The Wrath & the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn, #1)

by Renée Ahdieh

I once had a thousand desires, But in my one desire to know you, all else melted away.

Do you not think a mother and father, regardless of birth or rank, will fight to avenge their child?”

“He cannot withstand this, Father.” “He can. He is strong.” “You have never understood Khalid. It is not about strength. It is about substance. What follows will destroy all that remains of his, leaving behind a husk—a shadow of what he once was.” The general winced. “Do you think I wanted this for him? I would drown in my own blood to prevent this. But we have no choice.”

One hundred lives for the one you took. One life to one dawn. Should you fail but a single morn, I shall take from you your dreams. I shall take from you your city. And I shall take from you these lives, a thousandfold.

I will live to see tomorrow’s sunset. Make no mistake. I swear I will live to see as many sunsets as it takes. And I will kill you. With my own hands.

“Why did you volunteer, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran?” She did not answer. He continued. “What compelled you to do something so foolish?” “Excuse me?” “Perhaps it was the lure of marrying a king. Or the vain hope you might be the one to stay the course and win the heart of a monster.” He spoke without emotion, watching her intently. Shahrzad’s pulse jumped to a martial beat. “I don’t suffer those delusions, sayyidi.” “Then why did you volunteer? Why are you willing to throw away your life at seventeen?” “I’m sixteen.” She cut her eyes. “And I don’t see why it matters.” “Answer me.” “No.” He paused. “You realize you could die for that.” The grip of her fingers tightened almost painfully. “I’m not surprised to hear that, sayyidi. But, if you truly want answers, killing me won’t help in the endeavor.” A spark of something flashed across his face, lingering at the edges of his lips. It was gone too quickly to offer anything of significance. “I suppose not.” He stopped, again in seeming consideration. She could see him withdrawing, a veil falling over the harsh angles of his profile. No. Shahrzad rose from the bed and took a step toward him. When he glanced back at her, she moved closer. “I told you. Do not think you will be the one to break the cycle.” Shahrzad gritted her teeth. “And I told you. I don’t suffer delusions. On any account.” She continued advancing until she stood but an arm’s length from him, her resolve unwavering. He locked upon her face. “Your life is already forfei...

“Did we come all the way here for a book, Baba?” “Just one, my child. Just one.” “It must be a special book.” “All books are special, dear.”

THE INSTANT SHAHRZAD BROUGHT HER PALM TO HIS, she felt a cool wash of dispassion take over. As though she had floated beyond her person and was now a mere witness to everything around her. Thankfully, he did not try to kiss her. Nor did the pain last; it was but a fleeting moment, lost in the welcome distraction of her thoughts. He did not appear to enjoy himself, either. Whatever pleasure he derived was brief and perfunctory, and Shahrzad felt a stab of satisfaction at this realization.

She watched him dress with neat, almost militaristic precision, noting the light sheen of sweat on his back and the lean muscles that coiled and flexed with the slightest of movements. He was stronger than she was. Of that, there was no doubt. She could not best him physically. But I’m not here to fight. I’m here to win.

“Aren’t you scared, Shahrzad?” he asked, so quietly she almost missed it. She put down the bread. “Do you want me to be scared, sayyidi?” “No. I want you to be honest.” Shahrzad smiled. “But how would you know if I were lying, sayyidi?” “Because you are not a gifted liar. You only think yourself to be.” He leaned forward and took a handful of almonds from the tray. Her smile widened. Dangerously. “And you are not that good at reading people. You only think yourself to be.” He angled his head, a muscle ticking along his jaw. “What do you want?” Again, the words were so soft, Shahrzad strained to make them out. She dusted the crumbs off her hands, biding time to construct the next trap. “I’m to die at sunrise. Correct?” He nodded once. “And you wish to know why I volunteered for this?” she continued. “Well, I’d be willing to—” “No. I won’t play games with you. I despise manipulation.” Shahrzad snapped her lips shut, swallowing her nerve-riddled fury. “Perhaps you should spend less time despising the game and more time building the patience necessary to win.” She held her breath as his upper body froze. The knuckles in his hands stretched white for a harrowing instant before he released his grip. Shahrzad watched the tension leave him, a swirl of emotions colliding in her chest, wreaking havoc on her mind. “Brave words for a girl with hours left to live.” His tone was edged in ice.

