OUTMATCHED

THE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF CLANKING METAL AND whickering horses filled the desert air with an odd sort of anticipation. Though Irsa had not yet decided if it was the good kind. Nevertheless, she paced on the outskirts of the newly formed camp, trying to remain lighthearted.

“This is exciting, isn’t it?” she began, glancing at Rahim sidelong.

He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. “Exciting is perhaps not the right word.”

Her expression fell. At that, Rahim reached for her hand. Irsa wrapped her fingers around his as though they were made for this, and only this.

They strolled through the bustling encampment. Members of the Royal Guard had already completed the work on Khalid’s tent and had now turned to their own. Badawi soldiers were busy raising Omar’s patchwork structure.

Their hands still entwined, Rahim and Irsa watched the men work in silent concert.

“Are you frightened?” Irsa asked.

He did not answer right away. “A bit. In most of the battles we’ve fought, we’ve had the advantage of surprise. And there is little chance for surprise when you march to the gates of a city and promptly set up camp.” Rahim laughed softly. “But the caliph seems to be a sound strategist. And he doesn’t seem prone to wasting life unnecessarily.”

“You like him.” Irsa grinned. “Don’t you?”

“Not really.” Rahim snorted.

But Irsa knew otherwise. She knew he at least respected Khalid a great deal more than he let on. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Tariq.”

“Tell him if you must.” They rounded the shadowed side of a small dune on the edges of the encampment. “It won’t change a thing. Tariq and I are kept beyond the inner circle for the most part.” Rahim kicked a stone from their path. “Tariq is still incensed that he won’t be allowed to go into Amardha with the caliph when he demands the sultan’s surrender.”

Irsa frowned. “I don’t understand why he would want to go. To be honest, I don’t even understand why Khalid wishes to go. That awful man will be unlikely to return Shazi just because he is asked to do so.”

“Even so, I understand why both of them want to go into Amardha and try.” Rahim came to a halt, then turned to shield Irsa from a gust of sand blowing their way.

Irsa shaded her eyes. “But you still disagree with Khalid.”

“I think the caliph should take us with him,” Rahim said firmly. “There’s no finer archer than Tariq in the camp. The caliph is taking the young magus from the Fire Temple with him for protection, along with the captain of the guard. They’ll definitely keep the caliph safe, but I don’t know if they would risk his safety for Shazi’s sake. I’d much prefer it if others were involved. Others whom I trust.”

“Do you believe the sultan will actually surrender to Khalid?” Irsa looked up, her features dubious.

“It’s less about demanding surrender and more about learning whether or not Shazi is still in the city.”

“You’re worried the sultan has harmed her.” It was not a question.

Rahim sighed. “He would be foolish to hurt Shahrzad. For years, he’s been outmatched in all ways. Though Parthia is a wealthy kingdom, it’s never been able to hold a candle to Khorasan. Our armies, our coffers, our rulers have always been stronger.”

“Until the storm,” Irsa said quietly.

Rahim nodded.

Irsa turned her gaze toward the Sea of Sand. “Rahim . . . do you think he would hurt Shazi?”

His hands shifted to cup her face. “You know as well as I that Shahrzad can take care of herself.” Rahim brushed his thumbs across her cheeks.

Irsa wanted to believe Rahim. But she could not forget the events of that terrible afternoon in the desert with Spider. That terrible afternoon she and Rahim had witnessed Shahrzad fall prey to hatred.

Had they not been there to help Shazi, something unspeakable might have happened that day. Had Rahim not been there, her sister might have died. Rahim had been Irsa’s voice of reason through the turmoil. He’d never flinched from danger. He’d been swift and capable at all turns.

Irsa could not forget. And she could not help but remember that Spider had disappeared from camp the following day.

No. She would never forget that there were treacherous insects lurking where she least expected them.

Irsa lifted her chin. “I’ll ask Khalid.”

“What?” Rahim blinked.

“I’ll ask him to take you and Tariq with him when he goes to Amardha. As a favor to me.”

A mixture of surprise and gratitude washed across Rahim’s features. “Thank you, Irsa-jan.” He smiled. “Though I didn’t plan for you to speak on our behalf, I thank you.”

“Please,” Irsa whispered. “Please bring her back safe.” Again, Irsa recalled how Rahim had helped her rescue Shahrzad with very little bloodshed. “I know you’ll think of a way.”

He kissed her hand. Then they continued walking along the camp’s periphery.

After a time, Irsa stopped. “We shouldn’t stray too far from Omar’s tent.”

