NOT A SINGLE DROP

CUT THE STRINGS, SHAZI. FLY.”

The words were whispers in her ears, carried on the air like a secret summoning.

“Fly.”

Shahrzad sat in the center of her tent, ignoring the commotion outside. Sounds of the newest contingent of soldiers arriving in camp. Sounds of impending war. Instead she focused on the dusty ground, her knees bent and her feet crossed at the ankles.

Before her lay the ugliest carpet in all of creation.

Rust colored, with a border of dark blue and a center medallion of black-and-white scrollwork. Fringed on two sides by yellowed, woebegone tassels. Seared in two corners.

A rug with a story of its own . . .

Albeit a small one. It was barely large enough to hold two people, sitting side by side.

Shahrzad canted her head in contemplation. Took a measured breath. Then she pressed the flat of her hand to the rug’s surface.

A prickly feeling, like that of losing sensation in a limb, settled around her heart. It warmed through her blood, spreading into her fingertips.

Though she knew what to expect, it still took her by surprise when a corner of the carpet curled into her hand.

She removed her palm and swallowed. The rug fell flat.

“Cut the strings, you goose. Did you swallow your ears just now, along with your nerve?”

“I heard you the first thousand times, you rat!” With a small grin for Shiva’s memory, Shahrzad reached for an empty tumbler and the pitcher of water on the low table nearby. Catching her tongue between her teeth, she filled the tumbler halfway and placed it within the center medallion of the ugliest carpet in all of creation.

“Now for the true test,” she muttered.

Shahrzad returned her palm to the carpet. Just as before, the strange feeling unfurled around her heart before tingling down her arm. The edges of the rug bowed in on themselves, then the rug took to the air. Soon, there was nothing beneath it but empty space. She lifted onto her knees, moving with caution. The tumbler had not stirred from within the medallion; not a single drop of water had spilt. Exhaling through her nose, Shahrzad floated her fingers to the right. The rug followed along at shoulder level, the water’s surface as calm as an unruffled lake.

Shahrzad decided to take the enterprise a step further.

She stood without warning, her hand spiking toward the steepled ceiling of the tent. Shahrzad expected the carpet to careen out of control, but—though it lifted in the mere blink of an eye—it refused to be buffeted about on such a graceless tide. Instead, it rippled as though it were under the spell of the lightest of breezes. Trailing her fingertips, it rose above her head—a series of small waves upon an invisible shore—before spiraling back to the ground at her command. She repeated the motions twice. Up. Down. And back again. Not once did the carpet break contact with her skin. Not once did it lose control. It bore the cup as its weightless passenger, from ceiling to floor like clouds upon the air.

The most Shahrzad ever saw was the water loll from brim to brim, never spilling, simply swirling about, as though it were dancing to a languorous music it alone could hear.

Her eyes wide, she let the magic carpet circle back to the earth.

In her ears, the voice of her best friend—the voice behind the secret summoning—began to laugh, lyrically, beautifully.

Teasingly.

Your turn, you goose.

Shahrzad smiled to herself. Tomorrow night she would test the magic carpet again.

Without the tumbler.

Baba looked better this morning. At least, that was what Irsa thought. He didn’t seem quite as wan or quite so withered. And he had swallowed his mixture of water and herbs with a bit more relish than he had yesterday.

Perhaps he would wake soon.

Irsa made a face as she blew the sticky strands of hair off her forehead. She was certain she was starting to resemble one of Rey’s innumerable street urchins. Replete with dirt along the collar and sand behind the ears. With a huff, Irsa lifted her chestnut braid and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

Merciful God! Why was her father’s tent so much hotter than her own? It felt like a bakery on a summer afternoon. How could Baba stand it?

Irsa studied his sallow complexion once more, then finished mopping the sweat from his forehead. “Please wake up, Baba. It’s my birthday today. And it would be the best gift of all to hear your voice. Or see your smile.” She pressed a kiss to his brow before collecting her things and striding to the entrance of her father’s tent.

Lost in thought, Irsa failed to notice the lanky figure standing just outside.

“Irsa al-Khayzuran.”

She stopped short. Turned. Almost tripped over a sandaled heel. Then raised a hand to shield her eyes from the searing rays above.

“I waited a long time in the sun for you . . . so that I could make sure all was well after yesterday’s ordeal,” Rahim al-Din Walad stated quietly. “But I suppose I’m rather easy to ignore?”

Heat rose in her neck. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

His attempt at laughter sounded like anything but. “I’m only teasing, Cricket.”

Irsa cleared her throat. “Well, don’t.” Rahim knew she hated that nickname.

He managed a soft laugh. It sounded kind of dry, like parchment being torn in two, but Irsa felt strangely soothed by it. Odd things had always soothed her in such a way.

