TO SLEIGHT AND FEINT

SHAHRZAD WAS AT A LOSS.

She’d tried for three days straight.

For three days, she’d feigned interest in her father’s book. She’d sat alongside him in his tiny tent and listened while he explained the origins of its magic. She’d smiled as he’d tried to tell her how he’d gone about painstakingly translating its pages. Painstakingly memorizing its contents.

All under the pretext of saving her.

Saving her?

A likely story.

Especially now that Shahrzad knew his reasons for prizing the book so highly. For protecting it, even through his fog of delirium. Now that she realized how its evil paled in comparison to its possibilities.

The power to smite a kingdom.

To lord over others with impunity.

Before, Shahrzad would never have believed her father could be so enraptured by the thought of power. But the proof sat before her, day in and day out. Her father’s eyes pooled with a feverish light, his scarred palms stroking over his bare scalp, as if seeking a reminder of all that had occurred.

All that his actions had brought about.

Though Jahandar had said he did not intend for such death and destruction to strike at the heart of Rey—that all he’d intended to do was save her—Shahrzad could not shake the feeling of doubt that settled upon her.

For her father could not meet her eyes when he said these things.

As such, it had taken all her efforts to conceal her horror when her father revealed that Reza bin-Latief had requested his help with future endeavors.

Future endeavors? Of what sort?

Her skin crawled at the thought.

Tariq’s forces had already managed to secure two nearby strongholds along the border between Khorasan and Parthia. Shahrzad had warned Khalid last night, and though he’d begun to rally his bannermen to Rey several weeks ago, the city’s beleaguered state made the possibility of organizing a force to retake the border a difficult one. Rey’s standing army remained in shambles. It would take time for Khalid to launch a counteroffensive.

Time they did not have.

So Shahrzad continued to try to inveigle her father to turn over his book.

To rectify the curse’s blight in advance of the war.

Alas, Jahandar refused to let it out of his sight. He slept with the book pressed to his chest and its key hanging from a thin chain around his neck.

How was she ever to take the book from her father and deliver it to Khalid if he would not part with it, even for a moment?

I should simply tell Baba the truth. And ask him to give me the book.

Shahrzad had considered this many times. Especially that first day. A part of her had wanted to believe her father would be willing to do anything to give his daughter the love and happiness life had so often denied him.

But when she looked in his eyes as he spoke of the book in such reverent tones—as he discussed the sense of purpose its magic had given him—she knew he would not easily part with it. Even if it cost Shahrzad her happiness.

This realization pained her more than she cared to admit.

For her father had always been a good man. A kind man. A smart man.

A man with so much to be proud of. Daughters who loved him. And a life still left to live. But Shahrzad knew her father’s mind had fallen prey to itself. Had begun to believe its own lies.

So on this particular afternoon, Shahrzad went about preparing bread for the evening meal in a haze of worry.

“Shazi?” Irsa said from beside her.

“Hmm?”

Her sister sighed with practiced patience. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing the dough for barbari.”

“I can see that. But . . . you’re using the flour for sangak.”

When Shahrzad looked down and realized her error, she almost hurled the sticky mass into the patchwork fabric of the tent. But she knew it would do little to mollify her and only create more work in the end. So, instead, Shahrzad dumped the batch of not-bread onto the floor in one fell swoop. At least that particular mishap could be remedied in a trice. It was childish, but the dough did make the most satisfying splat as it struck the ground.

Irsa tsked. “I suppose we could both use a moment of rest.”

With that, Irsa reached for two cups and a few sprigs of mint, which she passed along to Shahrzad. Then Irsa walked behind a table laden with root vegetables. She ducked beneath a trellis strung with drying herbs before reemerging with a small platter of tiny round cakes made from ground almonds and candied apricots, covered in a dusting of sugar.

The two girls sat on the floor beside the lump of failed dough. Shahrzad mashed the sprigs of mint into the cups and poured two streams of tea. Then she snagged a tiny almond cake.

