the dust behind him.
It wasn’t possible. His mind was playing tricks on him. As it was apt to do of late.
Jalal turned the corner. And skidded to a stop, nearly tumbling into the sand.
Just like that. She was there.
He saw no one else save her.
All else could go to the devil save her.
Despina.
She smiled. Slowly. Catlike, her claws on her hips.
“Hello,” she said. “Your family has missed you. Terribly.”
“Where”—Jalal caught his breath, still incredulous—“have you been?”
Despina shrugged. “I’m here now. Are you very angry with me?”
“You”—his voice was choked—“you—have squeezed my heart dry.”
“I know.” She began to move in his direction. “And I will spend the rest of my life trying to fill it.”
He walked toward her. Slowly. Catlike, his paws at his sides.
“Yes,” Jalal whispered, nearing her, his pulse on a silent rampage. “You will.”
Her smile widened. “Then you’ll have me?”
Jalal took her chin in his hand. Despina wrapped both hands around his wrist.
“I will.”
It was sealed with a kiss.
A rustling noise awoke Khalid from a restless sleep.
His tent flap had fluttered open. A shadow graced the entrance. Without hesitation, he reached for his sword.
“I am unarmed, sayyidi. This time.”
Khalid could sense the smile behind her words. He did not move, certain that dreams had finally settled upon him.
And this was the dream from which he did not wish to wake.
Shahrzad moved through the darkness toward his bed pallet. She knelt beside him.
“Are you not going to ask me how it is I came to be here?” she said. He could hear the hint of recent sadness—the weariness—in her voice.
“I don’t need to know that.” Khalid reached for her hands. “Not now. Unless you want to tell me.”
“Wanting and needing are two very different things. I always thought it before, but it’s not the same as knowing it.” Shahrzad leaned in to his chest and breathed deep. “My father’s book?”
“Destroyed.”
She nodded once, the tension leaving her limbs. The smell of Nabulsi soap clung to her skin. Soon Khalid felt the warmth of tears soaking through his qamis.
And he understood.
“You saw Irsa?” Khalid asked.
Shahrzad nodded. “Rahim . . .”
“Will always be remembered,” Khalid finished softly.
“I haven’t been here for her.” The remorse on her face gutted him. “I haven’t been there for Irsa when she’s needed me. I was too busy wanting things I could not control.” She pressed into Khalid. “I should have known better.”
“As you said, wanting and needing are different. Now that you know, I trust you will do better.” Khalid lifted his hands to her wet hair. Fury bristled within his chest when he touched the ragged ends. Ends that barely grazed her shoulder.
Ends that spoke of recent violence. Abuse at the hands of Salim Ali el-Sharif.
“Are you angry?” Shahrzad whispered.
Khalid steadied his rage. “Yes.”
She looked up at him, her eyes still shimmering with tears. “Are you going to make him pay?”
“Many times over.”
Shahrzad took a careful breath. “I have an idea.” Her lips quirked to one side. “Well, it’s not just mine. And we’ll need your help.”
“You have it, joonam. Always.”
THE GATES OF AMARDHA
IT BEGAN AT DAYBREAK.
When Khalid sent his archers to fire a flurry of arrows at the city’s battlements.
In response, the soldiers of Amardha—the ones tasked with guarding the gates—rained a shower of their own arrows down upon the string of archers below.
A warning. Proceed no farther.
Khalid’s archers dashed back into the desert on horses faster than the wind. Badawi horses borrowed from Omar al-Sadiq.
Later, Khalid’s archers returned.
This time with many more riders. And many more arrows.
Khalid had long known the sentiment that was undoubtedly roiling through the city of Amardha at this moment.
Khorasan had more soldiers. More money. More weapons.
All Parthia had was arrogance. An arrogance Khalid intended to use to his advantage.
The midmorning sun at their backs, his archers fired up into the sky. Alas, those in charge atop the wall could not see well, the sun shining too bright in their eyes. They could not issue the proper orders for their soldiers to fire down at the attackers. Their shots missed, striking dirt and sand and rocks and debris. The occasional shield. But never once striking their targets.
Then . . .
Khalid’s soldiers took careful aim.
Not a drop of blood would be spilled in waste.
The soldiers tasked with issuing orders were felled in a single volley. Some slumped across the battlements. Others fell screaming to their deaths.
The arrows fired at them were marked with the standard of the twin swords. The al-Rashid standard.
A warning: Khorasan would take no mercy on those