A BROTHER AND A HOME

IRSA DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF HER SISTER’S husband.

He was a confusing mixture of extremes, cloaked behind a black rida’.

With everyone else, he was chipped ice on a mountain. With her sister, he was a summer breeze across the sea.

Alas, this did little to change the fact that Irsa remained terrified of him. For she was quite certain he’d almost killed Tariq no less than three times since returning to the Badawi camp.

The first incident occurred not long after they arrived at Tariq’s tent. Though on that score, Irsa supposed the caliph’s enmity was somewhat warranted.

As soon as they concealed themselves within the tent, Irsa tried to remove Shahrzad’s bloodstained qamis, so as to better see the wound in question. Of course it was not appropriate for Tariq to assist her with this. Especially in the presence of Shahrzad’s husband. Surely Tariq could not have thought it was. Irsa was not quite certain why he’d even attempted to do so.

Foolish at best. A death wish at worst.

And in the face of a murdering madman?

A death likely to come about in any number of colorful ways.

Then, once the wound was cleaned, she and the caliph attempted to remove the arrowhead. Since neither of them was versed in such matters, it proved to be a challenging task, especially with Shahrzad’s combativeness coming to the fore. In the end, they were forced to consult with Tariq, as he had been the one to fashion the arrowhead in question.

With the purpose of exacting a great deal of damage.

With the intention of shredding skin and shattering bone.

Irsa was certain the caliph meant to murder Tariq at this admission. Unfortunately, it did not much help Tariq’s cause when he was the one to extract the arrowhead. After all, he was the one with the strongest understanding of its design. Not to mention the steady hands of a skilled archer. He managed to remove the arrowhead intact, which Irsa had been most grateful to see, despite the difficulty accompanying the effort.

Shahrzad bit down on a piece of worn leather while it was being done, and tears stained her cheeks for the duration. Though they all witnessed Shazi curse Tariq quite soundly afterward—which implied all was on its way to being mended—Irsa was still sure the caliph intended to do Tariq physical harm in the near future.

The last incident in which Tariq narrowly escaped an early demise occurred not long after Irsa cleaned Shahrzad’s wound a final time with a mixture of old wine and warm water. Not long after Irsa realized the wound would not stop bleeding anytime soon.

When she knew it would have to be sealed shut with a hot blade.

Shahrzad was not a girl to flinch away from such a thing. Nor was she a girl to lament a scar.

But Irsa knew this would not be a small thing to stomach. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Shahrzad had already lost a fair amount of blood. Any more and it would no longer be a matter they could successfully conceal from the rest of the camp. When Irsa brought her suggestion to light, Shahrzad agreed it was not to be further debated.

In the end it was done using the slender tip of Rahim’s khanjar dagger, so as to ensure the smallest scar. The caliph was the one to do it. At her sister’s behest.

Shahrzad lost consciousness in the process. In truth, Irsa was glad of it. For the smell of burnt flesh alone was enough to sicken her.

Again, Tariq nearly escaped death. Of that Irsa was quite certain.

For after the wound was sealed shut—when it was clear Shahrzad had lost all sense of herself—the caliph seized the front of Tariq’s qamis with his left hand, still clutching the hilt of the red-hot dagger in his right. Irsa felt the hatred gather in the space between them as sure as she felt the weariness take hold of her bones. The only thing stopping the caliph from seeing his wishes come to fruition was Rahim.

Rahim pulled Tariq away. Forced him to leave. Then followed him, an apologetic glance thrown over a shoulder.

Tariq had been quick to oblige, disappearing into the darkness, his face a storm of regret. But—thanks to Rahim—at least Tariq was still alive.

Now it was just Irsa and the caliph alone with Shahrzad. Alone in Tariq’s tent.

Irsa, alone . . . with an infamous murderer of young girls.

She finished wringing out the bloodied linen in a bowl of lukewarm water and stood, trying to stave off the settling fatigue. The caliph remained beside Shahrzad, studying the wound in her back and the fresh wrappings draped over it.

“When she wakes, I’ll bring her some barley tea with valerian root. It should help fend off the fever and let her sleep through the worst of the pain.” Irsa bit her lip, briefly lost in thought.

The caliph did not respond, nor did he look her way. Instead he remained focused on Shazi, his expression unreadable.

