For it was as clear as rain he was beyond all rational thought.
The Caliph of Khorasan said nothing in response. He merely brandished both swords in punishing arcs of precision. Arcs that only too well demonstrated his intent.
He stepped forward.
Without a word, Rahim moved to defend Tariq.
Irsa shrieked as the caliph raised both weapons against Rahim. She felt her sister struggle to catch her breath, struggle to sit upright, struggle to protest . . .
“Is she dead?” Tariq’s grief caused his voice to crack through the blue darkness. “Just answer that question, you bastard, and you may do as you please with me.”
“Why would I do anything for you?” the caliph replied, low and vicious.
“Because if she’s dead, I don’t care what happens to me!”
“Then we agree on at least two things.” With that, the caliph shifted his attention toward Rahim, his swords glinting on a moonbeam.
“Please!” Irsa screamed. “Please don’t—”
“Irsa.” Shahrzad yanked her closer, still struggling, her face contorted, her words a ragged whisper. “You have to . . . yell at Khalid. Get up. Make him stop! Do something.”
Irsa shook her head. He was the Caliph of Khorasan! Could a mouse even dare?
“Irsa!”
The clash of swords rang out in the desert, the ring of metal on metal pulsing through the air.
Yet Irsa remained motionless with fear. As though every cogent thought within her had been swallowed in a breath.
It was over in four strokes. There was no contest to be had. The Caliph of Khorasan was a demon, trained to wield blades forged in the Bluefires of hell itself.
Rahim tumbled into the sand, scrambling for his lost sword.
Irsa’s heart flew into her throat.
Every part of her tingled with awareness. With inescapable realization.
It would not be enough for the caliph to disarm Rahim. Not in his current state. The monster of Rey would kill Rahim to get to Tariq.
To destroy Tariq for what he had done to Shahrzad.
And Irsa could not live in a world—refused to live in any world—where she had let such a thing come to pass.
So in the end, it wasn’t the pleading whispers of her sister. It wasn’t the fear that coursed through Irsa’s blood. No. It was never the fear. It was so much more than that.
It was older than the desert, this feeling. And it forever put an end to the mouse’s reign. Once and for all.
“Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” Irsa roared. All eyes whipped back in her direction. “Stop this immediately. For if you do not, I promise Shahrzad will never forgive you!”
Her chest heaved as her gaze fell on the boy lying in the sand.
The boy who always asked the right questions. The boy who made her feel better than beautiful. The boy who gave her the strength to be a lion.
“And if you hurt Rahim, I will never, ever forgive you,” Irsa finished, truth imbuing her words with a steel no sword could strike down.
Even the very grains of sand seemed to yield to her. Seemed to sigh back in relief.
The Caliph of Khorasan gazed at her for an unblinking moment. His features lost a measure of their severity. He stood straight.
And lowered his swords.
Then, as though nothing of import had occurred, the caliph strode back toward Irsa, restoring his blades to a single sword as he walked. Rahim clambered to his feet and retrieved his scimitar before carefully following in the caliph’s footsteps, with Tariq in tow.
The caliph knelt beside Shahrzad and tried to lift her. She grimaced, the tension banding across her face. Her coloring had worsened considerably, her skin sallow, her forehead damp with sweat.
“We—have to take her back to the encampment,” Irsa said, determined to remain calm despite the recent tumult. “For I don’t think it’s wise to remove the arrow here. The wound does not seem to be terribly deep, but she’s still losing a great deal of blood, and Tariq uses—”
“Obsidian arrowheads.” The caliph’s eyes rippled with the remnants of a passing fury.
Irsa nodded. “It’s likely to worsen the more she moves. We have to do something. Soon.”
“Shazi?” The caliph reached for Shahrzad, and his suddenly gentle disposition had a strangely disquieting effect on Irsa. It was as though another person had settled into his skin. “I have to separate the shaft from the arrowhead before we move you.”
Her sister nodded once into the fabric of Irsa’s shahmina.
The caliph paused. “It will hurt.”
Shahrzad licked her lips. “Simply do it and stop talking about it, you lout,” she muttered in a barely audible tone.
Irsa was almost as astonished by her sister’s fearlessness as she was by the sight of the caliph’s mouth tugging upward with shadowed amusement. He drew Shahrzad closer, again with great care. With a quick snap, the caliph broke the shaft of the arrow as near to her skin as he could manage. Shahrzad muffled a cry against him, and her shaking continued with renewed vigor.