“Are you interested in the rules of the game or not, sayyidi?” At his silence, she chose to barrel ahead, concealing her trembling hands in the folds of her shamla. “I’m willing to answer your question, sayyidi. But before I do so, I wonder if you would be willing to grant me a small request . . .” She trailed off. A hint of callous amusement darkened his countenance. “Are you trying to barter for your life with trivia?” She laughed, the sound dancing around the room with the airy quality of chimes. “My life is forfeit. You’ve made that clear. Perhaps we should move past that issue and get to the matter at hand.” “By all means.” She took a moment to steady herself. “I want to tell you a story.” “Excuse me?” For the first time, she saw a distinct emotion ripple across his features. Are you surprised? Rest assured, it won’t be the last time, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. “I tell you a story. You sit and listen. When I’m finished with the tale, I’ll answer your question.” She waited for his response. “A story?” “Yes. Do you agree to the terms, sayyidi?” He leaned back on an elbow, with an unfathomable expression. “Fine. I agree. You may begin.” He pronounced the words like a challenge. And I accept it, you monster. Willingly. “This is the tale of Agib, a poor sailor who lost everything he possessed only to gain the knowledge of self-discovery.” “A tale of morality? So you are trying to teach me a lesson.” “No, sayyidi. I am trying to entice you. I’ve been told a good storyteller can ...

She shot him a pointed grin, warring with the urge to splash the remainder of his drink in his face.

“Why did you stop?” he asked. She twisted her eyes in the direction of the terrace. The caliph followed her gaze. “You may finish the story,” he stated. Shahrzad inhaled with care. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, sayyidi.” “Excuse me?” “I have only just begun the tale.” His eyes narrowed to ochre slits. “Finish the story, Shahrzad.” “No.” He unfolded to his feet in a ripple of grace. “So was this your plan all along?” “What plan would that be, sayyidi?” “A trick. A tactic to stay your execution . . . to begin a tale you had no intention of finishing.” His voice was deathly low. “I have every intention of finishing it—tomorrow night. Whether or not that happens is entirely up to you.” She stared up at him, clenching her fists within her shamla. “You said you understood; your life is forfeit. That was clear from the very beginning.”

When she spoke, she matched the biting softness in his tone. “All our lives are forfeit, sayyidi. It is just a question of when. And I would like one more day.” He glared at her, the sharp cut of his profile even more menacing with the haze of anger coloring its surface.

“Just one,” she whispered. The tiger-eyes raked up and down her, gauging their adversary, weighing their options. A heart-stopping minute passed. I will not beg.

“One.” He pronounced the word like a soundless epithet before he stalked through the doors. When they thudded shut behind him, Shahrzad sank to the floor and pressed her flaming cheek against the cool marble. Even the release of tears involved too much effort.

For without a measure of arrogance, how can one attempt the impossible?”

Hate is not the right word for such a man.

“So, do you still want to know who the second-best swordsman in Rey is?” Despina asked, changing tack. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Despina smiled knowingly. “The second-best swordsman in Rey is Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. Our illustrious King of Kings.” Shahrzad’s heart sank. Gifted swordsmen tended to be stalwart strategists. Quick to spot signs of subterfuge. And this presented yet another obstacle. If he ever suspected her of treachery, it would be even more difficult to plot his death and catch him unawares. She swallowed carefully. “Again, it doesn’t matter.” “I guess it shouldn’t matter to you. But I thought you might want to know, nevertheless.” What kind of game is she playing? “You thought wrong.”

So this silent brute is the only swordsman who can best my enemy . . . How am I to find any weakness in Khalid Ibn al-Rashid with his spies all around me, watching my every move? She exhaled protractedly. I might have a serious problem.

“So quick to strut. So quick to flee.” “What are you talking about?” Despina asked. Shahrzad shook her head. “Are you talking about men?”

He’s not here. “Are you looking for the caliph?” Despina demanded. “No.” But I assume the second-best swordsman in Rey will practice at some point today . . . if he intends to maintain his title. And I need to learn his weakness, so that I may destroy him with it. “Liar.”