Irsa could not ignore her compulsion to fill the torturous silence with sound. “Though it seems foolish to say so,” she babbled. “I’m—grateful the arrow struck at such an odd angle, for the wound is not terribly deep. She’ll be sore for a few days, and I’m certain her shoulder will hurt her for a while, but . . . it could have been much worse.”

The caliph finally shifted his gaze from Shahrzad to regard Irsa with a set dispassion. “Yes,” he agreed. “It could have been much worse.” His eyes narrowed. “Had you not been there, many things could have been much worse. I thank you for that, Irsa al-Khayzuran.”

A nervous flush bloomed across her cheeks. After all, it was not every day the Caliph of Khorasan considered her as though she were a question he sought to answer. “Rahim . . . brought you a change of clothes.” Irsa took a calming breath. “There’s clean water in that pitcher there, and—should you need more—there’s a trough not far from here. I’m sure you’d like to wash away all the—blood. I can step outside if you wish . . . sayyidi.”

At that, the caliph waited to respond, as though he were gathering his thoughts. It was impossible for Irsa to tell, for he was impossible to read.

Impossible in every which way.

“There’s no need for you to call me that.”

A flare of surprise shot through Irsa, stilling her hands of their fidgeting. “But—”

“I’d like for you to call me Khalid.” The caliph braced his elbows on his knees. “Since you’ve already scolded me in typical al-Khayzuran fashion, it shouldn’t be too difficult.” An odd trace of humor flickered across his face.

Irsa’s flush spread from throat to hairline. “I—I apologize for that. I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“I disagree. I think—of all of us—you were the only one precisely in your right mind.”

The intense way the caliph looked at her—as though he could see past her eyes into her very mind—only deepened Irsa’s feeling of awkwardness. She brushed back the strands of wispy hair that had fallen into her face. “I suppose you were a bit . . . hot-tempered.”

The suggestion of a smile played across his lips. “A fault for which I’m sure to be reprimanded in the near future.” He glanced down at the sleeping figure of Shahrzad. “Deservedly.”

“Yes.” Irsa smothered a grin, despite her unease. “You probably will be—though how Shahrzad can manage to reprimand anyone for possessing a bad temper, I will never understand.”

At that, the caliph truly smiled. The gesture managed to soften all the edges of his profile, rendering him almost . . . boyish. Almost beautiful.

Absolutely less monstrous.

The realization caught Irsa off guard. It was the first time she truly grasped the fact that the Caliph of Khorasan was still only a few years older than she.

Still only a boy in his own right.

And perhaps a boy with a bit more to him than the stories foretold.

Irsa wove her braid between her fingers in careful consideration of this fact.

Once again, they both fell silent.

“I understand your discomfort around me,” the caliph said quietly. “My behavior earlier was reprehensible. And I’d like to apologize for it.”

When Irsa’s face reddened a second time, it was for an entirely different reason.

“I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day,” he continued.

She nodded, still searching for the right words.

The caliph rubbed his neck, then angled himself away from the light. Almost hesitating. “May I ask where your father’s book is?”

Though he spoke in hushed tones, Irsa looked to the tent’s entrance before answering. “It’s here,” she whispered. “In my satchel.”

The caliph’s expression lost a hint of its starkness. He returned to studying Irsa, his face creasing and uncreasing with his unspoken thoughts. “I don’t”—he inhaled through his nose—“I’ve never had a sister.” His thick brows flattened, casting a darker shadow above his eyes. “And there’s never been a time I’ve stopped to form an opinion on the matter. Have you ever stopped to think what it would be like to have a brother?”

“Well, I—I don’t have a brother.”

But in truth Irsa had always wanted one. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d considered what it would be like to have someone to look up to, as a sister would a brother. Someone to tease her, as only a brother could. Someone to watch over her and needle her when it was both necessary and unnecessary.

For many years, Irsa had thought to find this brother in Tariq. But Tariq had always been occupied by other, grander things—bows and arrows and bets and falcons. Grander things that befit a boy such as he. Much like Shahrzad. And Irsa had never truly resented it. For she’d always hoped things would change as they grew older.

That Tariq would see Irsa as his sister. And become a true brother to her in time.

The caliph inclined his head contemplatively. “Today when you yelled at me—it was the first time I realized what it might be like. To have a sister.”

“And what did you think?” Irsa whispered.