“No.” Rahim laughed morosely. “For I don’t wish to receive another one of his infamous lectures.”

“You can hardly blame him. They looked for us for hours the day Shahrzad disappeared. And we worried them horribly.” Irsa felt the weight of guilt settle upon her once more. Though everyone had assured her there was nothing she could have done to save her sister—that she, too, would likely have been taken—Irsa still felt guilty for having wandered off with Rahim.

They made the journey back toward Omar’s tent in pensive silence. Aisha was standing outside, her expression warring between a smile and a frown.

Before a word of chastisement could be said, Irsa stood on her toes to speak in Rahim’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Khalid.” She felt the familiar warmth curl through her stomach when Rahim brushed his forehead closer. “I’ll make sure he listens.”

“I know.” He looked at her with guileless eyes. “That’s why I love you.”

Tariq had not expected the Sultan of Parthia to invite them into his palace. He’d expected the ruler of the warring kingdom to meet them in the desert.

With a host of his own.

Instead, the sultan had sent a messenger, requesting to speak with the caliph in person.

So the caliph made the decision to ride into Amardha, under a flag of truce.

The shahrban had been staunchly against it. But the caliph had been adamant, citing the wisdom behind knowing his enemy’s intentions. Understanding the game Salim Ali el-Sharif meant to play. The caliph had refused to show a hint of fear.

Tariq suspected the caliph wished, above all, to know of Shahrzad’s whereabouts. Just as he did. Whether it was unwise or imprudent remained to be seen. But it would be difficult to lay siege to the city without first knowing whether Shahrzad was within its walls. Without first knowing whether they could rescue her.

Without first knowing whether she was safe.

So that very afternoon, Tariq, Rahim, the captain of the Royal Guard, a bald-headed boy from the eastern mountains, and a small contingent of guards accompanied the caliph into Amardha. Into a palace Tariq could only describe as beyond opulent. The marble fountains lining its courtyards were studded with jewels. The water itself seemed to sparkle as though it had been littered with the dust of discarded diamonds.

The caliph met the sultan in the main courtyard. For he’d refused to set foot in the palace proper. He did not speak when the sultan strode toward him, a wide smile cutting across his elegantly unctuous face.

“Khalid-jan!” the sultan began. “You’ve brought a larger party with you than we agreed upon. I thought it was to be just you and the captain of the guard.”

The caliph did not respond. He merely stood still, cold and intractable.

A shadow crossed the sultan’s countenance. “Such behavior could be construed as a threat, nephew—coming to my city’s gates with a host at your back, only to disregard the simplest of my requests.”

“I care not how you construe my actions,” the caliph replied, his words a whispered barb. “I only care that you know this: you will pay for what you have done.”

“Pay?” The sultan looped his arms across his chest, the sleeves of his lavishly trimmed mantle shimmering in the afternoon sun.

“I will not play these games with you, Salim. Where is she?”

Another smug smile. “Have you lost something of import, nephew?”

At that, Tariq took a step forward. The captain of the guard lifted a hand to stop him.

“I have not lost a thing, Salim Ali el-Sharif. You will tell me where Shahrzad is now. Before the words are forced from your tongue.” A muscle worked in the caliph’s jaw. “Before your city is reduced to ash.”

The sultan’s bodyguards flocked to his side, their hands upon the hilts of their swords.

“Bold,” the sultan mused, utterly unmoved. “Especially in my palace. On my lands.”

“This is your palace—these are your lands—at my discretion. As they always have been.”

“Such arrogance.” The sultan snorted. “If you believed so, why have you not taken them?”

“Out of respect. And because I did not wish to bring war upon us.”

“Respect?” Disbelief registered on the sultan’s face. “For whom?”

“For my brother’s family.”

“Misguided. If you truly thought Parthia so easily won, you would have taken it by now.”

“I am not nearly as greedy as you may think,” the caliph said with disdain. “I possess twice your bannermen, and you are outmatched in soldiers and weaponry by more than half. As to the pitiful force you tried to rally in the desert, do you think I could not have ridden through them in an afternoon, if put to task?”

“I think you are a conceited child of ridiculous words, just like your mother.”

The caliph remained placid, even at the slight to his mother. “Then chance it. But I will raze this palace, stone by stone, as you waste that chance. And if you are still in it while I do so? Then so be it.” He turned to leave without giving the sultan a chance to respond.

“I doubt you’ll do that, you whoreson. I doubt that very much.” With that, Salim tossed something in their direction.

It slid past the caliph’s feet.

