The caliph’s blood flowed toward him. Toward Jahandar’s hands, curled in the ground.
And Jahandar knew then what he had to do. He’d memorized every spell in his precious book. Every line of text he’d translated was seared into his mind.
And this spell?
It would be his last. His finest.
The blood that touched his fingertips was still warm.
In that moment, Jahandar recalled the day in the palace when he’d given Shahrzad the last rose from his garden. A budding flower of cream and blushing mauve. He’d wanted to give her a lasting remembrance of home.
He’d killed the rose to give her one moment of beauty.
With the caliph’s blood on his hands, Jahandar began to mutter the spell. He let his wrist turn in the slowest of twists.
His vision started to blur. From the tips of his fingers bloomed an unsteady light. A wave of cold tugged at his center, only to roll down his spine. His sight lightened, then darkened, as though a drop of ink had splashed within his eyes, only to fade into nothingness.
Pain began to collect in his heart. Began to blossom into an open wound.
But it did not hurt. Not truly. Not in the slightest. Jahandar began to smile.
For here . . . here was the true power. The power Jahandar had wanted all along.
The power to speak without words.
The power to love.
Reza watched dawn slowly break in the west. Slowly blur from a night still filled with stars. He had long been a man of infinite patience. It took patience to build relationships. Patience to fortify trust.
Patience to bring down a king.
Reza waited in the desert, watching the gates of Amardha burn. It alarmed him that the sultan’s army had yet to retaliate, but he knew it would come in time. And Reza refused to show the mercenaries around him he had anything but the utmost faith in his cause.
Men with a loyalty bought and sold could not be trusted around a questioning heart. For questions could be sold at auction to the highest bidder.
When Reza saw the swirl of rising dust from an approaching rider, he sat taller on his steed. The horses of the men around him whickered as his men drew near.
The Fida’i messenger said nothing while reining in his stallion before Reza. The animal shone with sweat, the messenger’s eyes were grim.
“The sultan has surrendered to the caliph,” the messenger said without pausing for breath.
Reza concealed his surprise. But not his fury. “How is that possible? A battle was never even fought. Did you speak with the sultan?”
The messenger did not reply. He exchanged a brief glance with the other men around Reza.
Even before he felt the first blow, Reza understood what was happening.
It came from behind. The slash of a sword.
Reza fell forward on his horse. The stallion reared back at the second blow to Reza’s side.
With a gasp, Reza collapsed into the sand, clutching his wounds.
He rolled onto his back, wheezing for air.
The messenger rode closer, his bloodied blade glittering against the sky. “I have a message from the son of Nasir al-Ziyad. He says the next time you send a mercenary to kill someone he loves, make sure she does not live to tell the tale.”
The last thing Reza bin-Latief saw was the flash of a sword.
EPILOGUE
THE BOY BOUNDED THROUGH THE DOUBLE DOORS into his father’s waiting arms.
“Baba!” he cried. “Uncle Artan is going to teach me to fly on his winged serpent!”
The Caliph of Khorasan gazed down at his son with thinly veiled amusement. “I think your mother may have something to say about that.”
“No!” The small boy shook his head. “You can’t tell Mama. Uncle Artan made me promise.”
“Again, your mother may have something to say about that.”
The boy made a sweep of his room with his large, amber-flecked eyes. “Where is she?”
“I believe she is in the solarium with your aunt.”
“But she’s coming soon?”
“Of course.”
Eagerness alighted the boy’s gaze. “She said she has a new story tonight.”
“I heard.” Khalid smiled.
At that, the boy raced to the center of his platformed bed and grabbed his favorite green cushion. Khalid came to rest beside him.
Cautiously, the boy reached up to place a hand on the scar marring his father’s face. “Does this ever hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Uncle Artan fixed my knee the other day after I fell. Maybe you should ask him to fix it.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t mind it.”
“Why?”
Khalid smiled again. “Because it reminds me that all things come at a cost. That every decision we make has consequences.”
The boy nodded slowly, as though he were very sage for all his five years. “I just don’t like that you’re hurt.” His small fingers remained pressed to his father’s cheek, grazing the edge of the scar ever so gently.
“Just as I would not like for you to be hurt either. Hence the worry regarding the flying serpent.”
The boy grinned, his pert nose wrinkling. “I love you, Baba.”