“I rather liked it.”

Her mouth fell ajar. “Even though I yelled at you?”

“In truth, that might have made all the difference.”

“Really?” Irsa blinked, astounded. “Goodness, but you’re odd. Has anyone ever told you that?”

His smile appeared again, just as mystifying as before. Then—

The Caliph of Khorasan laughed.

And it was not at all like she would have expected.

It was relaxed. Soft and melodic. Though it was definitely not a sound that appeared to have been much practiced, it was also not a self-conscious laugh. It was simply a laugh that spoke of a better time. A time when a small boy laughed at better, brighter things.

Irsa had the distinct feeling she was bearing witness to a rather extraordinary event.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying her best to be respectful, though she knew her behavior had already surpassed the notion. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were odd.”

“You did far more than insinuate; you said it outright.” The caliph’s eyes gleamed, but Irsa could detect no hint of menace in them.

“Yes.” She fiddled with her sleeve. “I suppose I did.”

“In any case, I am far from offended. In all things, I find myself grateful to you. I should probably say as much.”

Her gaze widened. Would she never cease to be surprised by him?

“Thank you . . .” His mouth slanted, as though he were still deliberating something. “Irsa.”

Irsa, too, found herself lost in a moment of deliberation. Then she came to a sudden, irrevocable decision.

“You’re welcome . . . Khalid.”

She aimed a crooked smile at him, and disbelief began warming its way through her. Before the color could rise into her cheeks, she collected the change of clothes Rahim had provided and passed them to the—to Khalid.

He stood and tugged the stained rida’ from his shoulders. Then he glided toward the pitcher of water, without a word.

Flustered by the budding understanding of why her sister might have chosen to love this supposed monster, Irsa fumbled for her satchel. She passed the linen-bound book to Khalid in a flurry. Then Irsa raced from the tent, her mind a muddle of thoughts.

She turned the corner into utter darkness.

And found Rahim pacing outside.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, drawing back.

He came up short at the sight of her. “I—I was . . .” He dragged a hand along the scruff at his jaw with a scritch. His voice had a gravelly quality to it. Even more so than usual. As though he’d been yelling to the heavens for an age.

“I guess I’m waiting for you,” Rahim finished, firming both his tone and his countenance. When he blinked, his ink-black lashes fanned against the soft skin of his eyelids with an almost sultry kind of slowness. “Waiting to see if you’re all right.”

“Oh.” Irsa tried not to sound eager. And failed miserably.

“Oh?”

She twisted her braid around her fingers. “Why didn’t you just come in?”

At that, Rahim shot her a morose smile. “He doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t think he likes many people.”

“He likes you.” His smile stayed fixed.

“You think so?”

Rahim nodded. “I’m sure of it. He listened to you. And he doesn’t strike me as the sort of king who does that often.” He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it as though he’d reconsidered the matter.

Irsa could no longer stomach it. Could no longer stomach not knowing all Rahim meant to say. Everything he thought, at any given time. She knew it was beyond the pale, but she wanted to know everything he ever wished or wanted, at all times.

At least now the reason behind such desires had a name.

Love.

Irsa had all but confessed her feelings in the desert. And she thought Rahim at least returned a measure of her sentiments. Or at the very least cared for her a great deal.

But he had yet to say a word on the matter.

Irsa wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, her throat suddenly dry. “Was there—something you wanted to tell me?”

He took in a breath through his nose. “There was . . . and yet there wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s just it.” Rahim sighed. “When I’m around you, you make me forget.”

“Forget?” Irritation began to gather at the bridge of her nose.

“At the same time you make me remember.”

“You’re confusing me, Rahim al-Din Walad.” Irsa crossed her arms as though that would conceal the sudden thrum of her heart.

Grinning, he scrubbed a palm over his tightly marcelled curls, knocking loose a shower of sand. “I should want to say a great many things to you, Irsa al-Khayzuran. I should want to thank you for saving me today. To thank you for saving my best friend. But”—Rahim took a slow step toward her—“that’s not what I want to do.”

“What—what do you want to do?” she breathed.

Another step. Too close and yet still so far away. “I want to ask you something.”

“Then ask it.” The warm scent of linseed oil and oranges reached out to Irsa, beckoning her even closer. Asking her to stay.

When Rahim swallowed, the heavy knot in his throat rose and fell.

