The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,34

know.”

Tariq could hardly hear her. “For what?” Again, he almost laughed at the absurdity of her apology. Now, of all times.

“That you have to see me. And do this. It isn’t your pl—” Her eyes flew open, the crown of her head almost smacking him in the jaw. “Where is Irsa?”

“With Rahim.”

Irritation marred her brow. “I shall beat him to death’s doorstep. Make no mistake.”

“What?”

“That gangly imbecile,” she mumbled, her cheek falling against his chest. “I won’t stand for it. I’ll send the Rajput after him. He’ll chase him down with his fiery talwar . . .”

With a shake of his head, Tariq pushed through the opening of Shahrzad’s tent, nearly dropping her in the process. He left the tent flap wide, allowing the moonlight to brighten the relentless dark of the space.

True to form, Irsa al-Khayzuran’s bedroll was neatly bundled and stacked to one side. Shazi had not bothered to put hers away; it remained in the center of the small tent, her blanket askew, her pillow bunched in a fitful heap.

With barely concealed amusement, Tariq placed Shazi on her bedroll, not even bothering to drag her blanket across her body. She stirred when he tried to lift her pillow.

“Don’t.” She put a hand on his arm, her eyes slivering open.

“Or what?” he whispered, his lips twitching. “Empty threats do not move me, Shazi-jan.”

She wrinkled her nose, then curled into a ball, pressing a palm to her forehead.

Again, he tried to lift her pillow and place it beneath her head. After a time, he realized the futility of such efforts and decided the best course of action was to let her sleep off her stupor.

As Tariq moved to stand, he noticed a piece of parchment that had fallen from the folds of Shahrzad’s clothing. Most likely jarred loose when he nearly dropped her.

He lifted it into the moonlight.

It was creased in the manner of something that had been folded and unfolded numerous times.

Something with contents that mattered a great deal to someone.

He glanced down at Shahrzad’s sleeping form. Wavered for the span of a breath.

Then unfolded the parchment.

Shazi,

I prefer the color blue to any other. The scent of lilacs in your hair is a source of constant torment. I despise figs. Lastly, I will never forget, all the days of my life, the memories of last night—

For nothing, not the sun, not the rain, not even the brightest star in the darkest sky, could begin to compare to the wonder of you.

Khalid

With great care, Tariq refolded the letter along its creases, his fingers longing to crush it in his fists.

To tear it asunder. To burn it into nonexistence.

He knew Shahrzad loved the boy-king. He’d known it since Rey.

And he’d known the boy-king cared about Shahrzad.

But he had not known the boy-king truly loved her. Despite what the captain of the guard had said the night of the storm, Tariq had not wanted to believe the murdering madman capable of loving anything or anyone. At least not in a way Tariq could ever understand.

This?

Tariq understood.

Completely.

In a rather short letter, the Caliph of Khorasan had managed to put to words exactly how Tariq had always felt about the only girl he’d ever loved. Had always felt but never managed to say with quite such simple eloquence.

These were not the words of a madman.

For the first time, Tariq saw what Shahrzad saw when she looked at Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

He saw a boy. Who loved a girl. More than anything in the world.

And he hated him all the more for it.

BOUNDLESS

SHAHRZAD PAID DEARLY FOR HER SILLY SHOW OF bravado with the spiced wine.

She spent the better part of the next morning with her face in a basin, emptying her stomach of its contents. Her insides were a jumble of knots; the dullest stream of light made her wince. There were moments she swore the very roots of her hair howled in protest.

Were it not for Irsa, Shahrzad felt certain these symptoms would have endured all day. When Shahrzad complained of feeling as though she were on a rolling ship in the midst of a storm, Irsa rummaged through her neat little pile of things and unraveled an old scroll. After scanning its contents, Irsa left their tent and returned with a tonic brewed from ground gingerroot and the peel of a dried lemon. Though Shahrzad protested at first—the concoction smelled quite strong and tasted rather bitter—she could not deny it helped in settling her stomach.

At Irsa’s behest, Shahrzad remained in their tent, nursing