STORIES AND SECRETS

IRSA CLAPPED BOTH HANDS OVER HER MOUTH, STIFLING a cry.

She watched in amazement as her sister trailed the tiny, shabby rug around the center of their tent, using nothing but the tips of her fingers as a guide.

The magic carpet swirled through the air with the languid grace of a falling leaf. Then, with a gentle flick of her wrist, Shahrzad sent the floating mat of wool back to the ground.

“Well?” Shahrzad said, staring up at her with a look of worry.

“Merciful God.” Irsa sank down beside her. “And the magus from the Fire Temple was the one to teach you this?”

Shahrzad shook her head. “He merely gave me the carpet and said Baba had passed along his abilities to me. But I need to speak to him further about it, very soon. I have . . . many important questions for Musa-effendi.”

“Then you intend to seek him out?”

“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “Once I determine how best to travel to the Fire Temple without being seen.”

“Perhaps”—Irsa hesitated—“perhaps when you go, you could speak to Musa-effendi about Baba as well? In the event that he . . .” She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought she knew they were both most concerned with at the moment.

The thought that their father would never awaken from the effects of whatever foul misdeed had befallen him the night of the storm.

What would happen to them if Baba died? What would happen to her?

Irsa folded her hands over her knees and chided herself for such selfish thoughts amidst such suffering. This was neither the time nor the place to worry about herself. Not when there were so many others to worry about. Most especially Baba.

As Shahrzad leaned forward to stow the magic carpet beneath her belongings, the twine around her neck slipped into view.

The ring stayed safely hidden, but its story still begged to be told. And Irsa could not help but pry.

“How could you forgive him, Shazi?” Irsa asked softly. “For what he did to Shiva? For—everything?”

Shahrzad’s breath caught. In one quick motion, she turned to Irsa.

“Do you trust me, Jirjirak?” Shahrzad took Irsa’s hands in her own.

Cricket. Ever since she was a little girl, Irsa had hated that nickname. It hearkened back to a time when she’d been cursed with reedy legs and a voice to match. Shahrzad was the only one who could use the dreaded sobriquet and not elicit a cringe—or something worse—from her.

For the tenth time in as many moments, Irsa studied her sister’s face, seeking an answer she hoped to understand. Her sister was just as lovely as ever, though her features had changed in the few short months she’d been at the palace. Not by much, and not in a way most people would notice. Her cheeks had lost some of their roundness, and the bronze of her skin had lost a bit of its glow. Thankfully, her chin was just as stubborn, her nose just as pert. But a shadow had fallen over her face; some kind of weight she refused to share. Her hazel eyes looked almost lucent in the nearby lamplight. Their colors had always been so changeable. So unpredictable. Much like her sister’s moods. One moment, she was bright and full of laughter, ready for any kind of mischief. The next, she was stark and serious, prepared to battle to the death.

Irsa had never known what to expect from Shahrzad.

But trust had never been an issue. At least not for Irsa.

“Of course I trust you,” she said. “But can you not tell me—”

“It isn’t my secret to tell, Irsa-jan.”

Irsa bit her lower lip and looked away.

“I’m sorry,” Shahrzad said. “I don’t wish to hide these matters from you. But if anyone were to discover that you knew of such things, they might hurt you to learn the truth, and . . . I couldn’t live through that.”

Irsa drew back. “I’m not as weak as you think I am.”

“I never said you were weak.”

Irsa’s smile was small and fleeting. “Some things do not have to be said. You didn’t have to tell me you were in love with Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. And I didn’t have to tell you I cried myself to sleep for weeks after you left. Love speaks for itself.”

Shahrzad pulled her knees to her chest and blinked at Irsa in silence. Sighing to herself, Irsa collected her satchel of tea herbs and reached for a sprig of fresh mint. “Are you coming with me to see Baba?”

With a brisk nod, Shahrzad unfurled to her feet.

A dry desert wind circulated through the Badawi camp. It blew spirals of sand around the warren of billowing tents. Irsa tucked her braid into her qamis to prevent its tail from lashing her face.

Shahrzad unleashed a colorful stream of curses when the end of her plait whipped against her cheek, tousling her hair loose. Black waves coiled above her head in a wicked tangle.

“Oh my.” Irsa suppressed a grin at her sister’s language. “Who taught you to say such things? Was it the caliph?”

“I hate it here!”

Though Shahrzad’s unwillingness to answer even the most innocuous question stung, Irsa ignored the twinge. “Give it some time. You’ll find it’s not so terrible.” She linked arms with her sister and pulled her close.

“Of all places, why are we in this godforsaken desert? Why has the old sheikh granted us refuge?” Shahrzad spoke in as low a voice as the wind would permit.

