THE ARROW ZINGED THROUGH THE DARKNESS, whistling past Irsa on its deadly trajectory.
The world around her seemed to slow all at once.
She saw her sister leap toward the Caliph of Khorasan, trying to push him aside.
In the same instant, the caliph grabbed her, wanting to shield her with his body. Two stubborn lovers, protecting each other from the very same threat.
Fighting the very same losing battle.
He grabbed her as she pushed him. And all was lost.
The arrow buried itself in Shahrzad’s back.
Then, just as quickly as the world slowed, it sped forward in a sudden rush.
Irsa watched the caliph catch Shahrzad tight against his chest. Though his face was blank, his eyes were a summer storm. A fiery sun besieged by churning thunderclouds.
A belated cry of surprise escaped her sister’s lips.
At the sight of the arrow quivering from Shahrzad’s back, Irsa screamed.
The sound split the night sky in two.
“Shazi!” Irsa rushed to Shahrzad’s side.
Her sister’s fingers were wrapped in the folds of the caliph’s black rida’. Neither of them had yet to utter a word, their eyes fixed upon the other’s. Whatever silent conversation they shared was not one Irsa understood. They sank to the ground, the caliph still holding Shahrzad tight against him. Irsa knelt in the dirt nearby, her heart clamoring in her chest.
“We—we have to do something!” she cried. “We need to—”
A rush of movement behind them spurred the caliph to action. He passed Shahrzad to Irsa and stood in almost the same motion. Irsa held Shahrzad, frantically studying the blossoming wound on her sister’s shoulder, wondering what she should do, wondering what she could do . . .
The grate of a sword being drawn from its sheath yanked Irsa from her tempest of thoughts. For the first time since the arrow blurred past her, she paused to truly look up at the Caliph of Khorasan.
The madman of Rey. The murderous boy-king.
Her sister’s husband.
He was tall. Not as tall as Rahim, but taller than she’d expected. There may have been a time someone else would have found him attractive. But it was not now. Now his features were punishing in their severity. Ruthless in their intent. The only emotion Irsa could discern was fury.
And the promise of death hung in the air about him.
He was truly terrifying.
Truly a monster.
The sight of him looming above her—his sword poised to kill—made Irsa want to cower in a corner, like the useless mouse she’d laid claim to in the worst of her nightmares.
How could Shahrzad love him?
Before Irsa could take in a breath to think, the caliph positioned the hilt of his sword between his palms and twisted it in two. Now he held mirror images of one sword in either hand. Twin weapons to wreak twice the destruction. His eyes never straying from their lethal task, he moved before Shahrzad and Irsa, shielding them from view.
Beyond him, footsteps raced through the sand.
“Shazi!”
“Merciful God!”
Irsa turned in shock at the sound of the two voices.
Rahim and Tariq? What were they doing here, of all places? How had they—
Shahrzad reached up to seize Irsa’s shahmina, her hands shaking.
“Shazi?” Fending off her confusion, Irsa bent closer to hear what her sister was trying to say.
“Irsa,” Shahrzad choked, her fingers winding around the thin fabric of Irsa’s shawl. Her lips had lost all color, and her voice was more breath than sound. “You have to stop him.”
“What do you mean?” Irsa cried.
“He’ll kill them.” The trembling had progressed from Shahrzad’s limbs into her core. Her sister’s body had begun to quake, and Irsa’s hands felt sticky from Shahrzad’s blood.
“I—what do I—”
“Make them stop,” Shahrzad gasped. “You have to make them stop!”
Rahim had drawn his scimitar to take position before Tariq. A quiver of arrows dangled from Tariq’s shoulder.
Tariq had fired an arrow at them? Tariq was responsible for this? But he must have been aiming at the caliph! Only to strike Shahrzad. Merciful God! How had this happened?
How was she supposed to stop them? It had taken her weeks to get her own sister’s attention! How was she to stop a brash boy like Tariq, armed to the hilt with dreams of blood and glory?
Much less stay the hand of a cold monster like the Caliph of Khorasan.
“P-please,” Irsa cried. A mouse’s call to arms. “Don’t!”
Tariq’s face had taken on a greyish hue. “Is she dead?” he asked the caliph, tugging his fingers through his hair in anguish.
It was then that Irsa realized Tariq was defenseless, save for the quiver of arrows lashed to his back. No bow to speak of. No scimitar at his side. Not even a dagger tucked in his sash.
Utterly useless to fight a monster wielding two swords.
Alas, Irsa knew this did not matter to Tariq. Not in the slightest.