Dear God. Irsa and . . . Rahim?
Shahrzad snatched the pitcher from Tariq’s hand.
The heat from the fire had warmed the wine. Had heightened the spiciness of the cloves and cinnamon. The bite of the ginger. The rich sweetness of the honey, and the sharp citrus of the cardamom.
It tasted strong and delicious.
Heady and potent.
She swallowed more of it than she should have.
“Shazi.” It wasn’t an admonition. It was a warning.
When she glanced at Tariq, he was staring at her sidelong, his thick eyebrows set low across his forehead.
“Why are you permitted to drink to your heart’s content, yet I am not?” she countered, clearing her throat of the wine’s sting.
Tariq reached for the pitcher. “Because I have nothing to prove.”
“Ass.” She held it just beyond his grasp. “You are not my keeper, no matter how much you may wish it.” Though she’d meant the words as a rejoinder, she regretted them the instant they passed her lips. For she saw Tariq draw back into himself.
“I thank the stars for that,” he said in a hollow tone.
Shahrzad leaned closer, wanting to apologize but uncertain of how best to do so.
Without warning, Tariq snaked his arm around her. His hand shot forward, his long fingers taking hold of the pitcher.
“Let go of it this instant, or I’ll dump its contents on your head and leave you to wallow in honeyed misery,” he whispered in her ear, his amusement as plain as his threat.
Shahrzad froze, his breath tickling her skin.
“Do it and I’ll bite your hand,” she said. “Until you scream like a little boy.”
He laughed—a rich susurrus of air and sound. “I thought you were tired of bloodshed. Perhaps I’ll toss you over my shoulder. In front of everyone.”
Refusing to comply without a fight, she pinched his forearm until he grimaced.
“This isn’t over.” Nevertheless, Shahrzad relinquished the pitcher.
Tariq grinned. “It never is.” He took a celebratory swallow of wine.
Though she’d ceded this battle, a small part of her felt lightened by the exchange. It was the first time in almost a week—indeed, the first time since they’d left Rey—that they’d spoken to each other without the hint of anguish hanging in the air between them.
Without her betrayal in the forefront of their minds.
It also marked the first occasion Shahrzad believed their friendship might survive all that had transpired.
This newfound hope easing the weight on her heart, Shahrzad looked up at the starlit sky above. It was a deep blue, with a crescent moon wrapped in a fleece of passing clouds. The sky seemed to stretch on without end, its horizon curving to meet the sand on either side. Its blinking stars were a study in contrasts, some flashing in merriment, others winking in wicked suggestion.
The stars in Rey were never so bright.
For a moment, Shahrzad was reminded of something her father used to say: “The darker the sky, the brighter the stars.”
Just as she began to drift into thoughtful solitude, a burst of nearby laughter jarred her into awareness.
The young women sitting beside the ghalyans were being entertained by a host of young men with pitchers of spiced wine.
“Despite the old sheikh’s request tonight, it matters not where we set up camp. What matters is that we’re close to laying siege to Rey,” an inebriated young man proclaimed. “And, when we do, I will be the first to piss on the grave of Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” He lifted his pitcher skyward.
The girls tittered. One stifled a cackle. The other young men joined in the toast, their pitchers raised high and their voices raised even higher.
Their shared joy was like the tip of a cold blade against Shahrzad’s spine.
“That monster doesn’t deserve a grave,” another young man chimed in. “His head belongs on a pike. He’ll be lucky if we offer him a dram of water before we sever it from his body.” A rousing chorus of approval. “After he murdered those innocent young girls, a clean death is too good for him. I say we tear him apart and leave him for the carrion crows. Better still if he continues to draw breath while the crows pick at him.”
At this next cheer, the group of men grew in number, as more were drawn to the clamor like bees to nectar.
The blood roared through Shahrzad’s body. The tiny hairs on her skin stood straight up.
Khalid.
With nothing but their drunken threats, these foolish boys had managed to burn brutal images onto her mind. Brutal images that would not soon be forgotten.
Her strong, proud king. Her beautiful, broken monster.
The boy she loved beyond words—
Torn to pieces.
She would never let them near Khalid.
She would say whatever lie needed to be said, exist beneath hate-filled waters forever . . .
Until she drowned in their enmity, if need be.
It was not fear that drove her to such reckless thoughts.
It was fury.
I will destroy the next one who dares to speak. The next one to utter his name.