It took Tariq a moment to recognize it.

In the same instant he did, he wished he had not. Wished he did not know enough to recognize what lay strewn across the pavestones of the sultan’s lavish courtyard. What it was to feel such a thing.

What it was to burn with fear and hate in the very same breath.

It was a length of black braid, wrapped in a broken string of pearls.

The party halted in their tracks.

“My soldiers tell me she smells like a spring garden,” the sultan said softly, without a hint of emotion. Then he smiled. Slowly. Cruelly.

Tariq unsheathed his sword.

All he saw before him was blood.

Khalid had known his uncle Salim would try to provoke him.

But he had not known the depths to which the Sultan of Parthia would descend.

When Khalid first saw what his uncle had tossed across the stones, there had been a moment—less than a moment—where the world around Khalid had been reduced to cinder. Where all he’d wanted to do was crush something between his hands and watch it crumble to pieces.

But he’d realized in the next instant what Salim had done. What he meant for Khalid to do. And though Khalid wanted nothing more than to oblige him, blind rage would not serve a purpose beyond this moment.

Blind rage was the action of a boy who existed in the shadows.

Not the king Khalid wished to be.

Salim wanted an excuse to attack Khalid in cold blood. To kill him in this courtyard, before a string of witnesses. To massacre Khalid in defense of himself.

For it was the best way to ensure a legitimate ascension to the throne. One that did not have the stink of treachery to it.

So Khalid remained still, the fury boiling in his blood, searing fast in his throat.

He did nothing. Said nothing. Made to turn away from the provocation. To stride back into the desert, with plans to rail at the skies later, when he was alone.

Khalid would make the Sultan of Parthia pay for what he had done.

There were a hundred ways to make him pay. A thousand.

But not now. Not in this moment.

Alas, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad did not know the things Khalid did.

So when the boy drew his sword and charged the Sultan of Parthia, Khalid knew what would transpire before anyone else did.

A legion of soldiers materialized from the shadows of the courtyard, ready to defend their sultan. Ready to strike down anyone who dared to assault their king.

Khalid ripped his shamshir from its scabbard without a second thought.

“Get back!” he yelled at Tariq, grabbing the boy by the shoulder.

Khalid swung his sword to defend the boy from the first blow. Tariq managed to deflect the next attack with an able parry of his own. He stood at Khalid’s back as a swarm of soldiers surrounded them, wielding flashes of menacing silver. Soon, the sound of swords being torn from their sheaths emanated on all sides.

Though the blood raged through his body, Khalid felt his heart plunge like a stone in his stomach. This was not a battle they could win. They were grossly outnumbered. Outmatched, in all ways.

Nevertheless, Khalid separated his shamshir into two as a pair of soldiers charged his way. As all chaos broke loose. He glanced to his right, expecting to see Jalal there. As he always had been. Ever since Khalid was a small boy. Ever since Hassan died. But when Khalid looked to either side of him, he realized he fought alone. His cousin battled several soldiers far across the way.

Jalal did not even pause to look for Khalid. Just as he’d stated that afternoon before the steps of Rey’s library, Jalal would no longer keep watch over Khalid’s shadow. Would no longer worry unduly over his cousin.

Over the king who’d betrayed his confidences.

Khalid gripped the hilts of his swords tighter.

The soldiers were closing in on them. Khalid saw one of his men fall beneath the wicked slice of a blade. He knew they had to make it to the higher ground surrounding the sunken courtyard if they were ever going to have a chance to reach the gates.

“Jalal!” Khalid called out, trying to convey his intentions in a glance.

But his cousin could not hear him above the fray. Khalid whipped around one of Salim’s soldiers, then slashed across his face and chest with both swords. Streams of crimson followed in his wake, staining the sandstone at his feet.

“Jalal!” At that, both his cousin and Artan Temujin, who was fighting to make his way through the crush of bodies toward Salim, turned in his direction.

Khalid saw his cousin’s eyes go wide in the same instant Artan shouted a warning. For Khalid did not see the soldier from behind him until it was too late. He spun in an attempt to deflect the blow—

Then from his right, a figure emerged to repel the onslaught.

To save him.

It was the boy Khalid had fought that night in the desert.

Rahim.

Tariq Imran al-Ziyad’s friend. Irsa al-Khayzuran’s love.

Khalid saw in a crushing moment, as two more soldiers converged in their direction, as Khalid’s swords swung to disarm the sentry before him . . .

That Rahim would not succeed in fending off the next wave.

A sword pierced through Rahim’s stomach from behind.