“What’s troubling you?” Irsa said before breaking a crumbly cake in two.

“Nothing.” Shahrzad’s reply was unusually sullen.

“Fine. Nothing is troubling you.” Irsa licked the sugar dust from her fingertips. “One day, I will no longer ask, and it will be your own fault.”

“You’re becoming quite prickly. Perhaps you should stop spending so much time around Rahim al-Din Walad.” Shahrzad almost grinned.

“And you’re becoming quite the liar.” Irsa shot Shahrzad a pointed glance. “You’ve made so many promises to me. Promises you’ve yet to keep.”

Shahrzad took a deep breath. Everything Irsa had said was true. She’d long been denying Irsa her confidence. But her intentions had only ever been well meaning. As such, it seemed wrong to include Irsa now that Shahrzad was mired in a quandary of her own making.

But in the recent past, such pride had nearly proven to be Shahrzad’s downfall. Her refusal to see the truth through the tales had almost cost her Khalid’s love. If she confided in her sister now, perhaps Irsa could provide the assistance she so desperately needed. Perhaps two heads would prevail where one had failed, as their mother had so often said.

Or perhaps Shahrzad would rue the day she’d put her sister’s life at risk for her own selfish gain.

Shahrzad took a slow sip of tea and tried to swallow her doubts in a swirl of mint and sugar.

I can’t continue in such a manner. Something must change.

Perhaps that something is me.

“I need to take Baba’s book and key from him . . .” Shahrzad did not look away from her sister as she began.

Irsa’s eyebrows pulled together in quizzical fashion.

“Without him knowing I’ve taken them,” she finished. “At least not immediately. Can you think of a way?”

Irsa chewed on almond cake as she thought. “There’s a sleeping draught in the scroll of curatives Rahim gave me. Do you think that would work?”

Shahrzad pursed her lips in consideration.

It’s risky. But I have been unable to come up with a better solution for the whole of the past three days.

“It might.”

“However, I should caution you,” Irsa continued. “I think it will take time for Baba to fall asleep. And I don’t know how effective the draught is, as I’ve yet to try it.” She sipped her tea. “Why do you need his book, Shazi? And why can you not simply ask him for it?”

Shahrzad settled her face into a mask of false composure. It would be imprudent of her to tell Irsa everything she had learned. Imprudent to trouble her sister with such painful details about her father’s sad exploits. “Why I need it is not—”

“No.” Irsa’s mouth thinned. “If you want my help, I want you to tell me your reasons. Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is not—”

“Pretty? Easy? As it would seem?” Irsa scoffed, almost stiffly. “How old do you think I am, Shazi? A mere babe in swaddling? Or a young woman able to concoct a sleeping draught. For you cannot have both.”

Shahrzad blinked, taken aback by the simple truth of her sister’s words. Irsa was right. Shahrzad could no longer pick and choose what she saw in her. Nor could she continue protecting her. No matter how much she might wish to do so.

If Irsa was old enough to help her—old enough to while away the hours with Rahim al-Din Walad—then she was old enough to know why Shahrzad needed their father’s book.

“You’re right. No matter how much I wish to deny it, you’re no longer a child. It’s time I told you the truth.” Shahrzad breathed deep and began.

This time, she left nothing out. In a voice so soft it could barely be heard, Shahrzad told her sister the story of the curse. Of everything the boy she loved had been forced to do to protect his people. Of all they now had to do to end a reign of terror perpetrated by a grief-stricken madman.

Irsa listened in wide-eyed shock.

When it came time to hear of the daunting task before them, Irsa leaned closer and cut her eyes in concentration.

“So I must take the book from Baba while he sleeps, then collect Khalid from Rey so that he may destroy the book and end the curse, along with this needless war,” Shahrzad finished, her shoulders falling forward from the burden of all she’d divulged.

Irsa remained silent for a time. “This is a tremendous risk. Especially with so many unfriendly eyes upon you,” she finally said. “And things might progress more smoothly if you had help. Why don’t you let me take the book from Baba while you travel to Rey?”

