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He notices everything.
And you are risking your life.
“Khalid-jan!” the Sultan of Parthia began in a spuriously pleasant voice, putting his wolfish white teeth on full display. “Are you not going to introduce me to your new wife?”
As Salim spoke, the shahrban sat down next to him, shielded by his usual armor of circumspection.
Khalid’s piercing gaze turned to Salim. Then he smiled slowly, with such patent falseness that its chill blew back like an icy gale on a mountaintop.
“Of course, Uncle Salim. It would be a privilege to introduce you.” Khalid shifted to one side. “Shahrzad, this is my uncle by marriage, Salim Ali el-Sharif. Uncle Salim, this is my wife, Shahrzad.”
Salim regarded her with an eager friendliness Shahrzad found disarming. He beamed at her with no small amount of charisma.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Shahrzad offered him a ready smile. She bowed her head and touched her fingertips to her brow.
“By all that is holy, Khalid-jan—she is a vision.” Though Salim looked at her, he addressed Khalid, treating Shahrzad as little more than a tapestry hanging on his nephew’s wall. It rankled her.
Shahrzad held firm to her smile. “A vision with eyes and ears, my lord.”
Khalid continued staring ahead, but the ice set around his features thawed at her retort.
Salim’s eyes widened, and something flared for an instant in their pools of contrived warmth. He laughed, and the sound was just as charming as his voice. Just as overdone. “Stu
“Quite a time,” Shahrzad agreed. “I look forward to it, my lord.”
Though his smile wavered for less than an instant, there was no mistaking it; she was irritating him.
“As do I,” he replied. Each word was like a spear soaked in sweet water.
“If it pleases our esteemed guests,” the a
Two rows of servants descended the open-armed staircases, bearing steaming trays above their heads. They marched in unison until they arrived before the dais, setting plates of food in front of each guest—aromatic rice with fresh dill and split fava beans, lamb simmered in a sauce of turmeric and caramelized onions, skewers of chicken and roasted tomatoes, fresh vegetables garnished with mint and chopped parsley, olives marinated in fine oil, lavash bread with rounds of goat cheese and seemingly endless sweet preserves . . .
Shahrzad had never seen so much food.
The air filled with the aroma of spices and the clamor of conversation. Shahrzad began with some lavash bread and quince chutney, which had quickly become a favorite of hers since she arrived at the palace. As she ate, she chanced another perusal of the room. Tariq was speaking with an older gentleman seated to his left. When he felt her eyes on him, Tariq turned his head, and Shahrzad was forced, yet again, to look away.
Khalid poured himself a cup of wine and eased back onto the cushions, leaving his plate of food untouched.
“Have you no appetite, nephew?” Salim raised an eyebrow at Khalid. “Perhaps it has mysteriously disappeared. That can happen when one is—troubled.”
Khalid ignored Salim’s attempt to bait him, choosing instead to take a sip of wine.
“Or . . . is it possible you are concerned your food seeks to lash out at you in response to some inexplicable offense?” Salim laughed at his own joke, winking at Shahrzad.
Hateful man.
Shahrzad reached over and snared an olive from Khalid’s plate. Holding Salim’s gaze, she popped the olive in her mouth and ate it. “His food seems fine to me, my lord. I’m not certain which inexplicable offense you might be referencing, but rest assured, his food is quite safe,” Shahrzad replied with a wink of her own. “Would you like me to taste your food as well, Uncle?”
At that, Jalal began barking with laughter, and even the shahrban was forced to lower his grizzled chin.
The suggestion of a smile tugged at Khalid’s lips.
Across the way, a cup was set down on the table with unwarranted vehemence.
Please, Tariq. Don’t make a scene. Don’t do anything.
Salim gri
Khalid’s right hand clenched, and Shahrzad held back the desire to stab Salim in the eye with a utensil.
“Why would you be curious as to where he found me, my lord? Are you in the market?” Shahrzad asked in a nonchalant ma
Salim’s brown eyes glittered. “Perhaps I should be. Have you any relatives, my lady? Maybe a sister?”
He knows I have a sister. Is he . . . threatening my family?
Shahrzad tilted her head to one side, tamping down a flare of concern. “I do have a sister, my lord.”
Salim propped his elbows onto the table, studying Shahrzad with an amused yet predatory gleam.
Khalid’s full attention was fixed on the Sultan of Parthia, and a taut band of muscle flexed in his forearm. His hand shifted in Shahrzad’s direction. Conversation around them had all but ceased in recognition of the growing tension in the air.
“Am I not dangerous enough, Shahrzad?” Salim asked in a chillingly thoughtful tone. “Perhaps too forgiving of the women in my past? Too willing to let them live?”
Several gasps emanated from around them, rippling across the hall like a rumor being passed through a square. Jalal released a pent-up breath followed by a low oath that garnered a look of warning from his father.
Shahrzad swallowed her fury and then smiled with the brightness of the sun.
“No, Uncle Salim. You are simply too old.”
The room was as silent as a tomb.
And then the huge man with the collection of rings on his fingers began to laugh, his oiled mustache twitching all the while. Followed by the nobleman who had arrived on the black-and-white-striped steed. Soon, others started to join in until a chorus of amusement echoed throughout the space.
Salim’s robust laughter rose above the rest. Only those closest to him saw the venomous gaze he shot at the young Calipha of Khorasan. Only those who knew him well understood he was beyond enraged by the recent turn of events.
And only those watching very carefully saw the Caliph of Khorasan lean back against the cushions and toy with the bangles on his wife’s arm.
The boy with the silver eyes was one of them.
A DANCE ON A BALCONY
AS THE MEAL DREW TO A CLOSE, AN ASSEMBLAGE of musicians gathered in the corner by the raised dais. A heavily bearded man with a kamancheh slid the hair of his bow across his instrument, checking to see if it was in tune by tightening its ivory pegs, while a young woman adjusted the reed of her ney one last time. An elderly man settled the base of his tombak against his left hip and struck the drum’s taut surface . . . slow, then quick, quick. He began pounding out a driving rhythm, and the dulcimer melody of the santur joined in before all four musicians were lost to their music. Lost to the beat.
Then, from the opposite side of the dais, a young girl appeared.
A collective murmuring arose from the tables. A communal sigh of disbelief.
Jalal groaned. Khalid looked away.
For she was undoubtedly the most beautiful girl Shahrzad had ever beheld.
She was dressed in a fitted top of fiery red silk that left little to the imagination and a matching flowing skirt with intricate embroidery along the hem. Her hair fell past her waist in spiraling curls of mahogany, with hints of auburn set aflame by the torchlight. Her face would have brought a painter to his knees—high cheekbones, flawless skin, arched brows, and a fringe of black lashes that fa