The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,23
pang of loss shot through Khalid. He was not bothered by its presence. Merely by its keenness. “I shall miss your company, my friend.”
“A lie.” Vikram coughed, his good shoulder quaking with repressed humor. “You shall be the finest swordsman in Rey. Finally.”
“The finest swordsman in a fallen city,” Khalid countered, holding back the beginnings of a grin. “Fitting.” He looked away, rubbing a palm along his jaw.
“Meraa dost?”
It was the first hint of indecision Khalid had heard in Vikram’s voice.
He glanced back at his friend.
“Are you truly not going to bring her back?” the Rajput asked.
“What’s this?” Khalid finally grinned, though it was with a heavy heart. “After all your early protestations?”
“Despite all, I find I . . . miss the little troublemaker. And how she made you smile.”
As did Khalid. More than he cared to admit to anyone.
“She is not safe in Rey, Vikram,” Khalid said. “I am not for her.”
“And the whelp is?” The lines across the Rajput’s forehead returned.
Along with Khalid’s simmering rage. “Perhaps. At least he can make her smile.”
“And you cannot?” Vikram’s eyes cut in half. Flashed like pieces of flint.
Like the obsidian in Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s bone-shattering arrowheads.
Khalid’s blood pooled thick with anger. Thick with unjustifiable wrath.
After all, he had been the one to let Shazi disappear with Nasir al-Ziyad’s son. He had not gone after her, as he’d first wanted to do. He had not ordered Jalal to bring her back, despite the wishes of his heart.
It had been Khalid’s decision to let her go.
Because it was best she not suffer alongside him—alongside Rey—anymore.
For at what point could he reconcile his faults with his fate?
It was no longer possible.
Despite all his attempts to avoid his destiny, it had found its way to him. Had slashed its way across his city. Set fire to all he held dear.
And he could not watch Shahrzad burn with him.
He would burn alone—again and again—before he would ever watch such a thing.
“I cannot make her smile,” Khalid said. “Not anymore.”
The Rajput ran his hand through his beard, lingering in contemplation.
“It is too soon to pass judgment on the matter.”
Khalid bowed deeply, touching his fingertips to his brow. “I wish you happiness, Vikram Singh.”
“And I you, meraa dost—my greatest friend.”
NOT A SINGLE DROP
CUT THE STRINGS, SHAZI. FLY.”
The words were whispers in her ears, carried on the air like a secret summoning.
“Fly.”
Shahrzad sat in the center of her tent, ignoring the commotion outside. Sounds of the newest contingent of soldiers arriving in camp. Sounds of impending war. Instead she focused on the dusty ground, her knees bent and her feet crossed at the ankles.
Before her lay the ugliest carpet in all of creation.
Rust colored, with a border of dark blue and a center medallion of black-and-white scrollwork. Fringed on two sides by yellowed, woebegone tassels. Seared in two corners.
A rug with a story of its own . . .
Albeit a small one. It was barely large enough to hold two people, sitting side by side.
Shahrzad canted her head in contemplation. Took a measured breath. Then she pressed the flat of her hand to the rug’s surface.
A prickly feeling, like that of losing sensation in a limb, settled around her heart. It warmed through her blood, spreading into her fingertips.
Though she knew what to expect, it still took her by surprise when a corner of the carpet curled into her hand.
She removed her palm and swallowed. The rug fell flat.
“Cut the strings, you goose. Did you swallow your ears just now, along with your nerve?”
“I heard you the first thousand times, you rat!” With a small grin for Shiva’s memory, Shahrzad reached for an empty tumbler and the pitcher of water on the low table nearby. Catching her tongue between her teeth, she filled the tumbler halfway and placed it within the center medallion of the ugliest carpet in all of creation.
“Now for the true test,” she muttered.
Shahrzad returned her palm to the carpet. Just as before, the strange feeling unfurled around her heart before tingling down her arm. The edges of the rug bowed in on themselves, then the rug took to the air. Soon, there was nothing beneath it but empty space. She lifted onto her knees, moving with caution. The tumbler had not stirred from within the medallion; not a single drop of water had spilt. Exhaling through her nose, Shahrzad floated her fingers to the right. The rug followed along at shoulder level, the water’s surface as calm as an unruffled lake.