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souk—outdoor market
sultan—the ruler of Parthia, a term synonymous with “king”; Salim Ali el-Sharif
tabarzin—a battle-axe
Taleqan—the fortress of Emir Nasir al-Ziyad; the fourth-richest stronghold in Khorasan; Tariq’s home
talwar—a type of curved sword or saber originating from Hindustan; the Rajput’s sword
Thebes—a large city in central Greece
tikka sash—a long sash tied about the hips, largely decorative, worn by men and women alike
Tirazis—a city in Khorasan famous for its stone quarries
tombak—a drum resting on the hip
vizier—an advisor to the caliph
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I REMEMBER ONCE HEARING THE WORD “JOURNEY” AS being among the most overused to ascribe to a creative endeavor.
Upon reflection, I suppose “odyssey” just doesn’t have the right ring to it. Not to mention the whole Homerian thing.
I digress.
This journey would not have been possible without a slew of amazing people. I will try my very best to remember each and every one of them, but should I fail in that task, please know it is absolutely my fault, and I shall owe those offended something good in the near future. But not my firstborn child. Because that’s been done already.
First, this book would be nothing but a vague notion swimming about in my head were it not for the support and guidance of my agent, Barbara Poelle. B, you were there before I hit the first keystroke on this thing, and it was you who gave me the courage to write it. Mere gratitude seems hollow in face of all that. Nevertheless, thank you, a thousand, thousand times.
As I once said to her when we were under deadline and exchanging e-mails past midnight, there is exactly one other person in the world who has spent almost as much time with these words as I have. To my editor, Stacey Barney, you are my match in all things. Thank you for loving this book and believing in it so strongly from Day One. Then taking it from what it was into what it has become—something infinitely better. I appreciate and respect you more than I can express.
To the phenomenal team at Penguin—to Kate Meltzer, wordsmith and Francophile extraordinaire, to my wonderful publicist Marisa Russell, to Bri Lockhart for all your enthusiasm and support, to Venessa Carson, to Jen Besser, to Theresa Evangelista for the gorgeous cover design, to Marikka Tamura, Cara Petrus, Ana Deboo, A
To my writing tribe—to Ricki Schultz, Sarah He
To all my fellow 2015 debut-ers—it has been such a privilege to share in this journey with you. A special note of thanks to my 2K15-ers . . . I am in awe of each of you. Also to Sabaa Tahir—thank you for being you.
To the astounding team of folks at We Need Diverse Books—every day I am blown away by our collective passion for this cause. Thank you for all that you do. This is only the begi
To Marie Lu for taking me under her wing and being one of the best people I have ever been privileged to know. Your blurb made me cry. And I will always give you the crust. Always.
To Carrie Ryan for being the most epic lunch buddy ever. I’m sure JP and Vic always wonder what it is we talk about for so long. I never know either. But I do know I leave thinking we should do this every week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For everything and more.
To Heather Baror-Shapiro for taking Shazi out into the world with so much verve and style. I still to this day ca
To my sister, Erica, for being my first reader, for leaving the best notes in the history of ever, and for coming up with the idea for Khalid’s letters. Jane Austen has nothing on you (Knightley 4EVA). To Elaine for being my champion and my best friend and my biggest fan. I love you dearly, chica. To my brother Ian for telling me he would read my book when it was “finally” published. I expect a full report next week. To my brother Chris for the laughs and the hugs and the inappropriate GIFs. To my mother for never letting us watch TV during the week, thereby ensuring I would love books and the world of make-believe for all time. To my father for reading to us when we were little. And always doing the voices. To my in-laws for sharing their culture and their love and their food and their jokes with me. I love you both beyond words.
And, lastly, to Vic. You are my reason and my excuse, in all things.
One day, I will write it to the sky.
PROLOGUE
THE GIRL WAS ELEVEN AND THREE-QUARTERS.
Three very important quarters.
They’d been of consequence when her father had left her in charge this morning, with an important task to accomplish. So, with a world-weary sigh, she pushed up her tattered sleeves and heaved another shovelful of dusty rubble into the nearby wheelbarrow.
“It’s too heavy,” her eight-year-old brother complained as he struggled to move aside another piece of ash-laden debris from within the wreckage of their home. He coughed when a cloud of soot rose from amongst the charred remains.
“Let me help.” The girl dropped her shovel with a sharp clang.
“I don’t need any help!”
“We should work together, or we won’t finish cleaning everything before Baba returns home.” She braced her fists on her hips before glaring down at him.
“Look around you!” He threw his hands in the air. “We’ll never finish cleaning everything.”
Her eyes followed his hands.
The clay walls of their home were ripped apart. Broken. Blackened. Their roof opened up to the heavens. To a dull and forlorn sky.
To what once had been a glorious city.
The midday sun lay hidden behind the shattered rooftops of Rey. It cut shadows of light and dark across angry stone and scorched marble. Here and there, still-smoldering piles of rubble served as a harsh reminder of what had taken place only a few short days ago.
The young girl hardened her gaze and stepped closer to her brother.
“If you don’t want to help, then wait outside. But I’m going to keep working. Someone has to.” Again, she reached for her shovel.
The boy kicked at a nearby stone. It skittered across the packed earth before crashing to a halt at the foot of a hooded stranger standing by the remains of their door.
Tensing her grip on the shovel, the girl eased her brother behind her.
“May I help you . . . ?” She paused. The stranger’s black rida’ was embroidered in silver and gold thread. The scabbard of his sword was finely etched and delicately bejeweled, and his sandals were cut from the highest-quality calfskin.
He was no mere brigand.
The girl stood taller. “May I help you, sahib?”
When he did not answer right away, the girl raised her shovel higher, her brow taut and her heart hammering in her chest.
The stranger stepped from beneath the sagging doorjamb. He threw back his hood and raised both his palms in supplication. Each of his gestures was careful, and he moved with a liquid kind of grace.