The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,30

it is most needed. For when justice will finally be served on the boy who dares to call himself a king.”

The cheers began anew. Frenzied in their fury.

Omar toyed with his mustache and swallowed a sigh.

His list of questions for Reza grew with each passing moment. For it had not escaped Omar’s notice that Reza seemed disturbingly at ease with warmongering. As well as ever-flush with gold. Alas, the identity of Reza’s nameless benefactor continued to elude Omar.

To deepen his suspicions.

The presence of Fida’i in Omar’s camp only made matters worse. As did the recent attack on the Calipha of Khorasan. Especially since Omar had not been granted the courtesy of meting out justice. Not even on his own land.

Omar refused to lose control. The calipha and her family were his guests. These were his lands. His people.

He wanted Reza’s men out of his camp. He wanted to keep those in his charge safe. It pained him greatly that he did not yet know from whom.

As he glanced across the way, Omar saw another face sporting a frown to match his own. Though he’d noticed this face for its troubled silence earlier, it rather surprised him now. For it was a face that failed to conceal its confusion . . . and the many questions lurking beneath.

The frowning boy stood in a place of esteem on Reza’s far right. He did not partake in the angry revelry. He did not say a word. Nor did he seem pleased with the news that his enemy’s position had weakened.

When Omar leaned forward to study the tang in the air between the boy and his uncle, he sensed brewing consternation. A strange uncertainty.

Perhaps a struggle for power. Or a lack of understanding.

Omar should speak to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad soon.

This had been a poor decision on Shahrzad’s part.

But it was too late now. If she left, the whispers would trail after her. The vitriol would spew in her wake.

Her escape would prove their point. Would prove she was afraid of them.

That their stares and their hatred had taken root.

Fear was a currency these soldiers understood well. A currency Shahrzad could ill afford at this time. Especially if she wanted to learn how best to sneak through the camp tomorrow night. And make her way to Musa Zaragoza.

So she sat with her feet to the fire. With a multitude of eyes glowing like embers in her direction. Like circling wolves, awaiting their alpha’s command.

Shahrzad’s gaze drifted around the ring of men seated near the crackling flames. Drifted past them to note the position of the sentries posted about the camp. Their position and their number. How often they wandered past.

The flickering flames threw everything into chaotic relief. Into distorted patterns of light and shadow.

Shadow that would hold her secrets. She hoped.

Irsa’s left knee bounced at a feverish pace, her chin in her palm and her fingers tapping her cheek. “We should go.”

“No.” Shahrzad did not move her lips, nor did she look her sister’s way. “Not yet.”

A steady stream of men trickled from the sheikh’s tent toward the immense blaze in the center of the encampment. As they took their places beside the fire, the men passed around pitchers of spiced wine with a liberal ease—an ease that spoke of recent discord and a pressing need to forget.

Apparently their war council had not gone well. And though Shahrzad was eager to discover why, she was not foolish enough to believe anyone would tell her.

Instead she watched the ghalyan coals being placed atop an iron brazier, while a gnarled-fingered old man packed several water pipes with sweet-smelling mu’assel. Their silk-wrapped hoses were kept carefully coiled beyond the reach of any sparks. A group of young women sat beside the towering ghalyans, giggling amongst themselves as they waited for the coals to catch flame. Their bright-colored shahminas hung loose about their shoulders, shielding their backs from the cool breeze of a desert night as the fire bathed the air before them in bristling heat.

Rahim lumbered from the depths of the Badawi sheikh’s tent, his face crimped into a scowl, Tariq on his heels. Without once breaking his stride, Tariq took up a pitcher of spiced wine and knocked it back. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, then moved toward the fire, the pitcher dangling from his fingertips. As always, Tariq wore his every emotion like ill-advised regalia. Sadness. Frustration. Anger. Bitterness. Longing. For the first time, Shahrzad seriously considered fleeing, but instead lifted her chin