“May I kiss you?”

“Why are you asking permission?” Irsa murmured. “Doesn’t that—ruin the moment?”

“No.” He smiled, but its edges wavered with a deeper meaning. “Because it’s not just a kiss.”

“Why is that?”

“Because when I kiss you, I want yours to be the first . . . and last lips I ever kiss.”

“Oh,” she said for the second time. For the last time.

It was a sigh and an acknowledgment, all at once.

“So”—Rahim reached up to push the hair back from her face—“may I kiss you, Irsa al-Khayzuran?”

Her heart stopped, then started anew, faster and more fervent than ever before.

“Yes.”

His face solemn, Rahim bent toward her, tipping her nose upward with his. She felt him tremble as he brushed a tentative kiss to the furrow of her lips, so soft at first. Then he settled his mouth fully against hers, and Irsa finally understood.

Understood what it meant to feel at home wherever you were. To feel as though you belonged in any moment, at any place, in any time.

Because at that moment, with the press of Rahim’s lips to hers, with the touch of his tongue sending wildfire through her veins, she knew she would always be home here.

With this boy. In this moment. In this time.

And that her heart would never be lonely again.

Tariq had wandered the whole of the Badawi camp twice. Both treks had been completed in a trance. All the while, his emotions had been a flurry of remorse and resentment. Of anger and anguish.

He did not know what to do.

The last thing Tariq had ever wanted to see was the girl he loved more than anything fall beneath his arrow. Fall to the blindness of his own rage.

And Tariq had watched. He’d watched all of it.

He’d been unable to turn away.

Because it was his fault.

Tariq had realized it the moment he’d released the arrow. The instant he’d loosed it from the sinew.

He’d wanted to take it back.

Of course Shahrzad had leapt to save the boy-king. She had always been one to give all to those she loved. Just as she’d been willing to risk all to avenge Shiva. In the end, it should have surprised no one—least of all Tariq—that Shahrzad had reached for the Caliph of Khorasan without a second thought.

But Tariq had not counted on the boy-king acting in kind. He’d not counted on him putting his life before hers. Without a moment’s hesitation.

Yet Tariq had watched him move to shield her with his own body.

Just as Tariq would have done.

Tariq knew then—as he’d known when he’d read the letter Shahrzad kept tucked in her cloak—that this was not an ordinary love born of a passing fancy.

In truth, Tariq had known even then that he could not win. That this was not a battle to be won.

Only a fool would have continued to think otherwise.

Yet Tariq had chosen to be a fool.

And he knew it now, with a cold, unwavering kind of certainty. The same kind of certainty he’d felt beneath the Grand Portico when he’d first realized Shahrzad loved the boy-king. He’d ignored the truth that fateful afternoon. But now, despite all Tariq’s rash dreaming, all his desperate thoughts that, one day, if Shahrzad and the boy-king were parted from each other long enough . . . Tariq knew his wishes would never come to pass.

Shahrzad would never return to Taleqan with him.

For she no longer belonged there.

She belonged in a palace of marble and stone. A queen, in her own right. With a boy-king who loved her, as she loved him. The boy-king she’d turned to tonight, at all times. First when the arrow had struck her, then when she’d been in immeasurable pain, and even when the question of a hot blade against her skin had been suggested in hushed tones—

Shahrzad had sought the solace of only one person.

It ached. It tore at every selfish part of Tariq’s soul. It ripped in two every memory of the years they’d shared together. Every day he’d waited for her to return. To see that they were meant for each other.

To realize the boy-king meant nothing.

Shahrzad and the Caliph of Khorasan had been together for only a few months. Apart for less than that. Yet each was willing to die for the other.

While Tariq had been willing to kill the boy-king, at nothing more than a glance.

How had their lives descended to this?

Love for hate, in the mere blink of an eye.

Again, the memory of Shahrzad crumpling beneath his arrow flew to the forefront of his mind. Tariq shuddered to a stop. In that moment, he’d made a thousand careless promises to a thousand faceless gods.

Among these promises, he recalled one that burned with a sudden, shining fervency: If you let her live, I’ll do anything you ask.

A heedless promise made as Tariq had hurled his bow aside and raced toward Shahrzad, unconcerned with anything beyond the girl lying before him.

Unconcerned with all—even the lasting memory of his own hatred.

