THE SANDSTONE PALACE

WHEN SHAHRZAD WOKE, IT WAS TO THE SOUND of birds and the feel of silk.

Even the faintly scented breeze around her conveyed nothing but light and beauty.

Yet beneath it she felt nothing but the sense of being controlled. The sense of being imprisoned.

She was in a bower.

True, she was still dressed in the same rumpled qamis and dirty sirwal trowsers she last remembered wearing, but the chamber she’d slept in rivaled the finest rooms of the palace in Rey.

Indeed, it could be argued that it might even surpass them.

The open screens to her right were far more ornate in their carvings. Perhaps even a tad garish. The richly stained wood was inlaid with ivory, flecked by dark green jasper. Beyond the screens, Shahrzad could see a series of trellises shading a marbled balcony. Branches of flowering trees hung over the terrace, threading through the white latticework like drapery, their bright pink blossoms heavy on their boughs.

The walls of her chamber were sandstone. Where she could see the walls, that is. Thick tapestries clung to every exposed surface. In the corner was a table fashioned from many bits of colorful tile. It was as though a crazed artisan had taken a hammer to a rainbow, destroying something beautiful in an effort to create something decidedly less so. The pillows tossed about were bold and fringed with tiny mirrors embroidered by threads of gold and silver. On the gaudy table was a basket of flatbread and a copper tumbler, along with a platter of fresh herbs, rounds of goat cheese, small cucumbers, and an assortment of sweet chutney.

When Shahrzad examined the tray of food more closely, she noticed her host had not provided her with a knife, nor was there a utensil or sharp object of any kind in sight.

Her suspicions as to her whereabouts mounting, Shahrzad rose from the mass of silken cushions and took a turn about the room. She could not see past the intricate screens at the edge of her balcony. Indeed, she could see very little outside this prison of sandstone and ivory. When she attempted to turn both handles of the double doors—which were presumably the chamber’s entrance—they were firmly sealed from without, just as Shahrzad had expected.

Her shoulder still ached, but at least it no longer debilitated her. At least it would not inhibit her from fleeing were the opportunity to present itself.

It’s clear I’ve been “asleep” for quite some time.

Shahrzad’s thoughts turned more grim.

How long has Shiva’s father been planning to take me from the Badawi camp against my will?

For it was now obvious Reza bin-Latief had been in league with the Fida’i assassins for quite some time. Had likely been the one to send the mercenaries to Rey those many weeks ago, in an attempt to either kill Khalid or kidnap Shahrzad with a mind to use her as leverage.

And now Shahrzad had successfully been taken unawares.

To a place she was certain would bring about a predictable turn of events. Especially since Shahrzad had a sinking feeling she knew where she had been taken.

Trying to tamp down her fears, Shahrzad made her way to the tray of food on the garishly colorful table in the corner. She dripped some of the water from the tumbler onto the silver edge of the tray, waiting to see if it would darken the tray’s surface. When it did not change color, Shahrzad trickled some of the liquid onto her skin to see if it would do her any harm. Then she took a tentative sip. Her throat was terribly parched. She did not yet trust the food, but she knew she must at least wet her tongue if she meant to survive for any stretch of time.

When Shahrzad heard the sound of grating metal beyond the double doors, she knocked aside the herbs and smashed the platter against the edge of the mosaic table. Then she grabbed one of the larger shards of porcelain and wrapped a linen napkin around one end to fashion a rudimentary weapon.

At the very least, she would not face down her enemy without a fight.

One of the double doors swung open. Shahrzad concealed her weapon to one side of her sun-worn trowsers.

Only to watch her father breeze across the threshold—

Well-dressed and wearing a smile through the wisps of his neatly trimmed beard.

Baba?

When Jahandar saw Shahrzad—armed and crouched in an almost feral position upon the marble floor—he lifted his scarred hands in a placating gesture.

“Shahrzad-jan! You mustn’t be afraid.” He moved to her with a swift-footedness Shahrzad had not seen from him in quite some time.

