But Jahandar had not meant for things to transpire as they had.
When he’d first called upon the power of the book, he’d thought he could control it. He’d thought he was its master.
That had been the first of his many mistakes.
For the book had no intention of being controlled. And every intention of forcing its will upon Jahandar al-Khayzuran. Alas, its will remained veiled behind the poetry of an ancient language, sealed shut with a rusted lock and key.
A part of Jahandar knew that by all rights the book should be destroyed.
Anything capable of the destruction he’d witnessed that fateful night of the storm should not be allowed to exist in the world of man.
And yet . . .
Jahandar curled his fingers tightly around the book. Its warmth seeped into his skin, pulsing at the blisters on his hands.
The living heat of a beating heart.
Perhaps he could control it now. Now that he knew what kind of creature it was.
Was it the height of foolishness to think such a thing? Further evidence of his misplaced conceit?
Perhaps.
He could try. Only something small, at first. Nothing like the mistakes he’d made on the outskirts of Rey. He knew better now.
Now that he’d seen what it was capable of, he’d wade into the book’s waters with greater care. With far more consideration than he’d espoused on the hilltop.
The night he’d witnessed the book put an entire city to ruin.
He shuddered as he recalled the bolts of lightning that had sliced across the sky and struck at the heart of Khorasan’s most prized gem.
The city where Jahandar had raised his daughters and curated his beloved library.
The city where he’d buried his wife after watching her fall to a wasting disease.
The city of his most resounding failures.
He recalled the many times he’d proven powerless to those around him—powerless to prevent his wife from succumbing to her illness; powerless to keep his post as a vizier following her death; and powerless to prevent his daughter from striding down the palace halls toward certain doom.
Powerless to effect any change at all. A casual observer to life.
Useless.
Again, he clutched at the book, grateful that both his children had escaped the storm unscathed . . .
When he suspected so many others had not.
Jahandar cracked open his eyes in the stifling dark of his tent.
As it had when they’d arrived the night before, guilt crushed his chest, making it difficult to breathe. His nails dug into the cover of the book as he struggled to take in air. To stanch the flood of remorse welling in his eyes.
To drown out the memory of the screams in his ears.
It wasn’t his fault!
He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d only meant to provide a distraction. Rescue his beloved daughter. And perhaps find his true calling— As a man of power. A man to be respected. A man to be feared.
But Jahandar could fix it. He knew how to fix it.
He’d passed along his gifts to his daughter.
Irsa had said as much today, when she’d mentioned a magic carpet. It had taken all his self-control to lie still when he’d heard the words. To keep silent in the face of such possibility.
Shahrzad was special. Just like Jahandar.
And she was strong. Even stronger than he was. He had felt it whenever Shahrzad’s hands had brushed the book; it had welcomed her presence.
It had acknowledged her capacity for greatness.
His chance for redemption.
Once he regained full use of his body, Jahandar would return to his studies.
This time, he would master the book. Become truly worthy of its power. He would not permit it to control him again.
No. Never again would he make such mistakes.
He would teach his daughter to use her powers. Then, together, they would put right all that had gone wrong.
For a mistake was only a mistake if it was left to remain so.
And Jahandar was a lifelong scholar.
It was the one thing he had always prided himself on being— Willing to learn.
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BRUTE
KHALID DID NOT LIKE SURPRISES.
Even as a child, he had been wary of them.
He could not recall a single time when he’d been pleased with a surprise. In his experience, surprises were often a prelude to something much more insidious. Like a slow poison masked by a fine wine. Served in a bejeweled cup.
No.
He hated surprises.
Which was why, when Khalid walked into Vikram’s chamber and found Despina sitting at his bodyguard’s bedside, he was most displeased.
How had she managed to learn of the Rajput’s recovery so soon? Khalid had received word only at dawn, less than an hour ago.
Indeed, the handmaiden’s eyes and ears were quite vast. They were among the chief reasons she had always made such an excellent spy. No doubt it came from her ability to make friends and gain confidences with the ease of a butterfly. As she’d made friends with those of influence around the palace.
As she’d made friends with Shahrzad.