Khalid cut at his attacker and kicked him away. Then slashed to defend Rahim. He pulled him close, yelling for help. No one could hear Khalid through the clanging of metal and the shouts of wounded men.

Then everything around Khalid came to a sudden halt.

At Salim’s request.

For when Khalid looked up, he saw Artan Temujin a stone’s throw from the Sultan of Parthia, the magus’s palms wide by his shoulders—

And a halo of fire spinning about Salim Ali el-Sharif’s head.

Salim stood motionless, his eyes bulging with fear.

“You will let us go,” Artan said loudly. “You will not follow us.” He began to back away, his hands widening as the halo of fire grew about the sultan’s head. “And, in the future, you will seriously take to heart the meaning of civil discourse.”

Shahrzad said nothing as Vikram lifted both hands to the metal grate of her cell. He breathed onto the iron in a slow exhalation of air, and the metal began to glow red.

She had long forgotten the demonstration in the training courtyard those few months ago. But in that instant, the memory returned; the Scourge of Hindustan had been a fire-breather. Had set his talwar ablaze in a rush of air. Had finished the drill wielding a screaming dragon of a weapon.

Now she watched as he bent the molten metal without even the slightest singe to his skin. Once he’d widened a space large enough, he made his way into her cell.

“We haven’t much time,” Vikram muttered as he came to her side. “The soldiers may check on you again soon.” A low oath passed through his lips when he saw the chains binding her wrists and ankles.

“How—”

“Now is not the time for such questions, little troublemaker.” He grunted in frustration as he considered her manacles. “I can melt the links near to the cuffs, but you will likely make enough noise to rouse the dead when we move about. Which will be of no help to anyone. And these cuffs are heavy. Which is also quite unhelpful.”

Shahrzad nodded, still at a loss for words. She’d never heard the Rajput say so many things in one breath.

In hindsight, perhaps his tale of the banyan tree qualified.

Vikram lifted a length of chain beside her feet. The sound of metal striking metal echoed with a thunderous clank. “When I melt the chain, the cuffs will become hot. They may burn you.”

“I’d rather be burned than remain chained in this cell.”

“As I suspected.” He coughed with amusement. “Know there was a time not long ago when I would happily have left you to rot in this cell.”

It took her only a moment to remember. The night of the storm, Shahrzad had betrayed Khalid in Vikram’s eyes. Had betrayed him. “I can explain—”

“That time has passed.” Vikram wrapped both hands around the links by her ankles and let a slow whisper of air pass between his lips.

As the metal began to grow hot against her skin, the familiar tingling around Shahrzad’s heart flashed to life. Taken aback by the sensation, she let in a sharp breath.

The feeling flared through her as the heat grew. As the chains began to take on a fiery glow.

In that instant, Shahrzad felt a thread take hold within her. A sudden, undeniable spark. For though she knew the chains were becoming hot, she felt little pain. Just a growing awareness. This thread called to her as she continued studying the metal. As she continued watching Vikram work to melt through the chains.

Is it possible . . .

Throwing all caution to the wind, Shahrzad placed both palms on the cuffs at her ankles. Just like the magic carpet.

“What are you doing?” the Rajput demanded in a guttural whisper, his black-as-night gaze cutting to hers.

She did not respond.

Just as she’d expected, Shahrzad continued to feel little pain, though she knew the iron was now hot enough to sear. At her touch, the magic Vikram had fed into the metal spread through her like a flame licking through oil.

Once she felt a link to it—felt that thread within her pull taut as it connected to the magic within her—Shahrzad willed the cuffs to fall away. Willed the magic to follow her unspoken directive.

The glowing cuffs dropped to the floor.

Not knowing what else to do in response, Shahrzad laughed.

Artan had been wrong. Yet he’d been so very right. True, she should not have run from his attempts to provoke her those nights on the beach. Yes, she should have faced her fears head-on. But not in the way Artan had imagined. For the magic within her worked on touch. Only when she willed those things around her—those things imbued with the same strange powers as she—could Shahrzad manipulate her power.

Just as she’d suspected. Shahrzad took in magic from what was around her.

Vikram teetered to one side at the sight, his massive frame coming to rest a hairsbreadth from the dirty trickle of water by her slippered feet. “How—”

“Now is not the time for such questions . . .” she began in an almost teasing tone.

He grunted in distaste, then righted himself. “Such a troublemaker.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Shahrzad grinned. “Now help me with the bindings on my wrists so that we may find my sister and flee this godforsaken place.”