“Ask your father,” Shahrzad retorted.
“I’d rather ask your husband. When I next see him . . . kneeling at my feet.”
Without hesitation, Shahrzad splashed the remainder of her wine in Despina’s face.
The guards rushed at her, hauling her to her feet and dragging her from the table.
“Where is my sister?” Shahrzad screamed. “Where is Vikram? What have you done with them?”
Despina wiped her chin with the edge of a linen napkin, utterly calm. “If she wants so badly to see her former bodyguard, then take her to him. And leave her there to rot.”
Jahandar sat rigid at the table, burying his face in his shaking hands. He did not even glance her way as Shahrzad continued hurling obscenities into the air.
The guards dragged her through the lamplit halls. After a time, Shahrzad put up little resistance. For they meant to shame her as they hauled her along, like the carcass of a dying beast. And she would not give them the satisfaction. The arched corridors took on an even more garish look as she passed beneath their jewel-inlaid alcoves, going deeper into the sandstone palace. The scent of smoke from the guards’ torches caught in Shahrzad’s throat, causing her eyes to water.
They dragged her down a series of winding stone stairwells until they progressed into the underbelly of the palace, where the dank cold and the stench of decay took on a life of its own. Where it grew thick upon the walls as it seeped its way through the cracks.
The cells of the palace’s prison were barred by large iron grates, shaped into crooked half-moons. The ceilings were low and the floors were covered in dingy straw. Mold saturated the space, musty and thick. At every other cell a single torch lit the lichen-covered walls, barely offering any light.
The scar-faced, leering guard from earlier yanked Shahrzad against a wet stone wall. Its uneven surface rammed into the small of her back, jostling her injured shoulder and ripping a gasp from her throat.
“Not so silver-tongued now, are you?” he said, his sour breath hot against her skin.
Shahrzad punched him in the stomach.
“Bitch!”
Another guard lifted her off the ground as though to shield her from any resulting blows. Her eyes connected with his, and for a moment Shahrzad thought she saw a flash of panic. The first guard doubled over, clutching his middle and hurling curses her way. Then he straightened and came for her again, his face contorted with rage.
The second guard put a hand on his arm, worry etched across his forehead. “Be careful. I won’t be fed to the crows in pieces. If the bastard boy-king discovers we’ve harmed her—”
“The bastard boy-king will never know. Especially after we’ve decimated his army and left his carcass to rot in the sands.” He shot a disdainful glance at the smaller guard. “Unless you believe we are on the losing side?”
The smaller guard shook his head. And looked away.
“Besides,” the first guard continued, “I won’t harm her.” With a wicked grin, he returned his attention to Shahrzad. “Not now, at least.”
“Touch me again and the crows will be the least of your worries,” she said.
He took her by the hair. “I doubt that very much.” The guard pulled her closer. He yanked a hooked dagger from his sash. “Don’t worry. I’ll save the lasting damage for some other night.”
With that, the guard sliced through Shahrzad’s braid at the shoulder.
A shower of seed pearls crashed to the cold stone floor.
THE TIGER AND THE FALCON
KHALID WAS EXHAUSTED.
He had not properly rested since his return from the desert late last night.
Upon Khalid’s arrival, the shahrban had railed at him for quite some time. Khalid had let him, until he’d been forced to remind his uncle that he was under no obligation to report his whereabouts to anyone.
As he was in fact the Caliph of Khorasan.
After stating this, Khalid had promptly walked away.
Only to be accosted by Jalal within his antechamber.
His cousin, too, had been furious.
“I thought you were dead,” Jalal had said without a single word of welcome.
“Would that not have pleased you, to a degree?” Khalid had replied. “It’s much easier to hate a memory. I would know.”
It was spiteful, without a doubt. But Khalid had always possessed a particular knack for spite. It was one of his many darker gifts. One of the numerous gifts passed down to him, father to son.
Jalal had called him a foul name before pushing past him into the darkness.
Khalid had thought to go after him. Had thought to apologize.