The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,69
to Irsa and stood in almost the same motion. Irsa held Shahrzad, frantically studying the blossoming wound on her sister’s shoulder, wondering what she should do, wondering what she could do . . .
The grate of a sword being drawn from its sheath yanked Irsa from her tempest of thoughts. For the first time since the arrow blurred past her, she paused to truly look up at the Caliph of Khorasan.
The madman of Rey. The murderous boy-king.
Her sister’s husband.
He was tall. Not as tall as Rahim, but taller than she’d expected. There may have been a time someone else would have found him attractive. But it was not now. Now his features were punishing in their severity. Ruthless in their intent. The only emotion Irsa could discern was fury.
And the promise of death hung in the air about him.
He was truly terrifying.
Truly a monster.
The sight of him looming above her—his sword poised to kill—made Irsa want to cower in a corner, like the useless mouse she’d laid claim to in the worst of her nightmares.
How could Shahrzad love him?
Before Irsa could take in a breath to think, the caliph positioned the hilt of his sword between his palms and twisted it in two. Now he held mirror images of one sword in either hand. Twin weapons to wreak twice the destruction. His eyes never straying from their lethal task, he moved before Shahrzad and Irsa, shielding them from view.
Beyond him, footsteps raced through the sand.
“Shazi!”
“Merciful God!”
Irsa turned in shock at the sound of the two voices.
Rahim and Tariq? What were they doing here, of all places? How had they—
Shahrzad reached up to seize Irsa’s shahmina, her hands shaking.
“Shazi?” Fending off her confusion, Irsa bent closer to hear what her sister was trying to say.
“Irsa,” Shahrzad choked, her fingers winding around the thin fabric of Irsa’s shawl. Her lips had lost all color, and her voice was more breath than sound. “You have to stop him.”
“What do you mean?” Irsa cried.
“He’ll kill them.” The trembling had progressed from Shahrzad’s limbs into her core. Her sister’s body had begun to quake, and Irsa’s hands felt sticky from Shahrzad’s blood.
“I—what do I—”
“Make them stop,” Shahrzad gasped. “You have to make them stop!”
Rahim had drawn his scimitar to take position before Tariq. A quiver of arrows dangled from Tariq’s shoulder.
Tariq had fired an arrow at them? Tariq was responsible for this? But he must have been aiming at the caliph! Only to strike Shahrzad. Merciful God! How had this happened?
How was she supposed to stop them? It had taken her weeks to get her own sister’s attention! How was she to stop a brash boy like Tariq, armed to the hilt with dreams of blood and glory?
Much less stay the hand of a cold monster like the Caliph of Khorasan.
“P-please,” Irsa cried. A mouse’s call to arms. “Don’t!”
Tariq’s face had taken on a greyish hue. “Is she dead?” he asked the caliph, tugging his fingers through his hair in anguish.
It was then that Irsa realized Tariq was defenseless, save for the quiver of arrows lashed to his back. No bow to speak of. No scimitar at his side. Not even a dagger tucked in his sash.
Utterly useless to fight a monster wielding two swords.
Alas, Irsa knew this did not matter to Tariq. Not in the slightest.
For it was as clear as rain he was beyond all rational thought.
The Caliph of Khorasan said nothing in response. He merely brandished both swords in punishing arcs of precision. Arcs that only too well demonstrated his intent.
He stepped forward.
Without a word, Rahim moved to defend Tariq.
Irsa shrieked as the caliph raised both weapons against Rahim. She felt her sister struggle to catch her breath, struggle to sit upright, struggle to protest . . .
“Is she dead?” Tariq’s grief caused his voice to crack through the blue darkness. “Just answer that question, you bastard, and you may do as you please with me.”
“Why would I do anything for you?” the caliph replied, low and vicious.
“Because if she’s dead, I don’t care what happens to me!”
“Then we agree on at least two things.” With that, the caliph shifted his attention toward Rahim, his swords glinting on a moonbeam.
“Please!” Irsa screamed. “Please don’t—”
“Irsa.” Shahrzad yanked her closer, still struggling, her face contorted, her words a ragged whisper. “You have to . . . yell at Khalid. Get up. Make him stop! Do something.”
Irsa shook her head. He was the Caliph of Khorasan! Could a mouse even dare?