“Baba”—she blinked, beyond confused to see him in such a poised and polished state—“where are we?”

“Dearest, please put down the weapon. There is no cause to be afraid!” He smiled again, even brighter. “The guards outside told me you’d tried the door not long ago, so I came straightaway.”

“Where are we?” Shahrzad demanded again.

“I know you must be afraid, but he does not wish you any harm. No one does. Indeed, you will be safer here than you were in the encampment. And much better cared for. As befitting your status.” His shoulders rolled back at the last, filled with a peculiar sort of pride. A pride that did not fit her situation at all.

“Baba!” she admonished, her frustration clear, for he had yet to answer the question she’d now twice posed.

His smile faltered. But only slightly. “Reza thought it best you be brought to Amardha.”

As she’d suspected. Nevertheless, Shahrzad’s heart lurched. For a moment, she could scarcely breathe. “You brought me to Salim Ali el-Sharif?”

“Of course!” Jahandar did not even flinch at her dangerous tone. “He is your husband’s uncle, is he not?” He spoke simply, though his expression indicated much more knowledge.

“How could you do this to me?” she whispered.

At her quiet accusation, her father’s watery eyes wavered, then stiffened at the edges. In that instant, Shahrzad realized he would not be moved by her pleas.

Not this time.

He pulled straight. “Perhaps it is I who should be asking you this question, daughter.”

Immediately, Shahrzad recoiled from both his charge and the cold light that had entered his eyes. Eyes that had always been a warm mirror to her own.

“What have you done with my book?” her father asked in a mincing tone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She lifted her chin, trying to conceal her apprehension.

“Shahrzad. I’ve already spoken to Irsa. I know it was she who drugged me.”

Shahrzad remained stone-faced, though her heart missed a beat at the mention of her sister.

“She refused to say anything further on the matter, but you know as well as I that Irsa is incapable of uttering a falsehood. And her attempts to avoid disclosing the truth belied her actions.” His face screwed tight in frustration. “Therefore I must insist that you—” Though it took effort, her father managed to temper his reaction. “I am not angry, dearest. I know someone must have coerced you. Perhaps the caliph or someone with the desire to undermine—”

“No. No one coerced me to do anything. Because nothing has been done.”

Again, a flash of cold light filled her father’s gaze. “Do not lie to me, daughter.”

Shahrzad steeled herself even further. “Where is Irsa, Baba?”

No response, save for a soft inhalation of breath. The barest of hesitations.

“Baba?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then paused a telling beat. A beat that made Shahrzad’s throat swell tight with trepidation. Her father offered a kind grin. “You are still weak from the journey and your injuries. Allow the sultan’s servants to tend to you, after which you should join us for dinner. The sultan’s daughter has been quite worried about you. I promise all will be discussed tonight.”

Shahrzad reached for him, unable to conceal her fear any longer. “Baba, please don’t—”

“I have allowed you a great deal of freedom, daughter. Perhaps I have allowed you too much.” Her father’s tone was firm. He stood quite tall. Taller than Shahrzad ever remembered him standing. Indeed, she had not seen him act with such vim since before her mother had died. “You have defied me long enough, Shahrzad. I will not allow you to lie to me about this. You are toying with something far too dangerous and far too important. Rest for now. And we will discuss the matter later.” Jahandar turned away.

“Please just tell me if Irsa is—”

“Rest. And we will discuss the matter tonight . . . when you are ready to tell me the truth.” With that, Jahandar al-Khayzuran strode from the chamber in a whirl of fine silk.

Shahrzad sank back beside the shards of broken porcelain, still clutching her makeshift weapon.

The panic she’d been fighting since she’d first caught sight of her father—no, since the first inkling of where she was had begun to take root—washed over her with a dire sort of urgency.

The war she’d meant to end had now slipped beyond her control. Far beyond the boundaries of her worst fears come to pass.

For as soon as word reached Rey that Shahrzad was being held prisoner in Amardha—was now a “guest” of the uncle who most assuredly planned to use her as a pawn—Khalid would march on the city with 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 lustrous in the warm light cast from the tapers’ glow.