As she followed him, Shahrzad grimaced at her thoughtlessness in disclosing an aptitude for archery. What’s done is done. But in the future, do better.

“I’m sorry.” “Why are you sorry?” “It isn’t easy to lose your best friend. At least, I can’t imagine it would be.” “Thank you for saying so. But Khalid lost his older brother. His father died the following year. And because of that terrible incident with his mother . . . he was only fourteen when he took the throne. Fourteen and alone. I’m sure you have an idea of what came after.” I don’t care. There is no excuse for the monster he’s become. He’s had four years to grow accustomed to being king. And as for what came after . . . When Jalal saw the look on Shahrzad’s face, he took a step in her direction. “Please understand; I’m not making . . . excuses.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m now convinced I’ve earned the right to ask for a favor, Shahrzad.” “And why do you think that?” she said under her breath. “Because my silence has a price.” She blinked. “Excuse me?” He edged closer. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do to Khalid, but you are the first person to rattle him in years. And he needs to be rattled.” Shahrzad met his steady gaze, the arrow still pressed tight against her neck. “Is there a favor in there somewhere?” “Khalid is not my friend. He is not my enemy, either. He is my king. I remember the boy he was quite fondly . . . kind, with a bright and inquisitive mind. A wandering soul. The broken creature he is now—I’m tired of it. Will you help me fix it, Shahrzad?” Shahrzad stared back in morose silence, wondering where such blind faith came from. Such misplaced faith in a boy with a murderous past and a girl with treacherous intent.

When Shahrzad traced the terror to its source, she felt the air leave her chest in a single, sharp gasp. Across the courtyard, the Caliph of Khorasan stood watching them, his expression cool and composed. Like the calm before a storm.

As always, he embodied the antithesis of everything she found warm and good in the world.

For a perilous beat, Shahrzad considered turning her arrow on him. At this distance, she knew she could hit him. But the arrow’s tip was blunted—meant only for target practice. It might not kill him. She lowered the weapon. It’s not worth the risk. As he drew near, she willed her heart to cease its irrational pounding. If she intended to conquer this monster, she had to first quell all fears of him. Quickly.

“Do I need a reason?” “I asked for an explanation. Not a reason.” “They’re the same thing.” “Not necessarily.” “Actually, they are.

“Well?” The caliph looked again to Shahrzad. She returned his expectant gaze. Then, without a word, Shahrzad refitted the arrow to the sinew, keeping the bow at her side for a moment. She desperately wanted to show him how well she could shoot, to demonstrate to the entire contingent of onlookers that she was no one to trifle with. She also wanted to do justice to the many years of patient instruction she’d received at Tariq’s side. When she’d first asked him, as a young girl of eleven, to teach her how to use a bow and arrow, she’d fully expected the twelve-year-old son of a powerful emir to ignore a silly child’s request. Yet, it was that summer in the desert, clutching a makeshift bow and arrow, that she first fell in love with Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. With his refreshing candor and his ready humor. With the charm of his beautifully devious smile. Granted, it had been nothing more than a starry-eyed infatuation at the time, but it was from those precious memories that she drew her strength whenever she felt darkness descend upon her. For the wonder of a first love can never be matched. She closed her eyes. Tariq. No. Today is not the day to make a point. She drew in a breath. But it is also not a day to appear weak. With her eyes still shut, she raised the bow and drew back the arrow. She did not need to aim. She knew precisely where she wanted the arrow to fly. From the age of thirteen, she had aimed purely on instinct, relying on her ability to gauge her surroundings at ...

“Perhaps my king would care to demonstrate the proper technique?” she asked in a cool tone. Reaching back, she extracted an arrow and offered it, alongside the bow, to the caliph. That same incomprehensible flash of emotion flitted across his sharp profile. And Shahrzad found herself growing ever more curious as to the thoughts behind it. It doesn’t matter what he’s thinking. It will never matter. It should never matter. He strode forward and extricated the weapons from her hands. When his fingers grazed hers, he hesitated before pulling away. Then his tiger-eyes clouded over and he drew back, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he nocked the arrow into position on the string. Shahrzad watched him assume his stance. His lean form struck unnervingly precise lines as he pulled the arrow far back, bending the recurve bow until the arches at each end became all but unnoticeable. He exhaled while he took aim. Shahrzad resisted the urge to smile. He uses the sights.

