Shahrzad’s forehead whipped back in its direction, the bloodred ruby swinging in tandem. She squared her shoulders and lifted her pointed chin.
Jahandar stood to the side, covering his face with his hands, as his daughter marched forward.
“I’m sorry—so very sorry,” she whispered to him before striding across the threshold to follow the contingent of guards leading the processional. Jahandar slid to his knees and sobbed as Shahrzad turned the corner and disappeared.
With her father’s grief resounding through the halls, Shahrzad’s feet refused to carry her but a few steps down the cavernous corridors of the palace. She halted, her knees shaking beneath the thin silk of her voluminous sirwal trowsers.
“My lady?” one of the guards prompted in a bored tone.
“He can wait,” Shahrzad gasped.
The guards exchanged glances.
Her own tears threatening to blaze a telltale trail down her cheeks, Shahrzad pressed a hand to her chest. Unwittingly, her fingertips brushed the edge of the thick gold necklace clasped around her throat, festooned with gems of outlandish size and untold variety. It felt heavy . . . stifling. Like a bejeweled fetter. She allowed her fingers to wrap around the offending instrument, thinking for a moment to rip it from her body.
The rage was comforting. A friendly reminder.
Shiva.
Her dearest friend. Her closest confidante.
She curled her toes within their sandals of braided bullion and threw back her shoulders once more. Without a word, she resumed her march.
Again, the guards looked to one another for an instant.
When they reached the massive double doors leading into the throne room, Shahrzad realized her heart was racing at twice its normal speed. The doors swung open with a distended groan, and she focused on her target, ignoring all else around her.
At the very end of the immense space stood Khalid Ibn al-Rashid, the Caliph of Khorasan.
The King of Kings.
The monster from my nightmares.
With every step she took, Shahrzad felt the hate rise in her blood, along with the clarity of purpose. She stared at him, her eyes never wavering. His proud carriage stood out amongst the men in his retinue, and details began to emerge the closer she drew to his side.
He was tall and trim, with the build of a young man proficient in warfare. His dark hair was straight and styled in a manner suggesting a desire for order in all things.
As she strode onto the dais, she looked up at him, refusing to balk, even in the face of her king.
His thick eyebrows raised a fraction. They framed eyes so pale a shade of brown they appeared amber in certain flashes of light, like those of a tiger. His profile was an artist’s study in angles, and he remained motionless as he returned her watchful scrutiny.
A face that cut; a gaze that pierced.
He reached a hand out to her.
Just as she extended her palm to grasp it, she remembered to bow.
The wrath seethed below the surface, bringing a flush to her cheeks.
When she met his eyes again, he blinked once.
“Wife.” He nodded.
“My king.”
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.