“She’s unlikely to remain conscious for long,” the caliph said to Irsa in a quiet voice. “Seasoned soldiers have been known to quail long before this.”
“S-s-stop talking about me as though I weren’t here,” Shahrzad rasped through chattering teeth.
“We’re only a short ride from our encampment,” Irsa said. “If we—”
“Take one of our horses,” Rahim said from behind them. “Then ride back to the Badawi camp with Tariq. No one will question you if you return with Tariq, so long as your face is covered. I’ll ride back with Irsa.”
The caliph glanced over his shoulder at Rahim. Rahim did not flinch from his cool appraisal. After a beat, the caliph stood with Shahrzad in his arms. He did not say a word as they waited for Tariq to retrieve the horses. When Tariq moved to help with Shahrzad, Rahim stayed him with a hand to his chest before assisting the caliph himself. Soon, the caliph sat astride a dark bay stallion with Shahrzad’s pale figure tucked before him.
Still in complete silence, the caliph pulled the hood of his rida’ low onto his head and directed the horse forward, as though he intended to proceed without them. Then he swiveled Tariq’s horse back in their direction. His eyes glowed down at them like embers in a fire.
“Tariq Imran al-Ziyad?” the caliph began, his thinly veiled anger giving the name the rancor of an oath.
Irsa saw Tariq’s fists clench tight.
“Lead the way . . . before I rethink the matter and kill you outright.”
A BROTHER AND A HOME
IRSA DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF HER SISTER’S husband.
He was a confusing mixture of extremes, cloaked behind a black rida’.
With everyone else, he was chipped ice on a mountain. With her sister, he was a summer breeze across the sea.
Alas, this did little to change the fact that Irsa remained terrified of him. For she was quite certain he’d almost killed Tariq no less than three times since returning to the Badawi camp.
The first incident occurred not long after they arrived at Tariq’s tent. Though on that score, Irsa supposed the caliph’s enmity was somewhat warranted.
As soon as they concealed themselves within the tent, Irsa tried to remove Shahrzad’s bloodstained qamis, so as to better see the wound in question. Of course it was not appropriate for Tariq to assist her with this. Especially in the presence of Shahrzad’s husband. Surely Tariq could not have thought it was. Irsa was not quite certain why he’d even attempted to do so.
Foolish at best. A death wish at worst.
And in the face of a murdering madman?
A death likely to come about in any number of colorful ways.
Then, once the wound was cleaned, she and the caliph attempted to remove the arrowhead. Since neither of them was versed in such matters, it proved to be a challenging task, especially with Shahrzad’s combativeness coming to the fore. In the end, they were forced to consult with Tariq, as he had been the one to fashion the arrowhead in question.
With the purpose of exacting a great deal of damage.
With the intention of shredding skin and shattering bone.
Irsa was certain the caliph meant to murder Tariq at this admission. Unfortunately, it did not much help Tariq’s cause when he was the one to extract the arrowhead. After all, he was the one with the strongest understanding of its design. Not to mention the steady hands of a skilled archer. He managed to remove the arrowhead intact, which Irsa had been most grateful to see, despite the difficulty accompanying the effort.
Shahrzad bit down on a piece of worn leather while it was being done, and tears stained her cheeks for the duration. Though they all witnessed Shazi curse Tariq quite soundly afterward—which implied all was on its way to being mended—Irsa was still sure the caliph intended to do Tariq physical harm in the near future.
The last incident in which Tariq narrowly escaped an early demise occurred not long after Irsa cleaned Shahrzad’s wound a final time with a mixture of old wine and warm water. Not long after Irsa realized the wound would not stop bleeding anytime soon.
When she knew it would have to be sealed shut with a hot blade.
Shahrzad was not a girl to flinch away from such a thing. Nor was she a girl to lament a scar.
But Irsa knew this would not be a small thing to stomach. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Shahrzad had already lost a fair amount of blood. Any more and it would no longer be a matter they could successfully conceal from the rest of the camp. When Irsa brought her suggestion to light, Shahrzad agreed it was not to be further debated.
In the end it was done using the slender tip of Rahim’s khanjar dagger, so as to ensure the smallest scar. The caliph was the one to do it. At her sister’s behest.
Shahrzad lost consciousness in the process. In truth, Irsa was glad of it. For the smell of burnt flesh alone was enough to sicken her.