The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,21

. .

When he suspected so many others had not.

Jahandar cracked open his eyes in the stifling dark of his tent.

As it had when they’d arrived the night before, guilt crushed his chest, making it difficult to breathe. His nails dug into the cover of the book as he struggled to take in air. To stanch the flood of remorse welling in his eyes.

To drown out the memory of the screams in his ears.

It wasn’t his fault!

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d only meant to provide a distraction. Rescue his beloved daughter. And perhaps find his true calling—

As a man of power. A man to be respected. A man to be feared.

But Jahandar could fix it. He knew how to fix it.

He’d passed along his gifts to his daughter.

Irsa had said as much today, when she’d mentioned a magic carpet. It had taken all his self-control to lie still when he’d heard the words. To keep silent in the face of such possibility.

Shahrzad was special. Just like Jahandar.

And she was strong. Even stronger than he was. He had felt it whenever Shahrzad’s hands had brushed the book; it had welcomed her presence.

It had acknowledged her capacity for greatness.

His chance for redemption.

Once he regained full use of his body, Jahandar would return to his studies.

This time, he would master the book. Become truly worthy of its power. He would not permit it to control him again.

No. Never again would he make such mistakes.

He would teach his daughter to use her powers. Then, together, they would put right all that had gone wrong.

For a mistake was only a mistake if it was left to remain so.

And Jahandar was a lifelong scholar.

It was the one thing he had always prided himself on being—

Willing to learn.

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BRUTE

KHALID DID NOT LIKE SURPRISES.

Even as a child, he had been wary of them.

He could not recall a single time when he’d been pleased with a surprise. In his experience, surprises were often a prelude to something much more insidious. Like a slow poison masked by a fine wine. Served in a bejeweled cup.

No.

He hated surprises.

Which was why, when Khalid walked into Vikram’s chamber and found Despina sitting at his bodyguard’s bedside, he was most displeased.

How had she managed to learn of the Rajput’s recovery so soon? Khalid had received word only at dawn, less than an hour ago.

Indeed, the handmaiden’s eyes and ears were quite vast. They were among the chief reasons she had always made such an excellent spy. No doubt it came from her ability to make friends and gain confidences with the ease of a butterfly. As she’d made friends with those of influence around the palace.

As she’d made friends with Shahrzad.

The handmaiden rose to her feet and bowed, pressing the tips of the fingers of her right hand to her forehead. “Sayyidi.”

“I’m impressed.” Khalid remained at the foot of the bed, his features tight.

Despina smiled, her eyes sparkling even in the weak light filtering between the window slats. “Forgive me for saying so, sayyidi, but you don’t look it.”

A single cough emitted from Vikram’s lips, meant to conceal what, in the Hindustani warrior, passed for amusement.

Khalid turned to him without preamble. “Your shoulder?”

There had never been a need for formality between them. They’d trained together for years. Bled together. Fought together. The Rajput had been his bodyguard since the day Khalid had been crowned king. His friend since before that.

Vikram did not answer. His black gaze held fast to a nondescript corner above while Khalid took in the reddened bandages and the foul-smelling poultices wrapped around the copper skin of his left shoulder. When Vikram sat up to reach for the tumbler of water on the low table beside him, he could not suppress a twinge of pain. Despina bent to assist him, ignoring his deepening scowl.

“You just missed the faqir, sayyidi,” she said as she replaced the tumbler on the low table. “He came to say—”

“That whelp’s arrows shattered my breastbone. And the bone in my shoulder,” Vikram said in a gruff tone. A tone that promised a fierce reprisal in the near future.

Despina blinked, at a loss for words. Then recovered in a flash of white teeth. “But the faqir also said—”

Vikram silenced her with a glance. Pouting, Despina returned to her stool and looped her arms across her chest.

The pitiless side of Khalid felt strangely appeased by this exchange—the sight of the twittering butterfly being silenced by the towering brute. Were Shahrzad here, Khalid suspected she