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As they rounded the final corner, Shahrzad paused midstep.
Khalid stood before a set of massive, gilt-framed double doors three times his height. They were guarded on either side by creatures carved from stone, with the body of a bull, the wings of an eagle, and the head of a man.
He turned when he heard their footsteps, and Shahrzad’s breath was gone before she could catch it.
The linen of his off-white qamis was so finely spun that it reflected a faint sheen from the torches lining the corridor. Their fires gave life to the carved hollows of his features. The hilt of his sword was looped through the crimson tikka sash wound across his hips. His mantle was a rich brown that enhanced the amber of his eyes, making them appear even more intense, even more fluid. Even more illusory.
And these eyes were hers. From the moment he turned and saw her.
Shahrzad slowed her pace as she neared him, her fear fading into a strange sort of calm.
She attempted a smile.
He reached out his hand.
When she took it, she noticed a thick band of muted gold on the third finger of his right hand. Embossed on its surface were two crossed swords. Shahrzad ran her thumb over it.
“It’s my standard,” Khalid explained. “They’re—”
“Twin shamshirs.”
“Yes.”
She looked up, worried he would wonder how she knew.
But he was unfazed.
“The general told you I saw the tournament?” she asked flatly.
“Of course.” A corner of his lips twitched.
Shahrzad exhaled in a huff. “Of course.”
He laced his fingers through hers. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you.”
“Are you ready?”
“Are you?”
At this, Khalid smiled. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Thank you, Shazi. For standing at my side.”
She nodded, words failing her.
Then Khalid strode forward and the Rajput pushed open one of the huge doors. The warmth of Khalid’s hand led Shahrzad onto the upper landing of an immense two-way staircase shaped like open arms. For an instant, she hesitated, thinking they were supposed to go their separate ways, but Khalid grasped her palm tight and started down the stairs with Shahrzad beside him. Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of blue damask trailing behind her like gently rolling waves across a sea of hewn marble.
When they paused at the base of the staircase, Shahrzad gasped in wonder for the second time that evening.
The royal audience hall of the palace at Rey was undoubtedly the largest room she had ever seen in her life. The floor was immense, alternating stones of black and white, patterned diagonally as far as the eye could see. Beautiful reliefs depicting human bulls charging into battle and winged women with long tresses flowing in the wind adorned the walls, which stretched high into the air. So high that Shahrzad had to lengthen her neck to see the very tops of the carved columns bearing the ponderous weight of the ceiling. Fashioned near the base of each of these columns were two-headed lions with iron torches protruding from their roaring mouths.
In the center of this vast space was a three-sided, raised dais with a series of low tables situated upon its surface. Sumptuous fabric and richly appointed cushions littered the dais with vibrant color and lush texture. Fresh rose petals and dried jessamine were strewn across the silk and fringed damask, perfuming the air with a sweetly intoxicating scent that beckoned to anyone who wandered by.
Their guests were milling about, awaiting their arrival.
Tariq.
The fear returned in a rush.
She could sense Khalid watching her. He squeezed her hand, offering his gentle reassurance in one simple gesture.
Shahrzad glanced back at him with a wavering smile.
“If it pleases our esteemed guests . . .” a sonorous voice echoed from above.
Every head in the room swiveled their way.
“The Caliph of Khorasan, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid . . . and the Calipha of Khorasan, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”
All eyes turned toward her, bodies twisting, necks craning for a better vantage point. From the edge of her gaze, she finally saw a pair of silver eyes flash to her face, glide over her resplendent form . . . then back to her hand, still interwoven in Khalid’s steady warmth.
Then the silver eyes vanished into the crowd.
Leaving behind panic.
Please. Not here. Do nothing. Say nothing.
She briefly recalled the skirmish in the souk a few weeks ago.
The drunken men with their piecemeal arms . . .
And the cloaked caliph with his deadly shamshir.
If you threaten Khalid, he’ll kill you, Tariq. Without a second thought.
Khalid strode onto the dais and took his place before the center stretch of tables. Shahrzad released his palm and sat to his right, her mind a jumbled mass of thoughts.
I can’t look for Tariq. I can’t do anything. It will only make matters worse.
What could he be pla
“Is this seat available?” Jalal gri
She looked up, blinking hard. “That depends. Is it for you?”
He sat down next to her.
“I did not give you per—”
“Good evening, sayyidi,” Jalal said in a loud tone.
Shahrzad wrinkled her nose at Jalal.
“Don’t do that, my lady. You ruin your face when you do that,” he teased.
“Good evening, Jalal. And I disagree,” Khalid retorted under his breath.
Jalal laughed heartily. “My apologies, then. If you would permit me this indulgence in its place, sayyidi: I do believe every man here is currently reassessing his notion of beauty.”
Despina was right. He is such a consummate flirt.
“Stop it.” Shahrzad flushed, glaring at Jalal’s arrogant mien.
“Now, that . . . ruins nothing,” Jalal said.
“At last, we agree on something.” Khalid spoke to Jalal, though his eyes lingered on Shahrzad.
And Jalal leaned back into the cushions with a satisfied smile, his hands laced across his stomach.
“If it pleases our esteemed guests . . .” the a
Again, all heads turned to the set of open-armed staircases.
“The Sultan of Parthia, Salim Ali el-Sharif.”
When Jalal rose to his feet with a grumbled oath, Shahrzad placed her palms on the dais to follow suit.
But Khalid immediately reached his hand out to stop her.
Shahrzad met his gaze, and he shook his head very slightly, his eyes narrowing at the edges. His thumb trailed along the underside of her forearm, and the knot in her stomach pulled tight. Then he let go, his features blank once more.
As the sea of faces parted before them, Shahrzad took her first glimpse of the man who wished to lord over Khalid with accusations of illegitimacy. The uncle who had treated Khalid’s mother with such disdain.
The sultan who would do anything for the chance to gain a kingdom.
Salim Ali el-Sharif was an attractive man with a strong jaw, nicely greying hair, and a meticulous mustache. He was trim and appeared in good health, with a deceptively warm set of dark brown eyes. His charcoal-colored mantle was exquisitely embroidered at its collar and hem, and the scimitar at his hip had a burnished hilt of solid gold with an emerald the size of a child’s fist embedded in its base.
He strode onto the dais with the confidence of a man absent worry and took a seat in the empty space by Khalid.
At Salim’s arrival, the rest of the guests began filtering to the tables. Shahrzad finally dared to run her eyes across the room and was distressed to discover that Tariq was seated quite close, well within earshot. When their glances met, his handsome face eased into perilous familiarity—awash in the memory of stolen embraces—and Shahrzad immediately looked away.
Stop it! Please don’t do this, Tariq. If Khalid sees you looking at me . . . you don’t understand.