Tariq paused before his tent. He had to speak with the boy-king—the caliph. He had to understand what it was Shahrzad understood. To know what she saw in Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. For a monster could not love as the Caliph of Khorasan loved. Could never care for Shahrzad with the tenderness Tariq had witnessed tonight.

Of that, he was certain.

His resolve hardening, Tariq ducked within his tent.

Irsa was inside, sitting next to Shahrzad’s motionless figure, a single taper casting a golden glow through the yawning darkness.

The caliph was nowhere to be found.

“Tariq.” Irsa glanced about nervously.

“Where is he?”

“He went to wash not long ago.” Irsa unfurled to her feet. “I just gave Shahrzad some tea to help her sleep.” She continued to look about with obvious unease while rubbing her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to remain here. Khal—the caliph will likely return soon . . .” She trailed off, her meaning as clear as the intention behind it.

Though Tariq knew she meant well in warning him, he ignored it. “She’s asleep, then?”

Irsa nodded.

Stifling a weary sigh, Tariq crouched beside his raised bed pallet—the bed pallet Shahrzad now occupied, her chin tucked into his pillow, her wound covered in poultices. Irsa knelt across from him, her eyes fraught with a mixture of pity and frustration.

After a time, Tariq met her gaze. “I’m so sorry this happened, Cricket. Please believe me when I say I never meant for any of this to occur.”

“I know you didn’t. But I am not the one who deserves to hear your apology,” Irsa said quietly.

“I know.”

“If you know, I think it would be wise for you to take the knowledge and act upon it in the future.” With that, Irsa reached for the packets of herbs she’d used to brew Shahrzad’s tea and stepped aside.

Tariq took hold of Shahrzad’s hand. He wove his fingers through hers. The skin of her palm was soft, save for the calluses he recognized from her years of training in archery. The years he’d spent training alongside her. Encouraging her to defy the odds. To be more than the wife everyone expected her to be. To command attention wherever she went, as only she could. As only she had, from the day Tariq realized there was—and would be—only one girl in the world for him.

Only one. Always.

Even though Tariq knew it was wrong, he brushed a thumb across her forefinger. He knew he would never again have a chance to touch her like this. But he wanted to.

One last time.

“I’m so sorry, Shazi-jan,” he murmured. “God, if I could change that moment, I would not have done it, not for the world. I would take a thousand arrows for you.” Tariq bent his head closer to hers. “When I thought you were dead, there was nothing I wanted more than to take it back. I’m so sorry, my love. I can’t swallow my hatred as you can. I’m not like you. But I can swear I will listen to you next time. No matter how distasteful I find your words to be. I will listen, Shazi.”

Tariq rose to standing, then stooped to kiss her temple. “I swear on my life, you will never be hurt by me again,” he said in her ear as he brushed aside a wayward curl.

A muted yelp from the corner jostled him straight. Tariq turned. Irsa al-Khayzuran’s face was frozen in a mask of fright. Her eyes were locked on the entrance of the tent.

Where the Caliph of Khorasan stood by the open tent flap—

Watching him.

Tariq could find nothing in his expression. Not a hint of emotion. Not the slightest sign of awareness he’d heard a single word. The caliph waited a beat before walking inside. Once he’d made certain his face was concealed beneath his rida’, he gathered Tariq’s recurve bow and quiver of arrows in unhurried silence.

Then waited by the entrance.

Without a word, Tariq followed him out into the desert. The caliph paused to hand him his bow and arrows before striding twenty paces away.

As calm as the eye of a storm, the caliph withdrew his shamshir and twisted it in two.

“Three arrows,” he began in a voice that managed to carry over the distance, though Tariq could not detect any sentiment behind the words. “Three shots, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. There is no one here to stop you. No one here to defend me. I’ll give you three arrows. Three chances to finish what you started by the well.”

“Why three?” Tariq mirrored the caliph’s impassive tone as he shifted his quiver onto his shoulder.

“One for your cousin.” The caliph thrust a sword into the sand before him, its jeweled hilt swaying in the moonlight. He flourished the other in a glittering sweep. “One for your aunt. And one for your love.”

Tariq returned his fixed stare.

Even from this distance, the caliph’s strange eyes possessed an otherworldly glow. “But when you fail—and you will fail—you will never again repeat what I just saw.”