Like the peculiar expression on Rahim’s face.

“As you can see, I’m quite well.” Color sprang into her cheeks. “Did you need—something else?”

“Do people only talk to you when they need something?”

Why did he always ask so many questions? And why did it irritate her so? “No. They only talk to me when they need to. Or when they think I need something, as you usually do,” she retorted. “But I suppose you’re waiting in the hot sun for your health?” As soon as the question rolled off her tongue, Irsa wanted to clap her hand over her mouth.

What was wrong with her? After all Rahim had done for her recently! Teaching her to ride horses on sweltering afternoons when he could have been with Tariq or the other soldiers. Then helping her to rescue Shahrzad just yesterday.

Truly, there was no conceivable reason for her to be so awful to him.

Beyond complete stupidity.

Another dry rasp of laughter. “If I recall correctly, Shazi was also a bit of a wretch on her fifteenth birthday.”

Rahim knew it was her birthday?

“I—did Shazi tell you?” Irsa stammered, all too aware of his nearness, her pulse starting to pound in her ears. She felt the same warmth that had brushed across her hand only yesterday, when he’d given her the reins.

“No.” Rahim pressed his lips together as a gust of wind blew a shower of sand through his tightly marcelled curls. “You thought I would forget?”

“No. I thought no one would remember.”

He stared down at her, unblinking. His look the same—strangely soothing.

The blood rose in Irsa’s cheeks again. She swiped the sweaty hair back from her face—

And suddenly remembered that her braid was in a disheveled knot at the back of her neck. That she resembled a ragamuffin of the highest order. Her eyes wide, she unwound her braid and tried to arrange the sticky chaos atop her head.

“What are you doing?” Rahim finally blinked, his eyelashes as thick as brushstrokes across a canvas.

“Trying not to look like a street urchin.”

“What?” Tiny vertical lines formed along the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“Because—I—girls should be beautiful!” Irsa shot back, dabbing her forehead with her sleeve. “Not sweaty, stinking disasters.”

“Is that a rule?”

“No, it’s—you’re . . . troubling.” Irsa couldn’t help it. He truly was. With his unceasing questions. And his unwavering warmth.

A light caught within his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”

Rahim had never looked at her like that before.

“I brought you something,” he said after several moments of steady deliberation.

“What?” She stepped into his shadow and dropped her hand from her brow. “Why?”

He reached into the brown linen of his rida’ and removed a scroll bound by hemp cord. “I borrowed it from Omar. So you have to return it. But . . . I thought you might like it.” He shrugged, then held the weathered bit of parchment out to her.

Still taken aback, it took her too long to reach for it.

Rahim waited, unperturbed, though she could see another question forming on his lips.

She beat him to it. “What is it?”

“Omar told me how you thought to put tea herbs and milk in your father’s water. This is a scroll on plants and their healing properties. I thought you might like it. I’ll bring some parchment and ink for you tomorrow. Perhaps you can transcribe it.” He shrugged again. “Or . . . I can do it for you. Though my handwriting leaves a great deal to be desired.”

Irsa was flabbergasted. Of all the things she’d expected sensible Rahim to do or say, it was not this.

He’d brought her a gift?

“I—well—I suppose I could do that. Yes. I mean, I’ll transcribe it. Not you.”

“You’re welcome.” He laughed; again, the sound was brittle in the air yet warm on her skin. When he turned to leave, Irsa felt a sudden urge to ask him to stay.

But to what end?

As though he could sense her consternation, Rahim looked over his shoulder. “Are—are you coming to the gathering following the war council tonight?”

Irsa started to nod, then stopped herself. “Will Shahrzad be allowed to attend?”

“I cannot see why anyone would object. Not with Tariq at her side. Nothing of import will be discussed around the fire. And everyone is rather curious about her. But, if she decides to come, it won’t be easy. All eyes will be upon her,” Rahim warned, ever the vigilant friend.

“I’ll be sure to keep her apprised. And . . . I’ll make certain nothing happens to her.” Irsa lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. Steady. Stalwart.

At least she hoped that was how she appeared. She could very well appear mad, for all she knew—sweaty-haired and clutching a scroll of curatives to her chest.

“I expected nothing less.” Again, Rahim paused in consideration of her. “Tavalodet mobarak, Irsa al-Khayzuran. May you have a hundred birthdays to come.”

“Thank you, Rahim al-Din Walad.”

He bowed with a hand to his forehead. When he straightened, he smiled that same almost-smile, as though he alone were aware of something important. “What you said earlier? You have nothing to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re better than beautiful.” Rahim took a careful breath. “You’re interesting. Never forget that.”