The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,20
it isn’t,” Tariq agreed. “But you have yet to ask me to abandon this war.”
Her eyes went wide in surprise. “Would you do that? Is such a thing even possible?”
“Even if it were, I would not.” Tariq did not hesitate in his response. “When I set out to do something, I do not go about it lightly. And shirking my responsibility would not only be a failure to those around me, but a failure to myself.”
“To those around you?” Anger flared within her, sudden and bright. “Do you know what kind of men are around you, Tariq?” She thought of the sentry outside the tent that morning. Of the Fida’i brand seared into his skin. “You’ve surrounded yourself with mercenaries—hired outlaws and assassins from all walks of life—in an attempt to overthrow a king you know nothing about! Khalid is not—”
“Hired outlaws and assassins?” Tariq laughed caustically. “Listen to yourself, Shazi! Do you know who your husband is? Have you not heard the stories about the Caliph of Khorasan? The murdering madman? Did he or did he not kill Shiva—your best friend?” He drew out the last two words, enunciating their meaning.
Articulating her treachery.
She bit back her retort. “The truth is not that simple.”
“Love has blinded you to the truth. But it will not blind me,” Tariq said, though his eyes pooled with feeling. “There is only one remaining truth of import: Is he responsible for my cousin’s death?”
Shahrzad stared at him in injured silence. “Yes.”
For no matter the tale, it was the truth.
“Then it is that simple.”
“Tariq, please.” She reached for him. “You said you love me. I beg you to reconsider—”
He backed away. Trying so hard to conceal his pain. “I do love you. Nothing will change that. Just as nothing will change the fact that he killed my cousin and stole the girl I love from me.” Shahrzad watched in horror as his hand fell to the hilt of his scimitar, gripping it tight.
Though he nearly tripped in his haste to retreat, Tariq’s voice did not waver.
“Make no mistake—the next time I see Khalid Ibn al-Rashid, one of us will die.”
WILLING TO LEARN
HE HAD MADE MISTAKES. THIS HE KNEW BEYOND ALL doubt.
Mistakes in judgment. Mistakes in planning. Mistakes in understanding.
Perhaps it could be said that he was guilty of mistaken pride.
Foolish conceit, even.
But Jahandar had not meant for things to transpire as they had.
When he’d first called upon the power of the book, he’d thought he could control it. He’d thought he was its master.
That had been the first of his many mistakes.
For the book had no intention of being controlled. And every intention of forcing its will upon Jahandar al-Khayzuran. Alas, its will remained veiled behind the poetry of an ancient language, sealed shut with a rusted lock and key.
A part of Jahandar knew that by all rights the book should be destroyed.
Anything capable of the destruction he’d witnessed that fateful night of the storm should not be allowed to exist in the world of man.
And yet . . .
Jahandar curled his fingers tightly around the book. Its warmth seeped into his skin, pulsing at the blisters on his hands.
The living heat of a beating heart.
Perhaps he could control it now. Now that he knew what kind of creature it was.
Was it the height of foolishness to think such a thing? Further evidence of his misplaced conceit?
Perhaps.
He could try. Only something small, at first. Nothing like the mistakes he’d made on the outskirts of Rey. He knew better now.
Now that he’d seen what it was capable of, he’d wade into the book’s waters with greater care. With far more consideration than he’d espoused on the hilltop.
The night he’d witnessed the book put an entire city to ruin.
He shuddered as he recalled the bolts of lightning that had sliced across the sky and struck at the heart of Khorasan’s most prized gem.
The city where Jahandar had raised his daughters and curated his beloved library.
The city where he’d buried his wife after watching her fall to a wasting disease.
The city of his most resounding failures.
He recalled the many times he’d proven powerless to those around him—powerless to prevent his wife from succumbing to her illness; powerless to keep his post as a vizier following her death; and powerless to prevent his daughter from striding down the palace halls toward certain doom.
Powerless to effect any change at all. A casual observer to life.
Useless.
Again, he clutched at the book, grateful that both his children had escaped the storm unscathed .