The last arrowhead Tariq had seen was the one he’d removed from Shahrzad’s back. Stained crimson with her blood.
Dripping red with the blood of the only girl he’d ever loved.
It seemed only a moment had passed since Tariq had promised he would never hurt Shahrzad again.
A moment and a lifetime.
And this? What Tariq was about to do? This would do far more than hurt her. This would destroy her. Beyond words. Beyond time. As Shahrzad had once said of his own death. On a night not so long ago when she’d worried Tariq might perish at the hands of the Caliph of Khorasan.
There would never be an end to this.
Unless someone chose to end it.
Tariq lowered his weapon. “The wind is not right.”
“The wind should not matter to a master archer such as yourself.”
“It should not,” Tariq replied simply. “Yet it does.”
The caliph dropped his swords to his sides. “Perhaps you are not the archer I thought you to be.”
“Perhaps.” He cut his gaze at the boy-king. “Or perhaps I’m merely waiting for a more favorable wind.”
The boy-king’s expression darkened in response, a muscle working in his jaw. “Never forget, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—I gave you this chance. Today you fired upon me . . . and in turn struck that which matters more than life itself. The next time you attempt such a thing in her presence, I will flay you alive and leave the rest for the dogs.”
Tariq’s brows shot into his forehead. “And here I was on the cusp of believing you might not be a monster.”
“I’m my father’s son—a monster by blood and by right.” The caliph’s voice remained cool, despite the heat of his words. “I do not make empty threats. You would do well to remember that.”
“Yet you wish for me to trust that you deserve Shahrzad. That you are what is best for her.” Tariq refrained from sneering.
“I would never presume such arrogance. And rest assured; the day I concern myself with your good opinion will be the day the moon rises in place of the sun. But know this: I will fight for what matters to me, until my last breath.”
“She matters to me, too. I will never love anyone or anything as much as I love Shahrzad.”
At that, the caliph’s smile returned, mocking in its bent. “I disagree. You love yourself more.”
Resentment simmered through Tariq’s chest, roiling to a slow burn. “Do not—”
“Until you can learn to let go of your hatred, you will always love yourself more.”
Laughter burst from Tariq’s lips, dark and scathing in tone. “Can you honestly claim not to hate me?”
The caliph paused. “No. I do not hate you. But I deeply resent your past, more than I can put to words.” He restored his blades to a single sword and began pacing toward him. “Do you know how many times I could have killed you, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad? How many times I’ve wished, in the blackest reaches of my soul, that you were no more? I’ve known who you were—who your family was—for a long time. My father would have killed you simply for looking at Shahrzad the way you do. For myself, I would have killed you. But for her, I didn’t.” He sheathed his sword with a quick snap. “And I never would have, but for the events of tonight,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
Tariq clenched a hand around his bow-grip, taking the caliph’s confession into consideration. As difficult as it was for Tariq to admit, he did not believe the caliph to be lying. For he did not seem prone to deceit. Which put to question many other suspicions Tariq had long harbored against him. Suspicions that had long begged for answers.
Tariq’s hatred could no longer remain festering in their shadow.
“Why did you murder my cousin?” he asked in a terse voice.
“Because I thought I didn’t have a choice,” the caliph responded with care. “I believed it was taken from me by a man who wished for me to suffer as he suffered. A man who sought to”—he took a halting breath—“curse me for my heedlessness. To curse the families of Rey with the deaths of their daughters each dawn. And in so doing, the man cursed the whole of Khorasan.” A trace of anguish flickered across the caliph’s gaze—an anguish that hinted at an untold amount of suffering. He answered as though he expected to answer for many years to come. As though he knew no answer would ever be sufficient.
“A . . . curse? You killed my cousin because of a curse?” Incredulity flared through Tariq. His eyes grew wide, blurring his sight to all around him for an instant.
“I was wrong to believe I didn’t have a choice,” the caliph said quietly, continuing to make his way toward Tariq. “So very wrong. And I can never right this wrong. Nor can I right the wrongs to your family. But I can promise to make amends, if you will grant me the chance.”
Tariq gritted his teeth. Despite this revelation—despite the realization that this must have been what Shazi had been trying to tell him all along—the caliph’s answer was truly not an answer. It was merely a string of hollow reassurances.
Nothing of substance.