Because the room could undoubtedly use more gold.

As far as the eye could see, Shahrzad took in an altogether unnecessary display of opulence. Even the scent of the tapers cloyed at the back of her throat, for it was overwrought. Overdone.

Overmuch.

Shahrzad was the first to arrive.

Again, she was certain this was no accident.

A guard directed her to a richly appointed cushion of darkest blue near the center. While none of the soldiers were outright rude to her, she did notice a certain sort of amusement ripple through the throng when the one nearest to Shahrzad—a young man with a scar slanted across his nose—leered down at her chest as she bent to take a seat.

Shahrzad gazed up at him, fire in her eyes. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me in such a manner?” she said, her snappish voice bounding through the cavernous hall. “Have you a death wish, or are you merely as senseless as you look?”

He dipped his head in a terse bow, his jaw taut.

“That is not an answer, you insolent fool. And it barely constitutes a bow,” she continued, determined to make a point of this interaction.

Shahrzad could not let any man in this cursed city treat her poorly. Even for a moment. For if they saw even a trace of weakness in her, it would be her undoing.

A wave of laughter filled the air at her back.

Shahrzad’s body froze at the sound of it.

Salim.

“Just as silver-tongued as ever, my lady.” He clapped his hands as though he meant to applaud her. The sound rang in her ears, sharp and crackling.

Shahrzad did not turn around. Would not dare give him the satisfaction. Instead she faced forward and put on a show of affecting a lighthearted expression.

“Your soldiers could stand to learn a lesson in respect, my lord.” Shahrzad grinned as the Sultan of Parthia came into view.

Salim returned her strident greeting by bowing with a flourish. “And I suppose you intend to give it to them?” He braced a hand on the gleaming hilt of his scimitar.

A hand meant to remind Shahrzad of her position.

“Well, someone should.” She grazed her fingertips across her forehead as she emulated his mocking obeisance.

Jahandar al-Khayzuran followed the sultan, dressed in his silken finery, palms folded before him, his expression warring between pensive and perturbed.

Either her father did not know she and Salim had already established a troubling rapport or he was laboring to conceal the knowledge. Shahrzad refrained from meeting her father’s gaze. The betrayal was still too fresh. And she did not want Salim to know how at odds they were.

How hurt she was by her father’s treachery.

Salim moved to sit across from Shahrzad, a tranquil elegance to each of his movements. His heavily embroidered mantle and his beautifully tailored garments were just as overwrought as his palace. Like a simpering cat recently fed on the richest cream, Salim smiled at Shahrzad, his perfect mustache sloping above his wolfish teeth.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit us in Amardha, Shahrzad-jan. It’s been long overdue.”

“Visit?” Shahrzad peaked a brow. “That’s a rather interesting choice of words.”

Salim lounged, his elbow against the sapphire cushion to his left. “Surely you prefer it here to that tribal outpost you’ve been forced to bide your time in for the past few weeks.”

“I couldn’t say. My doors were never locked in that tribal outpost.”

“Indeed.” He aimed another spurious grin her way. “Do tents have doors?”

“Indeed they do not. But at least I had the pleasure of my sister’s company there. I don’t suppose you’d care to—”

“Of course! How inconsiderate of me. You must be quite hungry.” Salim laughed, motioning toward the double doors behind her. Her father did not even bother turning as he fidgeted with the scalloped spoon beside his plate.

Shahrzad heard them swing open, and the scent of butter and spices wafted her way. Despite her resolve not to eat a morsel until she’d learned of Irsa’s whereabouts, the intoxicating aroma made it rather difficult for her to stand firm in this conviction. When the servants placed a silver platter of spiced potatoes before her, along with a perfect mound of pistachio-and-pomegranate rice surrounded by skewers of saffron chicken, still-flaming lamb kebabs, and steaming tomatoes all heaped upon ornate serving trays, Shahrzad’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

She could not remember the last time she had eaten so well.