“No.” Shahrzad shook her head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“No,” Irsa insisted. “It isn’t. It makes sense for me to do it. He won’t suspect me of having any interest in the book. Let me give him the sleeping draught in his evening tea. I’ll wait for him to fall asleep, then meet you in the desert.”

“I couldn’t bear it if something were to happen to you.”

“What could happen to me?” Irsa frowned. “It’s not as though I’m fighting at the vanguard. I’m only transporting a book,” she said with unassuming brevity. “Why don’t we meet by the well, east of the encampment? It’s a short ride from here. I’ll borrow Aisha’s horse, then bring both the book and the key there, and in doing so save you the trouble and the time. You can leave for Rey once I’ve given Baba his tea.” Her voice had grown more fervent as she spoke, her words grounded in their surety.

Shahrzad chewed the inside of her cheek, still unwilling to relent, but warming to the idea.

It does make sense. And it would be nice to work together, for a change.

“Don’t worry, Shazi.” Irsa grinned good-naturedly. “I am merely waiting for Baba to fall asleep, then delivering a book to you. There’s no danger in this.”

Despite her wiser inclinations, Shahrzad smiled back.

Perhaps her sister was right.

They were taking charge of their destinies. Refusing to allow fate to dictate their futures. Perhaps the reason Shahrzad had been struggling so much of late was because she’d been fighting against a raging current. Perhaps she should swim alongside it, for a change.

“All right,” Shahrzad agreed. “Let’s do it.”

“Together.” Irsa smiled wider.

Shahrzad nodded. “Together.”

Tariq wasn’t sure what could have possessed him to follow Irsa al-Khayzuran tonight.

Of all the things he should have been doing, he should not have been secretly following Irsa. He should have been planning their next raid. Or at least forming the beginnings of a strategy with his uncle, despite his growing unease as to Reza bin-Latief’s objective.

Instead here he was with Rahim, trudging through the desert on horseback . . .

Trying to keep silent.

Indeed, they were fortunate Irsa was such a poor sneak. As well as a decidedly poor lookout. For any soldier worth his salt would have noticed them trailing at a distance.

Would have forgone this ridiculousness long ago.

But Tariq had been worried about Shahrzad for some time. These past few days, he’d tried to keep tabs on her whereabouts. Earlier this evening, Tariq had seen her steal into the desert, carrying a rolled bundle. Before he’d been able to break away from his soldiers and follow her, Shahrzad had disappeared without a trace.

Now Tariq was forced to do the next best thing and follow Irsa. For if anyone knew what Shahrzad was up to with this strange disappearance, it would be her younger sister.

Tariq was more than willing to resort to subterfuge if it meant learning the explanation behind Shahrzad’s recent behavior. More than willing to steal into the desert, in pursuit of a hooded figure beneath a moonlit sky.

And Rahim?

It was becoming abundantly clear Rahim would follow Irsa al-Khayzuran anywhere.

All Irsa had in her possession was a tiny parcel wrapped in a length of dark linen, pressed against her chest. She was not dressed for traveling. The light shahmina about her shoulders would not protect her from much.

Tariq found this strange because Irsa al-Khayzuran was usually quite sensible. Usually not a cause for concern. She never had been. Was not the type ever to be.

She was predictable. Pleasant. Agreeable.

Everything Shahrzad was not.

All the same, Tariq kept his recurve bow at the ready.

For whatever might lurk ahead.

After half an hour of riding, they neared the well and the abandoned settlement where Tariq had first met Omar al-Sadiq several months ago. He briefly recalled the way the elderly sheikh had shrunk back from Zoraya’s flashing talons. For once, Tariq was glad to have left the falcon behind, as she would have undoubtedly given away their presence by now.

Rahim and Tariq dismounted from their horses, concealing themselves behind one of the cracked stone buildings. They lingered in a pool of shadow while Irsa tied her steed to a post near the well.