“Then you are jealous?” Tariq called out, loud enough to echo across the cool sands.

A thin stream of pale purple clouds drifted above, moving too fast for comfort, yet too slow to convey anything of significance.

Tomorrow’s storm would come without warning. If at all.

“Jealousy is a childish, petty emotion.” The caliph switched the single shamshir to his left hand in a single, fluid motion. “I don’t feel jealousy. I feel rage.”

Tariq waited a beat. The boy-king’s words were in stark contrast to his actions. Was this finally a weakness? Finally something that made him seem less like a monster and more like a man?

“Do you worry about me, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid?”

The caliph hesitated, and that said more than words ever could. “There was a time I did. But the fact that you waited until Shahrzad slept to touch her shows me you know she would not approve. You will not disrespect her in such a manner again. Nor will you disrespect me.”

Tariq let his recurve bow dangle by his feet. “I did not do it to disrespect her. I am not trying to win her back.” He took a measured breath. “I know I’ve—lost.”

The single shamshir flashed through the air once more. “Yet you still wish to kill me.” It was not a question.

But Tariq chose to answer it, all the same. “Of course.”

“Then here’s your chance.”

“It’s not much of a chance, since you say I will lose.”

“You will.” The caliph wrenched the other shamshir from the sand and brandished both swords. “For you’re a fool if you think I would choose to fight a battle I could not win.”

“Is that why you have yet to meet me on the battlefield, you arrogant bastard?”

The caliph’s mouth slid into a wry smile. “Partly.”

“And what are the other reasons?” Tariq removed an arrow from his quiver.

“Because I do not yet know my enemy, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. And, unlike you, I do not willingly fight the unknown.”

“I know who you are,” Tariq ground out.

“No. You think you know who I am.”

“Perhaps you should endeavor to change my mind.”

“Perhaps I should.” Again, the caliph turned his swords in elegant arcs. “You have three arrows. Aim true.”

Tariq inhaled. He nocked the arrow to the sinew. Then pulled back.

He should aim for the bastard’s heart. For, despite the boy-king’s pompous effrontery, no man could escape three arrows, fired in rapid succession. Perhaps he could dodge one. Knock aside the second with a well-timed swing of a sword.

But not a third. He could not be that gifted a swordsman. No one was. The thought was simply ludicrous. Filled with the sort of bold audacity that routinely caused Shahrzad such trouble.

They were alike in that respect. Shazi and the boy-king.

Arrogant. Audacious.

Yet oddly steadfast in their convictions. Oddly honorable.

Tariq should aim for his heart. And take him down. For Shiva. For his aunt.

For himself.

Anger coursing through his blood, Tariq pulled the arrow even farther back. He heard the sinew tighten beside his ear. The goose feathers between his fingers felt so familiar in their softness; they almost whispered a promise on the wind.

The promise of an end to his suffering.

He could do it. The boy-king’s arrogance made him weak. Made him believe Tariq incapable of such violence. Or unable to espouse the necessary skill.

Tariq stared down the needless sights to the end of the arrow. The obsidian point gleamed back at him, menacingly beautiful in the light of the moon.

The last arrowhead Tariq had seen was the one he’d removed from Shahrzad’s back. Stained crimson with her blood.

Dripping red with the blood of the only girl he’d ever loved.

It seemed only a moment had passed since Tariq had promised he would never hurt Shahrzad again.

A moment and a lifetime.

And this? What Tariq was about to do? This would do far more than hurt her. This would destroy her. Beyond words. Beyond time. As Shahrzad had once said of his own death. On a night not so long ago when she’d worried Tariq might perish at the hands of the Caliph of Khorasan.

There would never be an end to this.

Unless someone chose to end it.

Tariq lowered his weapon. “The wind is not right.”

“The wind should not matter to a master archer such as yourself.”

“It should not,” Tariq replied simply. “Yet it does.”

The caliph dropped his swords to his sides. “Perhaps you are not the archer I thought you to be.”

“Perhaps.” He cut his gaze at the boy-king. “Or perhaps I’m merely waiting for a more favorable wind.”

The boy-king’s expression darkened in response, a muscle working in his jaw. “Never forget, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—I gave you this chance. Today you fired upon me . . . and in turn struck that which matters more than life itself. The next time you attempt such a thing in her presence, I will flay you alive and leave the rest for the dogs.”