“I am not privy to the details. I only know he sold Uncle Reza horses and weapons. His tribe trades in both. Perhaps that is why we are allowed to stay.” She paused in thought. “Or perhaps it is merely a result of his closeness with Tariq. The sheikh treats him as though he were a son.”

“So then, has he not joined forces with Tariq and the other soldiers? Is he not involved in the war effort?” Shahrzad’s brows drew together in confusion.

“I do not think so,” Irsa retorted. “But when I attend the next war council, I’ll be sure to gather more details for you.”

Shahrzad shoved tendrils of hair behind an ear and rolled her eyes.

As they continued crossing the sands toward their father’s tent, Irsa watched her sister make a slow scan of their surroundings. Her eyes trailed Shahrzad’s until they fell upon a thin figure in the distance, mirroring their measured study.

A bony elbow jabbed Irsa’s side. “Who is that boy?”

“Ouch!” Irsa jabbed back. “You mean Spider?”

“What?”

“Oh, I call him Spider, on account of his gangly limbs and his tendency to lurk. He arrived with the Emir of Karaj. I believe he’s the emir’s distant relative. I think his name is Teymur or Tajvar or something of the sort.” She waved a dismissive hand.

“He has a . . . disconcerting look about him.”

Irsa frowned. “He’s a bit odd, but he’s harmless, Shazi.”

Shahrzad pinched her lips together and said nothing.

Irsa pulled back the flap, and they ducked inside their father’s tent. In the arid heat of the afternoon, the darkness within had grown even more stifling. They lit an oil lamp and prepared another tumbler of water, fresh mint, and tea herbs. Their father choked down the mixture as he had that morning, still muttering and clutching the ridiculous book in his arms.

Shahrzad fanned herself with both hands. “He’s drenched in sweat. We should change his wrappings and wash his face and neck.”

Irsa poured water into an earthen bowl and removed clean strips of linen from her satchel. She bent to swirl the cloth in the cool water. “Are you going to tell Baba about the magic carpet? He would be so excited to learn he’s passed his abilities on to you.” Smiling to herself, Irsa wrung out the cloth.

“Ba—Baba?” Shahrzad began. Shahrzad was leaning over him, looking perplexed. A flash of something passed across her face. Alarm?

Irsa dropped the linen and swiveled to her father’s side. “What’s wrong?” Irsa asked. “Did he open his eyes?”

Shahrzad shook her head. “I—no. I thought I heard something outside, but I must have been mistaken.” The ends of her lips turned into the beginnings of a smile. “I know the desert enjoys playing tricks on a weary mind. If you’ll start with Baba’s face, I’ll wash his arms.”

“Are you quite certain?” Irsa pressed.

“Quite.” It was a firm rejoinder, one that could not be ignored.

And though Irsa set about working in silence with Shahrzad to cleanse their father’s skin of sweat and grime—

She knew her sister was lying.

“What happened?” Irsa whispered, the instant their father’s tent flap fluttered shut behind them. “Tell me the truth, Shazi, or I’ll—”

Shahrzad wrapped a hand around Irsa’s wrist to pull her near. “I thought I heard something outside the tent,” she replied in a hushed tone. “And I didn’t want anyone to overhear us speaking about matters of import.”

“You think someone is spying on us?” Irsa couldn’t imagine why anyone would care to listen to their conversation.

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

Tugging the strap of her satchel tight across her body, Irsa quickened her pace. Her gaze drifted from side to side. For the few weeks she’d been here, she’d never felt unsafe. Not even for a moment. She spent most mornings with Aisha and the children, and in the afternoons Rahim was teaching her to ride horses more proficiently.

Who would threaten two young girls of common birth?

As Irsa cut a sideways glance at her sister, she remembered.

Shahrzad was no longer the mere daughter of a lowly keeper of books.

She was the Calipha of Khorasan.

An asset for any enemy of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid.

Of which there were many.

In the same instant the realization dawned on her, Irsa banished the thought.

Shahrzad had been here for only a day. Her sister was being ridiculous. Paranoid. Clearly the result of living alongside a monster and fearing for her life on a daily basis.

Irsa bent through the opening of their tent.

A clammy hand grabbed her by the neck and flung her inside.

She squealed.

Long fingers gripped her by the nape. Hot breath washed across her skin.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” a low voice rasped in her ear. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked hard and fast, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

Spider?

“What are you doing?” Irsa cried.

“Let her go.” Shahrzad stood at the entrance, one hand on the jeweled dagger at her waist. Her features were impassive. But something savage moved deep in her eyes. As though she had expected such a threat.