Despite all, Tariq had to admit he was somewhat curious.

Who was little Cricket meeting?

For Tariq could see no trace of Shahrzad anywhere nearby.

Rahim inhaled through his nose. Even from an arm’s length away, Tariq could sense his friend’s budding apprehension as though it were his own.

“Why are you so concerned?” Tariq whispered.

Rahim eyed the slender figure of Irsa al-Khayzuran in the distance.

Tariq smothered a smirk. “She’s not in any danger. Obviously she’s meeting someone she knows. Are you worried it might be another boy?”

“Why would I care if she were meeting another boy?” Rahim shot back. “I only want to make sure she’s not in danger.”

“Of course you wouldn’t care if it was another boy.” Tariq rolled his eyes. “That’s why you’re following her in the middle of the night, like a cuckolded husband.”

A sound of exasperation rolled from Rahim’s throat. “We both know why we’re here, and it has nothing to do with—”

Tariq cut him off with a hand to his shoulder.

Two figures were approaching Irsa. One was easily recognizable. Tariq would know its shape anywhere. He’d spent the better part of his life memorizing its lines. Small and slight. With a messy braid, recently tousled by strong winds.

The other was tall. Hooded. Male.

Less easily recognizable.

Yet Tariq knew—even before the figure pulled back the cowl of his rida’, even before his hand moved to the small of Shahrzad’s back—who it was.

The hate flew to Tariq’s fingers. Coiled through his stomach. His own words echoed in his ears.

“Make no mistake—the next time I see Khalid Ibn al-Rashid, one of us will die.”

Tariq did not pause to reflect. He did not stop to reconsider.

Love would not blind him to the truth.

His fury rising, Tariq shoved away Rahim’s blind attempt to stop him—

And reached for an arrow.

Shahrzad did not like this place.

When she and Khalid had first flown above the settlement surrounding the well, a strange sense of foreboding had washed over her.

As they strode through it now, the feeling only worsened.

All the buildings around them were abandoned. Many of the mud-thatched roofs had collapsed in on themselves, forming craters that lent an even greater sense of menace to the space . . . warning any and all who dared to tread near that time would not look kindly on those who lingered.

Worse, despite all her sister’s earlier reassurances, Shahrzad could tell Irsa was nervous. Her sister paced in a tiny circle by the well, clutching a linen-wrapped bundle to her chest. Shahrzad watched as Irsa wore a smaller and smaller ring into the sand by her feet—

Knowing she felt the same menace in the air about her.

The only thing that gave Shahrzad the sense that all would be righted soon was the reassuring presence of the hand at her back.

The warm, solid presence of the boy at her side.

Khalid sees everything. He never fails to notice the most insignificant detail.

He won’t let anything happen to Irsa.

Shahrzad squared her shoulders. Soon, Khalid would destroy her father’s book. Then they could begin to right the many wrongs around them. And she would never have such cause to worry again.

As they strode toward the well, a sudden breeze cut through the horseshoe of abandoned buildings, slicing through the stone hollow in a frenzy of air and sound.

A familiar noise ricocheted in its wake.

Shahrzad stopped walking.

Was that a . . . horse?

For a moment, she thought she’d heard the clatter of hooves in the distance.

Beside her, Khalid paused as well. Then he moved past her, as though he were trying to puzzle it out. Irsa’s horse stood nearby, tethered to a post.

And no one else knew where they were.

The breeze died down. The whorls of sand fell to her feet.

But all was not right. That much was evident.

Shahrzad felt it on the air.

Just as she saw the distinct shift of shadows near a building on the far right.

And she knew. She knew with the same sort of paralyzing certainty as one who dangles from a precipice.

For she’d trained in the art for years. Now was the perfect moment.

The wind had just fallen. Down and to the left. She could almost feel the feathered fletchings between her fingertips. The twang of the bowstring as it was pulled tight.

The snap as the arrow was loosed.

Without a second thought, Shahrzad shoved Khalid aside.