Omar had seen its shadow descend upon his friend, just as Omar had known his own tribe would fall into the clash of two kingdoms. Would be caught between the warring nations of Khorasan and Parthia. One a sovereign land of plenty, besieged by recent misfortune. The other its lesser in all ways, save for ambition.
The lands of the Badawi lay along the border between Khorasan and Parthia, and Omar had known it would be impossible for him to remain apart from any conflict that occurred between the two, however much he may have wished it could be so. His people were too close, his land too valuable.
But Omar had not known how best to proceed.
He had not known who would be his true enemy, and whom he could fashion into a friend. And Omar was not the type to choose sides without learning all he could first. Without seeing both faces of the coin.
He had hoped Tariq—the young nobleman from Khorasan who possessed such a pure heart—would help to guide him. The White Falcon from Khorasan, who would guide his kingdom from the darkness back into the light.
But now Omar was not so sure. For he’d not yet had the chance to speak freely on these matters with Tariq. And the boy’s heart had not seemed to be in the recent raids made on neighboring strongholds. Omar was not certain Tariq had chosen right in following his uncle. Not certain Tariq knew how best to choose between right and wrong.
For Tariq had seen only one face of the coin.
It was time for Omar to share with Tariq all he knew. All he had learned from all his quiet observance. All he had long suspected.
It was time for Tariq to make a choice as well.
For Tariq’s uncle had already made his. A path into darkness.
And now the Calipha of Khorasan and her young sister were missing. Omar need only hazard one guess as to where they’d been taken.
Which meant the two kingdoms were likely on the brink of war.
Which meant the al-Sadiq tribe would ride again.
But with whom?
With a mysterious boy-king who had murdered all his brides without seeming cause? Or with a power-hungry tyrant who had paid mercenaries to bide their time amongst Omar’s people? The same power-hungry tyrant Omar suspected had allied himself with Reza bin-Latief long ago.
For Omar had seen the trunks of gold being spirited away under cover of night. He had seen the brigands with their scarab brands. It was why he had asked Reza bin-Latief’s forces to relocate to the outskirts of his camp nearly a fortnight ago.
But which of these two kings was the true villain of this story?
For a story was only as good as its villain.
Indeed, it was time for Omar to make a decision. To pry back the worn wool from the desert’s eyes.
For the desert did indeed have eyes. Eyes Omar had put in place many moons ago. Omar had always known how to watch and listen. This desert was his desert. A desert his people had ruled for six generations.
It was time for Omar to see if Tariq was made of more than muscle and mettle. To see if Tariq could handle the truth. Once Omar had confessed it to him, he would hear what the boy had to say. And his decision would be made.
Whether it would make the boy his enemy or his ally remained to be seen.
But Omar’s people came first. Despite how much he’d come to care for the boy. Despite how much Omar longed to see the boy achieve all he’d set out to achieve.
How much he longed to see Tariq’s love story win out.
Omar had said it to Aisha many times before. Though she’d harrumphed at him quite severely whenever she heard it, he knew it never ceased to make her smile.
“Give me a meaningful love or a beautiful death!”
Alas, Omar was a greedy man.
He’d always hoped to have both.
LIFE AND DEATH IN THE PAGES OF A BOOK
KHALID RODE THROUGH THE DESERT UNTIL THE SUN dipped low on the horizon.
It would take him two more days of hard riding to reach Rey. By that time, his uncle would undoubtedly be at his wit’s end. It would not matter that Khalid was the caliph and therefore entitled to his own freedom. In matters such as this, General Aref al-Khoury only saw an angry boy, alone in the shadows. The same boy he had quietly cared for these many years.
Khalid could only hope the shahrban believed him occupied by one of his many excursions into the city. Or that Jalal had been willing to conceal Khalid’s absence for a short while.
But Khalid doubted his cousin would be willing to do such a thing.
For their exchanges over the past few weeks had been stilted at best.
Downright hostile at worst.
As it was, Khalid did not know how he would ever explain this particular disappearance to his cousin. And Khalid had been unable to find a trace of Despina or the Rajput. Anywhere.
He continued riding at a brisk pace through the umber sands until only a hint of the sun’s warmth lingered across the sky. Then he dismounted from the borrowed steed and removed the pack of provisions from the saddle.
With only a moment to catch his breath, Khalid pulled free the book from its place in the worn leather folds of the pack. The book was still wrapped in a length of coarse brown linen. Tucking it beneath his arm, Khalid strode away from the horse, his hand shifting toward the dagger at his hip.