young girls of common birth?
As Irsa cut a sideways glance at her sister, she remembered.
Shahrzad was no longer the mere daughter of a lowly keeper of books.
She was the Calipha of Khorasan.
An asset for any enemy of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.
Of which there were many.
In the same instant the realization dawned on her, Irsa banished the thought.
Shahrzad had been here for only a day. Her sister was being ridiculous. Paranoid. Clearly the result of living alongside a monster and fearing for her life on a daily basis.
Irsa bent through the opening of their tent.
A clammy hand grabbed her by the neck and flung her inside.
She squealed.
Long fingers gripped her by the nape. Hot breath washed across her skin.
“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” a low voice rasped in her ear. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked hard and fast, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
Spider?
“What are you doing?” Irsa cried.
“Let her go.” Shahrzad stood at the entrance, one hand on the jeweled dagger at her waist. Her features were impassive. But something savage moved deep in her eyes. As though she had expected such a threat.
The thought chilled Irsa to the marrow of her bones.
“Is that an order, my lady?” Spider spat in Shahrzad’s direction.
“No. It’s a promise.”
“A promise of what?”
Shahrzad angled her head ever so slightly. “That, if you let my sister go, I’ll stay here with you. I’ll listen to your grievances. Whatever I can do to rectify them, I’ll do. I promise.”
He blew another hot spate of air against Irsa’s neck. “I don’t believe you.” She could feel him trembling behind her.
“You should.” Shahrzad took a step forward. “Because I wasn’t finished. It’s also a promise that, if you don’t let my sister go, you will be the one to hear my grievances. And mine are not of words, but of fists and steel.”
Spider rasped a laugh. “Fitting. As you are the whore of a bloodthirsty monster.”
Shahrzad flinched. And in that tiny flicker of pain, Irsa saw a wellspring.
Outraged, Irsa began struggling against him. He banded his forearms tighter around her waist and neck. She started to choke.
“Irsa!” Shahrzad held up her hands in surrender. “Let her go!”
“Give me your dagger.”
“Let her go, and I’ll give you my dagger.” Shahrzad removed the blade from her waistband.
“Your dagger first!” Spider said, his fingers digging into the tender skin beneath Irsa’s ear.
“Sha—Shahrzad!” Irsa croaked.
A bead of sweat trickled down Shahrzad’s brow. “I’ll give it to you. Just let Irsa go. Your quarrel is with me.”
“Drop it first, and she can leave. But if she goes to get help—if I so much as hear the White Falcon outside this tent—I’ll kill you.”
“She won’t get Tariq.” The dagger plinked by her sister’s feet. “She won’t do anything.”
Irsa felt him relax in the same instant her chest pulled tight from within.
Shahrzad thought her incapable of anything.
Completely and utterly useless.
And, in truth, what had she done to prove otherwise?
Spider loosened his hold on her neck. “Kick it toward me, and I’ll let her go.”
Shahrzad gave Irsa a small smile of reassurance, then toed the dagger in his direction.
He released Irsa and shoved her toward the entrance.
When Irsa looked back at Shahrzad in hesitation, her sister spurred her onward with a warning glance.
Irsa wanted to stay. Wanted to beg Spider to see reason.
But she was afraid. She’d already cost Shahrzad her dagger and didn’t know what assistance she could provide beyond a poignant plea.
So she burst into the desert sun, her heart clamoring in her chest and her pride laid waste at her feet.
Frantic, she began searching for help. The eyes she most needed to find belonged to a tall boy with broad shoulders and the easy smile of a summer afternoon. A boy who had loved her sister since they were children.
A boy who would thrash first and ask questions later.
Tariq would know what to do. Tariq would wring Spider’s scrawny neck.
Irsa stumbled through the sand toward Tariq’s tent, the blood roaring in her ears.
“Irsa?”
She tried to ignore the familiar voice nearby. The voice of the boy she most wanted to find. A boy whose kind face she found herself searching for time and again. No. Irsa did not need Rahim. She needed Tariq—a boy of determination and action.
“Irsa?” Rahim fell into step beside her, his gait unfaltering. “Why are you running through—”
“Where is Tariq?” she gasped.
“On a scouting expedition to a nearby emirate.” He angled into her path, his eyes narrowing. “Why? Is something wrong?”
Irsa shook her head, her fear spiking in a