Tariq’s brows shot into his forehead. “And here I was on the cusp of believing you might not be a monster.”

“I’m my father’s son—a monster by blood and by right.” The caliph’s voice remained cool, despite the heat of his words. “I do not make empty threats. You would do well to remember that.”

“Yet you wish for me to trust that you deserve Shahrzad. That you are what is best for her.” Tariq refrained from sneering.

“I would never presume such arrogance. And rest assured; the day I concern myself with your good opinion will be the day the moon rises in place of the sun. But know this: I will fight for what matters to me, until my last breath.”

“She matters to me, too. I will never love anyone or anything as much as I love Shahrzad.”

At that, the caliph’s smile returned, mocking in its bent. “I disagree. You love yourself more.”

Resentment simmered through Tariq’s chest, roiling to a slow burn. “Do not—”

“Until you can learn to let go of your hatred, you will always love yourself more.”

Laughter burst from Tariq’s lips, dark and scathing in tone. “Can you honestly claim not to hate me?”

The caliph paused. “No. I do not hate you. But I deeply resent your past, more than I can put to words.” He restored his blades to a single sword and began pacing toward him. “Do you know how many times I could have killed you, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad? How many times I’ve wished, in the blackest reaches of my soul, that you were no more? I’ve known who you were—who your family was—for a long time. My father would have killed you simply for looking at Shahrzad the way you do. For myself, I would have killed you. But for her, I didn’t.” He sheathed his sword with a quick snap. “And I never would have, but for the events of tonight,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

Tariq clenched a hand around his bow-grip, taking the caliph’s confession into consideration. As difficult as it was for Tariq to admit, he did not believe the caliph to be lying. For he did not seem prone to deceit. Which put to question many other suspicions Tariq had long harbored against him. Suspicions that had long begged for answers.

Tariq’s hatred could no longer remain festering in their shadow.

“Why did you murder my cousin?” he asked in a terse voice.

“Because I thought I didn’t have a choice,” the caliph responded with care. “I believed it was taken from me by a man who wished for me to suffer as he suffered. A man who sought to”—he took a halting breath—“curse me for my heedlessness. To curse the families of Rey with the deaths of their daughters each dawn. And in so doing, the man cursed the whole of Khorasan.” A trace of anguish flickered across the caliph’s gaze—an anguish that hinted at an untold amount of suffering. He answered as though he expected to answer for many years to come. As though he knew no answer would ever be sufficient.

“A . . . curse? You killed my cousin because of a curse?” Incredulity flared through Tariq. His eyes grew wide, blurring his sight to all around him for an instant.

“I was wrong to believe I didn’t have a choice,” the caliph said quietly, continuing to make his way toward Tariq. “So very wrong. And I can never right this wrong. Nor can I right the wrongs to your family. But I can promise to make amends, if you will grant me the chance.”

Tariq gritted his teeth. Despite this revelation—despite the realization that this must have been what Shazi had been trying to tell him all along—the caliph’s answer was truly not an answer. It was merely a string of hollow reassurances.

Nothing of substance.

“Your promises are but empty words,” Tariq shot back. “Said all too late.”

“My promises are not empty words.” The caliph stopped a body’s length away from him. “Though a promise means little without a measure of trust.”

Tariq’s jaw set. “The sheikh of this camp once told me trust is not a thing given; it is a thing earned. You have not yet earned mine.”

The caliph’s mouth curved into a reticent smile. “I think I’d like to meet this sheikh.”

A spell of awkward silence passed before Tariq responded, his words equally reticent. “Though I’m loath to admit it, I suspect he’d like you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He likes a good love story.” Tariq sighed resignedly.

“I’m not yet certain if this is a good love story.”

At this quiet pronouncement, Tariq caught sight of a vulnerability buried deep beneath the arrogance. More of the man behind the monster.

Tariq paused to consider the boy-king he’d so long despised. So long wanted to see die a thousand slow deaths at his willing and eager hands.

For the second time, Tariq saw the hint of something . . . more.

Not something he liked. Perhaps not something he could ever like.

But perhaps something he no longer hated.

“For your sake, it had better be a good love story,” he whispered.

At that, the Caliph of Khorasan bowed to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad, a hand to his brow.

After a moment, with the slightest twinge behind his heart—

Tariq returned the gesture.