“Sayyidi?” she attempted. He halted, but did not face her. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind—” “Jalal can teach you. He is far more proficient than I.” Irritation flared in Shahrzad at the assumption she desired anything from him. Beyond his death.

I despise him. As if he could truly teach me anything about a bow and arrow . . . a boy who still uses sights! Tariq could tear him apart. Second-best swordsman in Rey—ha! She tried to ignore the flutter of uncertainty in her stomach.

For his children, he would move mountains. He would not fail again.

“You can’t see them, but I love how you can smell the citrus blossoms from here . . . the suggestion of something beautiful and alive,” she began. He didn’t respond immediately. “You’re partial to citrus blossoms?” “Yes. But I prefer roses above all. My father has a beautiful rose garden.” He turned to her, studying her profile in the moonlight. “I think a father who tends to flowers must have objected to . . . this.” Shahrzad continued to stare ahead. “I think a king who hopes to be beloved by his people shouldn’t execute their daughters at dawn.” “Who said I hoped to be beloved by my people?” the caliph replied in a staid monotone. At this, Shahrzad twisted to meet his gaze. “And all this time, I could have sworn you were a smart man.” She mimicked his quietly aloof tone as she pronounced this judgment, and the effect of her subtle mockery was not lost on him. A corner of his lips twitched. “And all this time . . . I could have sworn you didn’t want to die.” Shahrzad blinked. And then decided to laugh. The sound carried over the terrace, bubbling out into the night, filling the sky with the tinkling music of bells. The caliph watched her, his spark of surprise quickly masked by somber reflectiveness. “You’re very strange,” Shahrzad commented, once her laughter had subsided. “So are you, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.” “At least I know it.” “I’m aware of it as well.” “But I don’t punish people for it.” He sighed. “I envy people who see the world as you do.” “Are you insinuating I...

“I’m afraid of dying,” she announced over the wind. And I’m afraid of losing to you.

When the last vestiges disappeared, that same errant lock from earlier in the day still hung in her eyes. She started to reach for it— But he caught her hand in one of his own and brushed the curl behind her ear, gently. The fluttering in her stomach returned with a vengeance. “Tell me why you’re here.” It sounded entreating in his low voice. I’m here to win. “Promise me you won’t kill me,” she breathed back. “I can’t do that.” “Then there’s nothing more to say.”

As with the first night, Shahrzad was amazed by her ability to detach from reality. And again, she remained strangely grateful he never once tried to kiss her. Grateful . . . yet somewhat perplexed. She had kissed Tariq before—stolen embraces in the shadows of vaulted turrets. The illicit nature of these encounters had always thrilled her. At any time, a servant could have found them; or worse, Rahim could have caught them kissing . . . and he would have needled Shahrzad mercilessly, as he’d done from the moment he’d crowned himself the brother she’d never had. So, while she appreciated not having to kiss a murderer, it did appear odd for her new husband to refrain from this particular act, especially when it seemed a great deal less intimate than . . . other things. Shahrzad found herself wanting to ask why. And her curiosity grew by the hour. Stop it. It doesn’t matter.

Then he returned to the foot of the bed so that they were positioned on opposite ends, as far from each other as possible. So strange. Shahrzad rolled on her side and burrowed into the mass of silken pillows. Her bronze ankles dangled off the bed. The edges of the caliph’s amber eyes tightened, ever so slightly. “Would you like me to continue the story?” she said. “Sayyidi?” “I almost thought you were above the use of honorifics now.” “Pardon?” “Have you forgotten who I am, Shahrzad?” She blinked. “No . . . sayyidi.” “So then a lack of decorum just comes with your sense of comfort.” “Inasmuch as bitter apathy does yours.” Again, his shoulders rose and fell. “Tell me, why do you find it permissible to talk to me like this?” “Because someone has to,” she replied without hesitation. “And you think it should be you?” “I think it should be someone who isn’t afraid of you. And, though I do feel . . . anxious in your presence, the more I see of everything around me, the less I have reason to fear you.” As soon as she said the words aloud, she was startled to realize their truth. In the single day she’d been his wife, she’d seen remarkably little of the bloodthirsty monster she’d expected. This time, it was much more than a mere flash of surprise that etched its way across his face. His astonishment burgeoned into dismay before it melted back into the landscape of emptiness that forever shrouded his features. “You know nothing,” he countered. Shahrzad almost laughed at this. “You’...