Her mouth salivated at the smell of the simmering stew set before her—one of aromatic lentils and caramelized onions. The sweet scent of cinnamon and cloves called to her, the dates and the aubergines taunting her even further.

The last straw was the sight of the quince chutney.

Shahrzad sat on her hands.

“Are you not hungry?” Salim asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I’ve selected dishes I’m told are your favorites.”

Her father frowned at her. “Shahrzad-jan, the sultan’s daughter told the cook to prepare a special meal in your honor.”

“I’m sure she did,” Shahrzad muttered, gnawing the inside of her cheek.

“Perhaps my daughter can persuade you to eat.” The light in Salim’s eyes burned bright as he glanced over her shoulder.

Shahrzad did not look behind her, for the last thing she wanted to see at the moment was the perfect smile of Yasmine el-Sharif.

If she attempts to bait me tonight, it will not be soot I smear on her teeth.

No.

It will be my fist.

“Come, daughter,” Salim called out. “Our guest is quite excited to see you.”

Indeed. Positively thrilled.

Shahrzad pursed her lips and wrapped her fingers around the silken cushion at her sides as though it would imbue her with the strength to remain calm.

The soft shuffle of slippered footsteps on polished granite emanated nearby.

With obvious reluctance, Shahrzad lifted her gaze.

Eyes the color of a cerulean sky sparkled down at her.

Shahrzad’s chin struck her collarbone in horror.

“Hello, Brat Calipha.”

Despina.

Many things happened all at once.

First, Shahrzad bolted to her feet, intent on attacking her former handmaiden. A flurry of motion converged upon them.

Before the guards could reach her, Shahrzad stopped short.

Her reaction was not a result of the soldiers’ unspoken threat. Nor was it a result of some misplaced sense of propriety. Alas with Shahrzad, it was never that. It was something else entirely.

It was worry. Worry for a former friend. Worry for a child not yet born.

Just as soon as the worry coursed through Shahrzad, it was eclipsed by another tide of emotion.

Bitterness. Black and choking bitterness.

Her gaze flicked over the sweeping curves of the girl before her—always lovely—and now even more resplendent, in a dress of amethyst silk, gathered at both shoulders by copper cuffs forming shimmering folds. These silken folds fell to Despina’s feet in streams of lilac and mauve. The deep cut of the garment only accentuated her beautiful shape, as did the high waist and the copper sash, embellished with brilliant gemstones of vivid purple and blush pink, encircled in rose gold. Her honey-walnut hair was piled atop her head in an ornate arrangement adorned with a band of glittering jewels.

A crown.

The bitterness swelled within Shahrzad.

Despina had been many things to Shahrzad once. She’d been a friend when Shahrzad had most needed it. A confidante where Shahrzad had had none. But it was clear everything Shahrzad had known about Despina had been cloaked in lies. For it was beyond evident she was even more things now. The secret daughter of Salim Ali el-Sharif. A princess of Parthia. A spy and a deceiver.

Above all things, it was clear Despina had never been Shahrzad’s friend.

“Was there ever a moment in which you told me the truth?” Shahrzad demanded in a raw whisper.

Despina’s lips gathered into a perfect moue. An all-too-familiar one. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me? I’m married now. Or haven’t you heard?” Her moue slid into a grin.

Over Despina’s shoulder, Yasmine walked closer, with an uneasy laugh and a reticent gait. Amidst all the recent confusion, Shahrzad had not even seen the daughter she’d known about—the daughter she’d been expecting.

At least Yasmine has the grace to feel embarrassed.

For Yasmine el-Sharif did seem oddly out of place. Though she looked every bit as stunning as Shahrzad remembered—her mahogany hair a profusion of waves down her back, and her emerald skirt’s gentle sway hinting at the sort of grace no amount of practice could ever perfect—the princess also did not seem to want to take part in this terrible unveiling. She continued glancing over her shoulder as though she meant to flee.

The girl seemed as though she wanted to be anywhere but here.

