Her mare’s left ear twitched as Irsa shifted around in her seat.