The thought chilled Irsa to the marrow of her bones.

“Is that an order, my lady?” Spider spat in Shahrzad’s direction.

“No. It’s a promise.”

“A promise of what?”

Shahrzad angled her head ever so slightly. “That, if you let my sister go, I’ll stay here with you. I’ll listen to your grievances. Whatever I can do to rectify them, I’ll do. I promise.”

He blew another hot spate of air against Irsa’s neck. “I don’t believe you.” She could feel him trembling behind her.

“You should.” Shahrzad took a step forward. “Because I wasn’t finished. It’s also a promise that, if you don’t let my sister go, you will be the one to hear my grievances. And mine are not of words, but of fists and steel.”

Spider rasped a laugh. “Fitting. As you are the whore of a bloodthirsty monster.”

Shahrzad flinched. And in that tiny flicker of pain, Irsa saw a wellspring.

Outraged, Irsa began struggling against him. He banded his forearms tighter around her waist and neck. She started to choke.

“Irsa!” Shahrzad held up her hands in surrender. “Let her go!”

“Give me your dagger.”

“Let her go, and I’ll give you my dagger.” Shahrzad removed the blade from her waistband.

“Your dagger first!” Spider said, his fingers digging into the tender skin beneath Irsa’s ear.

“Sha—Shahrzad!” Irsa croaked.

A bead of sweat trickled down Shahrzad’s brow. “I’ll give it to you. Just let Irsa go. Your quarrel is with me.”

“Drop it first, and she can leave. But if she goes to get help—if I so much as hear the White Falcon outside this tent—I’ll kill you.”

“She won’t get Tariq.” The dagger plinked by her sister’s feet. “She won’t do anything.”

Irsa felt him relax in the same instant her chest pulled tight from within.

Shahrzad thought her incapable of anything.

Completely and utterly useless.

And, in truth, what had she done to prove otherwise?

Spider loosened his hold on her neck. “Kick it toward me, and I’ll let her go.”

Shahrzad gave Irsa a small smile of reassurance, then toed the dagger in his direction.

He released Irsa and shoved her toward the entrance.

When Irsa looked back at Shahrzad in hesitation, her sister spurred her onward with a warning glance.

Irsa wanted to stay. Wanted to beg Spider to see reason.

But she was afraid. She’d already cost Shahrzad her dagger and didn’t know what assistance she could provide beyond a poignant plea.

So she burst into the desert sun, her heart clamoring in her chest and her pride laid waste at her feet.

Frantic, she began searching for help. The eyes she most needed to find belonged to a tall boy with broad shoulders and the easy smile of a summer afternoon. A boy who had loved her sister since they were children.

A boy who would thrash first and ask questions later.

Tariq would know what to do. Tariq would wring Spider’s scrawny neck.

Irsa stumbled through the sand toward Tariq’s tent, the blood roaring in her ears.

“Irsa?”

She tried to ignore the familiar voice nearby. The voice of the boy she most wanted to find. A boy whose kind face she found herself searching for time and again. No. Irsa did not need Rahim. She needed Tariq—a boy of determination and action.

“Irsa?” Rahim fell into step beside her, his gait unfaltering. “Why are you running through—”

“Where is Tariq?” she gasped.

“On a scouting expedition to a nearby emirate.” He angled into her path, his eyes narrowing. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Irsa shook her head, her fear spiking in a hot flash. “No, I just—I need Tariq!” Her gaze darted every which way, frantic.

“Why?”

A rush of air flew from her lips. “Because I have to do—something.” She pushed past him. “You don’t understand. Shazi—”

He took her by the shoulders, his touch strangely soothing. Strengthening. “Tell me what you need.”

No. Neither of them was a leader. She’d always known Rahim to be a boy who followed. Just as she was a girl who ran. A girl who failed to do anything, save spare her own skin.

She should have grabbed Shahrzad’s dagger. Or done something.

The guilt clawed at her stomach. Irsa began to tremble, even beneath the sweltering sun. She felt Rahim’s grip tighten on her shoulders.

Offering more strength.

Irsa stood straight, clenching her fists.

Shazi would not give up. She would not give in to fear. Nor would she waver in the sand, like a ridiculous ninny. She would take action. Fight to the death. And be smart about it, as only Shahrzad could.

Though Irsa continued to shake, she kept her voice steady as she worked through the beginnings of a plan. “Did Tariq take his falcon with him?”

“No.” A flicker of puzzlement passed across Rahim’s face. “Zoraya scouted the terrain in advance this morning, so he left her behind to rest.”

“Rahim”—Irsa took a breath—“will you do something for me?”

He did not even bother to reply. He simply held out his hand.

And Irsa took it.