Shahrzad’s eyes returned to Despina. “Married? What poor fool have you duped into marriage?”

Despina winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She floated into the seat beside her father. “But congratulations are due, nonetheless. For it just so happens my husband is a good friend of yours.”

Still inexplicably taciturn, Yasmine took the place next to Despina, while Jahandar sat beside Shahrzad. He shot her a nervous glance full of warning, which Shahrzad promptly ignored.

The feast before her forgotten in a sea of rage, Shahrzad glowered at her devious former handmaiden, as moments from their shared past drifted hot and fast into her present.

“A good spy would hide her identity.”

“The best spies don’t have to.”

So many conversations shared over so many cups of tea.

So many supposed confidences.

Despina’s mother had been one of the most famous beauties in all of Cadmeia. Her father had been a rich man who’d left them both behind for a brighter future.

Or had he? What could Shahrzad believe of the tales she’d been told?

Of course Despina would not want to marry Jalal! Of course she would not want to marry into the family she’d been spying on for so many years! Of course she would flee! Only to return to her father’s waiting arms . . . and all-too-eager ears.

Only to betray Shahrzad. And all those she loved.

How could I have been so stupid?

“How could you do this to us?” Shahrzad whispered. “I treated you as a friend. You told me Khalid was kind to you.”

“The Caliph of Khorasan is kind to no one,” Despina replied airily. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten how you first came to be at the palace?” She snorted. “I daresay that’s rather convenient.”

The sultan laughed, rich and robust. Despina had the gall to simper in his direction. Now that they sat close to each other, Shahrzad could see it. Though it was not a resemblance readily apparent when they were apart. Despina must have acquired her coloring from her mother, but her bearing was much like that of the sultan. Haughty. Proud. Her bone structure was similar to his as well. A sharp brow and a high set of cheekbones. Indeed, Shahrzad could even see similarities between Despina and Yasmine. An ethereal sort of beauty. Regal in its manner.

No wonder Despina had slipped past everyone with such ready ease. Such brazen charm. It was born to her. She was meant to reside in a palace. To slither and snake her way into its inner circle, with the very best of the vipers.

In a mere six years, she’d managed to earn the trust of the Caliph of Khorasan.

And the heart of the captain of the guard.

“How could you do this to Jalal?” Shahrzad asked, her nails digging into her palms as she tried in vain to suppress her seething outrage.

Her expression unnervingly apathetic, Despina spooned some pomegranate-and-pistachio rice onto her plate. “Alas, Jalal al-Khoury’s sentiments are no longer my concern.” Then she smirked at Shahrzad, and the feigned sympathy behind it made Shahrzad want to tear the band of shining stones from her crown of curls. “But rest assured. The captain of the guard will have no trouble finding a willing girl to soothe his injured pride, of that I am certain.” The last words savored strangely of bitterness.

Shahrzad clenched her teeth, willing herself to stay silent and still. She caught Yasmine considering her through half-lidded eyes.

It was unlike the princess to be so quiet. It surprised Shahrzad, but then Yasmine el-Sharif had surprised her on more than one occasion. Again, Shahrzad felt as though Yasmine wished to speak but perhaps had yet to form an opinion. Or lacked the necessary nerve in front of her father.

Nevertheless, Yasmine looked for all the world displeased. For an instant, Shahrzad thought to engage her. But the beautiful girl would not look her in the eye. Still refused to see her as anything but an enemy.

Not an equal.

Shahrzad continued glaring at Despina while the former handmaiden laughed and joked with the Sultan of Parthia—with her father—as though she had not spent years in a world of deceit.

In the midst of Shahrzad’s roiling thoughts, a sudden realization rose quickly to the surface.

Despina could not have lied about being pregnant.

For Shahrzad remembered how Despina had fallen ill before her eyes.

Shahrzad let her shoulders relax. She reached for her jewel-encrusted goblet of wine. “Uncle Salim,” she began in a cool tone, “are you aware of your daughter’s pregnancy? Or did she fail to tell you that she is in fact with child?”

