The Rose and the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn) by Renée Ahdieh Page A
Authors: Renée Ahdieh
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consternation. A strange uncertainty.
Perhaps a struggle for power. Or a lack of understanding.
Omar should speak to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad soon.
This had been a poor decision on Shahrzad’s part.
But it was too late now. If she left, the whispers would trail after her. The vitriol would spew in her wake.
Her escape would prove their point. Would prove she was afraid of them.
That their stares and their hatred had taken root.
Fear was a currency these soldiers understood well. A currency Shahrzad could ill afford at this time. Especially if she wanted to learn how best to sneak through the camp tomorrow night. And make her way to Musa Zaragoza.
So she sat with her feet to the fire. With a multitude of eyes glowing like embers in her direction. Like circling wolves, awaiting their alpha’s command.
Shahrzad’s gaze drifted around the ring of men seated near the crackling flames. Drifted past them to note the position of the sentries posted about the camp. Their position and their number. How often they wandered past.
The flickering flames threw everything into chaotic relief. Into distorted patterns of light and shadow.
Shadow that would hold her secrets. She hoped.
Irsa’s left knee bounced at a feverish pace, her chin in her palm and her fingers tapping her cheek. “We should go.”
“No.” Shahrzad did not move her lips, nor did she look her sister’s way. “Not yet.”
A steady stream of men trickled from the sheikh’s tent toward the immense blaze in the center of the encampment. As they took their places beside the fire, the men passed around pitchers ofspiced wine with a liberal ease—an ease that spoke of recent discord and a pressing need to forget.
Apparently their war council had not gone well. And though Shahrzad was eager to discover why, she was not foolish enough to believe anyone would tell her.
Instead she watched the
ghalyan
coals being placed atop an iron brazier, while a gnarled-fingered old man packed several water pipes with sweet-smelling
mu’assel
. Their silk-wrapped hoses were kept carefully coiled beyond the reach of any sparks. A group of young women sat beside the towering
ghalyans
, giggling amongst themselves as they waited for the coals to catch flame. Their bright-colored
shahminas
hung loose about their shoulders, shielding their backs from the cool breeze of a desert night as the fire bathed the air before them in bristling heat.
Rahim lumbered from the depths of the Badawi sheikh’s tent, his face crimped into a scowl, Tariq on his heels. Without once breaking his stride, Tariq took up a pitcher of spiced wine and knocked it back. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, then moved toward the fire, the pitcher dangling from his fingertips. As always, Tariq wore his every emotion like ill-advised regalia. Sadness. Frustration. Anger. Bitterness. Longing. For the first time, Shahrzad seriously considered fleeing, but instead lifted her chin and met Tariq’s gaze.
Again, he did not falter.
Nor did he look away.
Shahrzad barely noticed when Rahim dropped beside Irsa, stirring up a cloud of sparks and grousing all the while. Though it took a great deal of effort, Shahrzad managed to curb her desireto pull away when Tariq took his place to her right—too close to be mistaken for a friend—his shoulder pressed against hers and a hand resting in the sand behind her . . .
Positioned with a cocky, proprietorial air.
Her body tensed; her eyes tapered to slits. She wanted to rail against him. And shove him away.
Tariq knew better. He knew how much she loathed this kind of behavior.
But she could not mistake the change around her.
The circling wolves—the eyes of judgment that had been upon her—continued their silent appraisal, but their hostility had diminished.
As though Tariq had willed it so.
While Shahrzad resented the insinuation that Tariq Imran al-Ziyad was her saving grace, she could not deny this change.
They listen to him.
Was Tariq the one behind
Perhaps a struggle for power. Or a lack of understanding.
Omar should speak to Tariq Imran al-Ziyad soon.
This had been a poor decision on Shahrzad’s part.
But it was too late now. If she left, the whispers would trail after her. The vitriol would spew in her wake.
Her escape would prove their point. Would prove she was afraid of them.
That their stares and their hatred had taken root.
Fear was a currency these soldiers understood well. A currency Shahrzad could ill afford at this time. Especially if she wanted to learn how best to sneak through the camp tomorrow night. And make her way to Musa Zaragoza.
So she sat with her feet to the fire. With a multitude of eyes glowing like embers in her direction. Like circling wolves, awaiting their alpha’s command.
Shahrzad’s gaze drifted around the ring of men seated near the crackling flames. Drifted past them to note the position of the sentries posted about the camp. Their position and their number. How often they wandered past.
The flickering flames threw everything into chaotic relief. Into distorted patterns of light and shadow.
Shadow that would hold her secrets. She hoped.
Irsa’s left knee bounced at a feverish pace, her chin in her palm and her fingers tapping her cheek. “We should go.”
“No.” Shahrzad did not move her lips, nor did she look her sister’s way. “Not yet.”
A steady stream of men trickled from the sheikh’s tent toward the immense blaze in the center of the encampment. As they took their places beside the fire, the men passed around pitchers ofspiced wine with a liberal ease—an ease that spoke of recent discord and a pressing need to forget.
Apparently their war council had not gone well. And though Shahrzad was eager to discover why, she was not foolish enough to believe anyone would tell her.
Instead she watched the
ghalyan
coals being placed atop an iron brazier, while a gnarled-fingered old man packed several water pipes with sweet-smelling
mu’assel
. Their silk-wrapped hoses were kept carefully coiled beyond the reach of any sparks. A group of young women sat beside the towering
ghalyans
, giggling amongst themselves as they waited for the coals to catch flame. Their bright-colored
shahminas
hung loose about their shoulders, shielding their backs from the cool breeze of a desert night as the fire bathed the air before them in bristling heat.
Rahim lumbered from the depths of the Badawi sheikh’s tent, his face crimped into a scowl, Tariq on his heels. Without once breaking his stride, Tariq took up a pitcher of spiced wine and knocked it back. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, then moved toward the fire, the pitcher dangling from his fingertips. As always, Tariq wore his every emotion like ill-advised regalia. Sadness. Frustration. Anger. Bitterness. Longing. For the first time, Shahrzad seriously considered fleeing, but instead lifted her chin and met Tariq’s gaze.
Again, he did not falter.
Nor did he look away.
Shahrzad barely noticed when Rahim dropped beside Irsa, stirring up a cloud of sparks and grousing all the while. Though it took a great deal of effort, Shahrzad managed to curb her desireto pull away when Tariq took his place to her right—too close to be mistaken for a friend—his shoulder pressed against hers and a hand resting in the sand behind her . . .
Positioned with a cocky, proprietorial air.
Her body tensed; her eyes tapered to slits. She wanted to rail against him. And shove him away.
Tariq knew better. He knew how much she loathed this kind of behavior.
But she could not mistake the change around her.
The circling wolves—the eyes of judgment that had been upon her—continued their silent appraisal, but their hostility had diminished.
As though Tariq had willed it so.
While Shahrzad resented the insinuation that Tariq Imran al-Ziyad was her saving grace, she could not deny this change.
They listen to him.
Was Tariq the one behind
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