The shahrban had been staunchly against it. But the caliph had been adamant, citing the wisdom behind knowing his enemy’s intentions. Understanding the game Salim Ali el-Sharif meant to play. The caliph had refused to show a hint of fear.
Tariq suspected the caliph wished, above all, to know of Shahrzad’s whereabouts. Just as he did. Whether it was unwise or imprudent remained to be seen. But it would be difficult to lay siege to the city without first knowing whether Shahrzad was within its walls. Without first knowing whether they could rescue her.
Without first knowing whether she was safe.
So that very afternoon, Tariq, Rahim, the captain of the Royal Guard, a bald-headed boy from the eastern mountains, and a small contingent of guards accompanied the caliph into Amardha. Into a palace Tariq could only describe as beyond opulent. The marble fountains lining its courtyards were studded with jewels. The water itself seemed to sparkle as though it had been littered with the dust of discarded diamonds.
The caliph met the sultan in the main courtyard. For he’d refused to set foot in the palace proper. He did not speak when the sultan strode toward him, a wide smile cutting across his elegantly unctuous face.
“Khalid-jan!” the sultan began. “You’ve brought a larger party with you than we agreed upon. I thought it was to be just you and the captain of the guard.”
The caliph did not respond. He merely stood still, cold and intractable.
A shadow crossed the sultan’s countenance. “Such behavior could be construed as a threat, nephew—coming to my city’s gates with a host at your back, only to disregard the simplest of my requests.”
“I care not how you construe my actions,” the caliph replied, his words a whispered barb. “I only care that you know this: you will pay for what you have done.”
“Pay?” The sultan looped his arms across his chest, the sleeves of his lavishly trimmed mantle shimmering in the afternoon sun.
“I will not play these games with you, Salim. Where is she?”
Another smug smile. “Have you lost something of import, nephew?”
At that, Tariq took a step forward. The captain of the guard lifted a hand to stop him.
“I have not lost a thing, Salim Ali el-Sharif. You will tell me where Shahrzad is now. Before the words are forced from your tongue.” A muscle worked in the caliph’s jaw. “Before your city is reduced to ash.”
The sultan’s bodyguards flocked to his side, their hands upon the hilts of their swords.
“Bold,” the sultan mused, utterly unmoved. “Especially in my palace. On my lands.”
“This is your palace—these are your lands—at my discretion. As they always have been.”
“Such arrogance.” The sultan snorted. “If you believed so, why have you not taken them?”
“Out of respect. And because I did not wish to bring war upon us.”
“Respect?” Disbelief registered on the sultan’s face. “For whom?”
“For my brother’s family.”
“Misguided. If you truly thought Parthia so easily won, you would have taken it by now.”
“I am not nearly as greedy as you may think,” the caliph said with disdain. “I possess twice your bannermen, and you are outmatched in soldiers and weaponry by more than half. As to the pitiful force you tried to rally in the desert, do you think I could not have ridden through them in an afternoon, if put to task?”
“I think you are a conceited child of ridiculous words, just like your mother.”
The caliph remained placid, even at the slight to his mother. “Then chance it. But I will raze this palace, stone by stone, as you waste that chance. And if you are still in it while I do so? Then so be it.” He turned to leave without giving the sultan a chance to respond.
“I doubt you’ll do that, you whoreson. I doubt that very much.” With that, Salim tossed something in their direction.
It slid past the caliph’s feet.
It took Tariq a moment to recognize it.
In the same instant he did, he wished he had not. Wished he did not know enough to recognize what lay strewn across the pavestones of the sultan’s lavish courtyard. What it was to feel such a thing.
What it was to burn with fear and hate in the very same breath.
It was a length of black braid, wrapped in a broken string of pearls.
The party halted in their tracks.
“My soldiers tell me she smells like a spring garden,” the sultan said softly, without a hint of emotion. Then he smiled. Slowly. Cruelly.
Tariq unsheathed his sword.
All he saw before him was blood.
Khalid had known his uncle Salim would try to provoke him.
But he had not known the depths to which the Sultan of Parthia would descend.
When Khalid first saw what his uncle had tossed across the stones, there had been a moment—less than a moment—where the world around Khalid had been reduced to cinder. Where all he’d wanted to do was crush something between his hands and watch it crumble to pieces.
But he’d realized in the next instant what Salim had done. What he meant for Khalid to do. And though Khalid wanted nothing more than to oblige him, blind rage would not serve a purpose beyond this moment.
Blind rage was the action of a boy who existed in the shadows.