“Of course he is aware of it,” Despina replied without missing a beat. “I told you, I am married. It stands to reason I might be with child.”

Even more lies.

“Is that so?” Shahrzad clenched her jaw, then took a sip of wine, trying to steady herself. “And what did you do with your supposed husband? Toss him into the sea when you were done with him?”

“Oh, no.” Despina’s eyes shone bright. “He is safely stowed away, where he will cause me no trouble.”

“Then you brought the poor lout with you?” Shahrzad all but sneered.

“Of course.”

“What kind of fool husband is this?”

“The best kind. The type to say very little.”

“Will you never stop lying?” Shahrzad said through her teeth. She turned with pointed intent toward Salim. “My lord, did you know the father of her child is—”

“The caliph’s favorite bodyguard,” Despina finished with a slow smile.

Shahrzad blinked once. Twice. “What?” she yelled, slamming her wine goblet onto the table.

Again, a pair of guards materialized from the shadows.

Despina aimed a cutthroat grin her way. “Vikram Singh is the father. Did you not know? And here I thought you two were rather close.”

The—Rajput? Vikram is here? I thought he had perished the night of the storm.

Stunned into silence for the second time that evening, Shahrzad continued staring at her former handmaiden, trying to reconcile all she’d seen with all that had long been thought and said.

No. That is not possible. Where is the truth in all these lies?

“Don’t worry, Shahrzad,” Despina said. “Vikram is safe. Or, rather, he’s as safe as he can be, given the circumstances.”

Immediately, Shahrzad’s most pressing questions melted away. “What have you done with Vikram?”

To her right, she heard Jahandar stifle a troubled sigh. A sigh meant to silence her questions.

“Father?” Despina looked toward the immensely pleased face of Salim Ali el-Sharif.

Salim took a deep breath, as though he needed time to consider how best to respond. “My nephew’s most prized bodyguard is exactly where he should be—in a place reserved for those who fail to hold their tongues on matters that are no longer their concern.”

“And what matters might those be?” Shahrzad asked in a furious whisper.

“Well, as my daughter’s husband, he should care more for his family rather than for yours, should he not?”

“Forgive me, Uncle Salim. I thought we were one and the same.”

A sharp pause. “No, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran. We are not.”

Jahandar gasped quietly beside his daughter.

Again, Shahrzad wrapped her fingers around the silken cushions at her sides. “So then, we have come to it. Enough with the pleasantries. What do you mean to do with me?”

Salim leaned forward, bracing his elbows along the table’s gilded edge. “What do you suppose I shall do?”

“That depends on what you expect Khalid to do,” Shahrzad bit out.

“I expect him to come for you.”

“And what do you think will happen when he does? Besides your utter annihilation.”

Yasmine finally met Shahrzad’s gaze. “Father—”

Salim did not even grace his daughter with a look. “I expect he will do what he’s been too cowardly to do for years—meet me in the desert with a proper army. And fight to see who deserves to rule these lands.”

Despite the fear that spiked within her—knowing Khalid still lacked a proper army—a scoff escaped Shahrzad’s lips, its sound dripping with derision. “Khalid has never been a coward a day in his life. No matter how much you howl into the wind, it will never bow to you. And you’re a fool if you think it will be that easy.”

At that, Jahandar’s body curved in on itself, as if preparing for the next blow.

Yasmine sucked in a breath, and Shahrzad could not help but glance her way. The Princess of Parthia aimed a look of warning at her.

Behind it Shahrzad saw a flash of sympathy.

“Easy?” Salim began, the word bursting from a caustic round of laughter. “Do you think this has been easy? Nothing about this has been easy. It has been years in the making. Years spent watching that sullen boy flout me at every turn. Years spent watching him deny my daughter!” A fist crashed beside his plate. “The only thing that saved him from being called bastard was his uncanny resemblance to his father.”

Though Shahrzad caught the second look of caution Yasmine threw her way, she ignored it. “That and the fact that you were afraid of him.”

Jahandar gripped her wrist beneath the table.