Shahrzad bunched a pillow below her neck and crossed her ankles. When the caliph’s gaze flickered down her bare legs, her eyes widened in awareness, and he glanced away. Ignoring the rising warmth in her neck, she continued.

“That seems rather convenient,” the caliph interjected. “The genie cannot be trusted.” “They rarely can be, in my opinion, sayyidi.

“So his question to an all-knowing genie would be about a mere trinket of love?” the caliph interjected. “A mere trinket? Love is a force unto itself, sayyidi. For love, people consider the unthinkable . . . and often achieve the impossible. I would not sneer at its power.” The caliph held her gaze. “I am not sneering at its power. I am lamenting its role in this story.” “You are saddened by love’s importance in the emir’s life?” He paused. “I am frustrated by its importance in all our lives.” Shahrzad’s lips formed a sad smile. “That’s understandable. If a bit predictable.” He inclined his head. “Again, you presume to know a great deal for a day and two nights, my queen.” Shahrzad averted her eyes and toyed with the corner of the red pillow in her arms. She felt a flush in her cheeks. My queen? At her silence, he stirred with discomfort. “You’re right,” Shahrzad murmured. “I should not have said that.” He inhaled through his nose. An odd stillness seemed to stretch over the room. “And I should not have interrupted you. I’m sorry,” he whispered. Shahrzad wound the scarlet fringe of the pillow tight between her fingers. “Please continue,” he said.

“This is a new story.” “No, it’s not. It’s part of the same story.”

When his hand closed around her wrist, Shahrzad saw the caliph’s features tighten.

“Are you deaf? How dare you touch me? Do you know who I am?” A note of panic entered her voice. Not knowing what else to do, she locked upon her enemy. The tiger-eyes were . . . torn. Wary. And then? Calm. “General al-Khoury?” “Yes, sayyidi.” “I’d like to introduce you to the Mountain of Adamant.” The shahrban stared back and forth between the caliph and Shahrzad. “But, sayyidi . . . I don’t understand. You cannot—” The caliph swiveled to face the shahrban. “You’re right, General. You do not understand. And you may never understand. Regardless, I’d like to introduce you to the Mountain of Adamant . . .” The caliph glanced back at Shahrzad, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. “My queen.”

“You can’t foresee the future. And there’s nothing you can do about the past.” “You’re wrong. I can learn from it . . .” Tariq dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks, and the horse shot forward, painting a dark smudge across the sand. “And I can make sure it never happens again!”

“The damned bird is fed before I am? Where is the justice in this?” “Ah, Rahim-jan . . . I can see little has changed over the past few years.”

The lines at his eyes and mouth that Tariq had always associated with humor had deepened to reflect something decidedly incongruous— The smile of a soul haunted by specters. All a part of the masquerade put on by a grief-stricken man whose cherished seventeen-year-old daughter had died one morning . . . only to be followed by his wife, three days later. A wife who couldn’t bear to live in a world without her only child.

“What are you planning to do?” “I’m going to rip out his heart.”

“Are you prepared to start a war for her? Regardless of whether or not she . . . continues to survive?” Reza asked in a gentle tone. Tariq grimaced. “He deserves to die for what he’s done to our family. I won’t permit him to take anything else from me . . . or from anyone else, for that matter. It’s time for us to take something from him. And if it means seizing his kingdom in order to do it—” Tariq took a deep breath. “Will you help me, Uncle?” Reza bin-Latief looked around at his beautiful courtyard. Ghosts tormented him in every corner. His daughter’s laughter lilted into the sky. His wife’s touch slipped through his fingers like a handful of sand. He could never let them go. Their memories, no matter how faded and broken, were the only things he had left. The only things worth fighting for. Reza glanced back at the Emir Nasir al-Ziyad’s son—the successor to the fourth-largest stronghold in Khorasan. With a lineage of royalty. Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—a chance to right a wrong . . . And make his memories whole again. “Come with me.”