The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(7)

“No concern of mine, miss. As long as I’m paid in full. But if your father wishes to clear the gates of the city before dawn, we should leave soon.”

She nodded, another knot forming in her stomach at the boy’s words.

Soon, she would be leaving the city of her childhood—the city she had lived in for fourteen years. So, under the haven of night, with barely a moment’s notice, she had thrown everything of value into the covered cart behind her, knowing her life would never be the same.

Odd that none of this mattered to her. At least, not yet.

The only thing she could think about—the reason for her scratched throat and knotted stomach—was Shahrzad.

Her stubborn tyrant of an older sister.

Her brave and loyal friend.

Again, hot tears welled in her eyes, even after she’d sworn not to shed a single drop more. Frustrated, she swiped at her already raw cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Is something wrong, miss?” the driver asked, his tone approaching sympathetic.

Of course something was wrong. But if they were to remain safe from prying eyes, he could never learn what it was. Shahrzad had been specific on this point. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Thank you for asking.”

The boy nodded before resuming his posture of disinterest.

Irsa thought instead of the journey before them. It would take three days of hard traveling before they reached Taleqan, the stronghold of Tariq’s family. She shook her head in bemusement; after all that had transpired, only Shahrzad would have the audacity to send them to the home of her childhood sweetheart. Every time Irsa stopped to think of Tariq and his family, her gamine features constricted with worry . . .

And remorse.

She heaved a weary sigh and stared down at the reins. Her spotted white horse flipped its mane as a gust of wind whipped through the alley.

“What’s taking him so long?” Irsa said to no one in particular.

As if on cue, the heavy wooden door to the side entrance of the library scraped open, and her father’s hooded figure stumbled into the night.

He was clutching something in his arms, pulled tight against his chest.

“Baba? Is everything all right?”

“I’m so sorry, dear. Everything’s fine. We can leave now,” Jahandar murmured. “I just . . . had to make sure all the doors were secure.”

“What is that?” Irsa asked.

“Hmm?” Jahandar made his way to his horse and reached for his satchel.

“What are you holding?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a tome I particularly enjoyed.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“Did we come all the way here for a book, Baba?”

“Just one, my child. Just one.”

“It must be a special book.”

“All books are special, dear.”

“What kind of book is it?”

Jahandar tucked the aging, leather-bound volume into the satchel with great care and swung into his saddle with infinitely less consideration. Then he motioned for the driver to proceed.

The small caravan made its way down the still slumbering streets of Rey.

Irsa directed her mount to walk alongside her father’s black stallion. When Jahandar gazed down at her with a kind smile, she reached for his hand, seeking the same reassurance she offered.

“All will be well, dearest girl,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

She nodded.

It did not escape Irsa’s notice that he had failed to answer her question.





THE MOUNTAIN OF ADAMANT


THE INSTANT SHAHRZAD BROUGHT HER PALM TO HIS, she felt a cool wash of dispassion take over. As though she had floated beyond her person and was now a mere witness to everything around her.

Thankfully, he did not try to kiss her.

Nor did the pain last; it was but a fleeting moment, lost in the welcome distraction of her thoughts. He did not appear to enjoy himself, either. Whatever pleasure he derived was brief and perfunctory, and Shahrzad felt a stab of satisfaction at this realization.

When it was done, he rose from the bed without a word and pushed aside the whisper-silk enclosing the platform.

She watched him dress with neat, almost militaristic precision, noting the light sheen of sweat on his back and the lean muscles that coiled and flexed with the slightest of movements.

He was stronger than she was. Of that, there was no doubt. She could not best him physically.

But I’m not here to fight. I’m here to win.

She sat up and reached for the beautiful shamla draped on a stool nearby. Shahrzad slid her arms into the lustrous brocade and tied the silver laces before moving to join him. As she rounded the edge of the bed, the robe’s delicately embroidered hem twirled about her like a dervish in the midst of sama.

The caliph strode to the low table in the corner of the chamber, surrounded by even more sumptuous cushions and plump pillows covered in an array of jewel tones.

He poured himself some wine, still standing in silence. Shahrzad stepped past him and sank onto the cushions encircling the table.

The tray was laden with pistachios, figs, almonds, grapes, quince chutney, small cucumbers, and an assortment of fresh herbs. A basket of flatbread lay wrapped in linen off to the side.

Taking pains to return his subtle disregard, Shahrzad plucked a grape from the tray and began to eat.

The caliph studied her for a torturous instant before lowering to the cushions. He sat and drank while Shahrzad dipped pieces of bread into the tartly sweet chutney.