The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,90

a host at his back.

Of that, Shahrzad was certain.

And, though the truth of it would undoubtedly cost Shahrzad her father’s trust and more, she was also certain of another thing: Khalid had already destroyed the book. Which left them nothing with which to bargain. Nothing to use as leverage.

Except her.

But Shahrzad was not a fool. She would not quail before the Sultan of Parthia. Would not beg for even one word of kindness from her enemy. Nor would she wait to be saved, like a child wailing in the wings.

She would do what needed to be done.

She would find Irsa. And uncover a way out of this cursed city.

Or die trying.

Her worry about Irsa made Shahrzad comply.

Even though she did not think her father would permit her sister to be harmed, Shahrzad no longer knew what thoughts swirled behind his power-hungry eyes.

So she said nothing when the servants entered the room to help her bathe and dress.

Strangely, the entire affair seemed eerily reminiscent of the day Shahrzad had first arrived at the palace in Rey, when the two servant girls had readied Shahrzad for marriage to a monster. When they’d scrubbed sandalwood paste on her arms and dusted her skin with flakes of gold before placing a heavy mantle upon her shoulders.

This time, Shahrzad’s garments were nearly as elaborate as they’d been that fateful afternoon.

Vermillion. A rich red that reminded her of a setting summer sun.

Or fresh blood trickling from an open wound.

The sirwal trowsers were cut from the finest silk, embroidered in gilt thread. The fitted top was low across her chest. Much lower than Shahrzad was accustomed to wearing. The mantle was fashioned from a thin gold fabric. Not from the more typical damask. This fabric instead resembled gossamer. In the light, it hinted at everything beneath.

Shahrzad felt exposed. Vulnerable. Which she knew was not by happenstance.

The servants wove her black hair into a thick braid and wound strings of seed pearls around the shining plait. The bangles on Shahrzad’s left arm and the hoops in her ears were of hammered bullion with matching seed pearls and tiny diamonds embedded throughout.

As her father had assured, Shahrzad had been well tended. Dressed to fit her station.

But she did not feel like a queen.

For a prisoner can never be a calipha.

But a calipha is only a prisoner if she chooses to be.

At these thoughts, Shahrzad threw back her shoulders and curled her toes within her pointed slippers. Her head high, she followed the servants into the corridor, where a contingent of armed guards stood at the ready, waiting to lead her toward the next destination.

Again, Shahrzad was struck by the overblown opulence of the sandstone structure around her. True, the palace at Rey had been marbled and polished past explanation, but there had always been a coldness to it. A kind of stark unwillingness to embrace all that it was. And now that Shahrzad saw all a palace could be, she was oddly glad Khalid had not appointed every corner with a gilt statue or every stretch of the eaves with a glittering tapestry. Indeed, it seemed every alcove in Amardha had been adorned in gold leaf or silver foil, every cusp framed with carvings and embedded with jewels beyond reason or taste, and the sight of it all made Shahrzad rather uncomfortable.

The only place where the palace at Rey outdid the sandstone edifice of Amardha was in its calligraphy. For Rey did boast an inordinate amount of elegant artistry. Of swooping flourishes and graceful swirls made in service to the written word. And Shahrzad knew it was because Khalid had a penchant for poetry.

While it was obvious Salim Ali el-Sharif had a preference for opulence.

Give me poetry any day.

Despite everything, Shahrzad almost smiled to herself at the thought.

The guards led Shahrzad down several more lavish hallways toward a set of beautifully carved doors as wide and as tall as any Shahrzad had ever seen. Of course, just as she’d come to expect in less than a day, the doors were coated in a layer of liquid gold, with handles of solid sapphire the size of her fist. Two guards pushed them open, and she followed the crush of soldiers down a series of polished sandstone steps into a cavernous room of pale pink granite veined with deep threads of burgundy. A single long table stretched through its center, lit by lengthy tapers perfumed in rose water and myrrh. The tablecloth looked to be spun from the finest spider-silk, gleaming