He did not know what to expect.
Though the strange sorceress in the eastern mountains had warned that the book would scream—would fight back—Khalid still did not know what it might bring about.
Nor did he trust her. Not in the slightest.
Which was why he’d waited to do anything with the book until he was far away from anyone or anything.
No one else would die for this curse.
Not if he could help it.
Khalid removed the jeweled dagger from his sash. Then he placed the book on a rise of sand before him. Once he’d unwrapped it, he studied it for a spell.
It was strangely unremarkable. Ugly, even. Bound in tattered, water-stained leather. Degraded at the edges. Rusted at the bindings. Sealed in its center by a tarnished lock Khalid felt certain even the most unskilled thief could open with a hairpin.
Strange that something so commonplace could signify so much. Could do so much incalculable damage to so many lives. To entire cities. To so many families.
Just a book. Merely scratchings on a page.
Khalid smiled a bitter smile. The power behind words lies with the person. It had always been one of his mother’s favorite teachings. One of the more notable bits of wisdom Musa Zaragoza had ever imparted upon them both.
He narrowed his gaze on the worn volume below.
The words in this particular book would never give power to anyone again.
And, if the sorceress had not lied to them that evening in the mountain fortress, her words would spare Khalid from a life rooted in the past.
From a life spent atoning for his sins.
Khalid removed the black key from around his neck. And unlocked the book.
The pages sprang open. An eerie white light emanated from within. Sickly. The slashing text was indecipherable to him.
When Khalid reached out to touch the pages, a sudden flare of heat shot toward him, burning the tips of his fingers. He swore. With the burn came another flash of light, violent and vivid and bright. Wickedly so.
No more.
Khalid unsheathed the dagger.
The book pulsed in response. Rippled with a vital sort of menace.
He drew the blade across his palm. Dripped his blood onto the metal. It began to glow a fiery red. Then he let his blood trickle onto the pages of the book.
The book began to scream. A high-pitched, keening wail. For a moment, its pages seemed to scorch. The smell took on a presence, heavy and thick in the air. The drops of crimson blackened as they struck the book’s surface. Pale grey swirls rose above them, curling in sinister suggestion.
The wind bowed around Khalid, covering him in an eddy of dust and smoke. With the blooming gusts, the symbols the sorceress had worked into the blade began to shimmer as if in response to a threat.
Khalid lifted the dagger high.
But the smoke stayed his hand. It gathered a life force of its own and wrapped itself around his wrists in an icy vise.
What Khalid felt in that moment was like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. It was not a vision, nor was it a memory. It was not a dream, nor was it a nightmare.
It was simply a feeling. A naked, exposed sort of feeling. The kind that ebbed from his center, drawing itself to the surface for all the world to see. The kind he’d spent so much of his life trying to deny, for fear it would make him appear weak. Would make those around him see past his skin into his very soul.
It was every moment he’d ever felt alone. Every moment he’d ever felt powerless. Every moment he’d ever wanted to disappear.
Every ugly thought and every empty feeling coursing through him, as though the book had reached within him and grasped every doubt—every insecurity—and brought it to the surface.
Brought it there to tell Khalid he was not worthy.
Of anything.
Not worthy to be a king. Not worthy of his uncle’s faith. Not worthy of Jalal’s loyalty. Not worthy of Vikram’s friendship.
Not worthy of Shahrzad’s love.
After all, what had he done to deserve any of it? He was the unwanted second son of an unwanted second wife. Everything to one person, then nothing to no one.
Nothing.
He’d been nothing but an angry boy in the shadows for so long. A boy who’d envied his brother from the shadows. A boy who’d watched his mother die from the shadows.
A boy who’d thrived in the shadows.
Now he had to live in the light.
To live . . . fiercely.
To fight for every breath.
Khalid grasped the dagger with both hands. But the smoke fought back. The jade talisman coiled about his neck. The screams rang louder around him. The sand swirled in a raging vortex, pressing in, tighter and tighter, trying to swallow him. Trying to make him disappear.
All he’d wanted for so long was to disappear. To take all the ugliness with him—all the vicious memories of his mother’s blood spilling across blue-veined agate and silken cords at sunrise— And vanish without a trace.
“No.”
He squeezed the dagger tighter.