The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,32
starlit sky above. It was a deep blue, with a crescent moon wrapped in a fleece of passing clouds. The sky seemed to stretch on without end, its horizon curving to meet the sand on either side. Its blinking stars were a study in contrasts, some flashing in merriment, others winking in wicked suggestion.
The stars in Rey were never so bright.
For a moment, Shahrzad was reminded of something her father used to say: “The darker the sky, the brighter the stars.”
Just as she began to drift into thoughtful solitude, a burst of nearby laughter jarred her into awareness.
The young women sitting beside the ghalyans were being entertained by a host of young men with pitchers of spiced wine.
“Despite the old sheikh’s request tonight, it matters not where we set up camp. What matters is that we’re close to laying siege to Rey,” an inebriated young man proclaimed. “And, when we do, I will be the first to piss on the grave of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” He lifted his pitcher skyward.
The girls tittered. One stifled a cackle. The other young men joined in the toast, their pitchers raised high and their voices raised even higher.
Their shared joy was like the tip of a cold blade against Shahrzad’s spine.
“That monster doesn’t deserve a grave,” another young man chimed in. “His head belongs on a pike. He’ll be lucky if we offer him a dram of water before we sever it from his body.” A rousing chorus of approval. “After he murdered those innocent young girls, a clean death is too good for him. I say we tear him apart and leave him for the carrion crows. Better still if he continues to draw breath while the crows pick at him.”
At this next cheer, the group of men grew in number, as more were drawn to the clamor like bees to nectar.
The blood roared through Shahrzad’s body. The tiny hairs on her skin stood straight up.
Khalid.
With nothing but their drunken threats, these foolish boys had managed to burn brutal images onto her mind. Brutal images that would not soon be forgotten.
Her strong, proud king. Her beautiful, broken monster.
The boy she loved beyond words—
Torn to pieces.
She would never let them near Khalid.
She would say whatever lie needed to be said, exist beneath hate-filled waters forever . . .
Until she drowned in their enmity, if need be.
It was not fear that drove her to such reckless thoughts.
It was fury.
I will destroy the next one who dares to speak. The next one to utter his name.
She could feel Tariq’s eyes on her. Like the eyes of the wolves about the fire.
He pulled her close. Tried to shield her. Not simply out of concern.
But out of pity.
She knew it the instant she felt his hand in her hair, smoothing it from her face, silently assuring her of—
“Let’s ask the White Falcon!” The first young man turned to Tariq. “The supposed leader of our host.” The men around him did not even bother to hide their amusement at the slight. “How would you like to see the monster meet his end?”
Tariq stiffened at the taunt, then relaxed. He tilted his head back, affecting a look of ease. His fingers ran through Shahrzad’s dark waves, in full view of those around them.
Please show me you are not driven solely by hatred, Tariq.
Show me there is honor behind your actions.
That I can still reach you.
“I am not necessarily in agreement,” Tariq began in a solicitous tone that managed to quiet the restless din around them. “For I do think Khalid Ibn al-Rashid deserves a dram of water.”
Shahrzad’s pulse slowed in time with her breath as Tariq held up a hand against a slew of protests.
“And his body deserves a proper burial . . .” Again, he silenced the crowd with a gesture.
“After I put his head on a pike for all the world to see.”
The sound of the cheering was lost in the bitter rage echoing through Shahrzad’s ears. The strangled screams of a wrecked heart.
As the men continued carrying on with their pitchers and their puffs on the ghalyans around them, Tariq handed Shahrzad his spiced wine, his expression bleak. Vaguely apologetic.
Yet determined.
Shahrzad drank, staring into the fire—
Watching it burn her newfound hope to ash.
“I don’t need your help.” Shahrzad pushed Tariq away, then proceeded to lurch to one side.
“A likely story, you awful girl.” He threaded his arms across his chest, watching Shahrzad sway through the Badawi camp on unsteady feet, in the opposite direction of her tent.