A rush of anger swelled across Salim’s face. “I have never been afraid of him.”

“You lie as your spiteful daughter lies.” Shahrzad smiled. “You’ve always been afraid of him.”

“Shahrzad!” Jahandar exclaimed, finally electing to speak out.

Only to side with Shahrzad’s enemy.

“Baba, say nothing more.”

“Daughter, you have defied me—”

At that, Shahrzad tore her arm from his grasp. “And you have brought me here against my will, to be used as a pawn by these despicable liars!”

“I thought to bring you here to negotiate a truce. To help ease these wounds!”

“To help whom?” Shahrzad accused. “For it seems as though the only person you sought to help was yourself!”

The color rose in Jahandar’s face, first in a flush of red. Then in a wash of white.

He looked away.

But he did not deny it.

“How does it feel, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran?” Despina said in a melodious voice. “To be treated as a slave? To be the servant of people who see themselves as above you, when you know in your heart that you are the same?”

“Ask your father,” Shahrzad retorted.

“I’d rather ask your husband. When I next see him . . . kneeling at my feet.”

Without hesitation, Shahrzad splashed the remainder of her wine in Despina’s face.

The guards rushed at her, hauling her to her feet and dragging her from the table.

“Where is my sister?” Shahrzad screamed. “Where is Vikram? What have you done with them?”

Despina wiped her chin with the edge of a linen napkin, utterly calm. “If she wants so badly to see her former bodyguard, then take her to him. And leave her there to rot.”

Jahandar sat rigid at the table, burying his face in his shaking hands. He did not even glance her way as Shahrzad continued hurling obscenities into the air.

The guards dragged her through the lamplit halls. After a time, Shahrzad put up little resistance. For they meant to shame her as they hauled her along, like the carcass of a dying beast. And she would not give them the satisfaction. The arched corridors took on an even more garish look as she passed beneath their jewel-inlaid alcoves, going deeper into the sandstone palace. The scent of smoke from the guards’ torches caught in Shahrzad’s throat, causing her eyes to water.

They dragged her down a series of winding stone stairwells until they progressed into the underbelly of the palace, where the dank cold and the stench of decay took on a life of its own. Where it grew thick upon the walls as it seeped its way through the cracks.

The cells of the palace’s prison were barred by large iron grates, shaped into crooked half-moons. The ceilings were low and the floors were covered in dingy straw. Mold saturated the space, musty and thick. At every other cell a single torch lit the lichen-covered walls, barely offering any light.

The scar-faced, leering guard from earlier yanked Shahrzad against a wet stone wall. Its uneven surface rammed into the small of her back, jostling her injured shoulder and ripping a gasp from her throat.

“Not so silver-tongued now, are you?” he said, his sour breath hot against her skin.

Shahrzad punched him in the stomach.

“Bitch!”

Another guard lifted her off the ground as though to shield her from any resulting blows. Her eyes connected with his, and for a moment Shahrzad thought she saw a flash of panic. The first guard doubled over, clutching his middle and hurling curses her way. Then he straightened and came for her again, his face contorted with rage.

The second guard put a hand on his arm, worry etched across his forehead. “Be careful. I won’t be fed to the crows in pieces. If the bastard boy-king discovers we’ve harmed her—”

“The bastard boy-king will never know. Especially after we’ve decimated his army and left his carcass to rot in the sands.” He shot a disdainful glance at the smaller guard. “Unless you believe we are on the losing side?”

The smaller guard shook his head. And looked away.

“Besides,” the first guard continued, “I won’t harm her.” With a wicked grin, he returned his attention to Shahrzad. “Not now, at least.”

“Touch me again and the crows will be the least of your worries,” she said.

He took her by the hair. “I doubt that very much.” The guard pulled her closer. He yanked a hooked dagger from his sash. “Don’t worry. I’ll save the lasting damage for some other night.”

With that, the guard sliced through Shahrzad’s braid at the shoulder.

A shower of seed pearls crashed to the cold stone floor.