A SHADE OF WHAT I FEEL

SHAHRZAD REMAINED IN THE WASTELAND OF HER thoughts, studying the prisms of light from the lamp of latticed gold. When she could no longer feel any sensation in the soles of her feet, she rose to a standing position. Her eyes wandered around the room, taking in her surroundings with the careful study of a predator to its prey.

The floor was constructed of black onyx, and the walls were hewn from the same smooth alabaster as the corridor leading to the entrance of the antechamber. All the furniture was built of ebony, crafted in harsh lines. Every surface was stark and unobstructed. The bed lacked the bold surfeit of cushions Shahrzad had grown accustomed to in her own bed—that familiar, lush vibrancy, yearning to be lounged upon.

Like its occupant, the room appeared cold and uninviting—unlikely to offer the slightest hint of clarity.

This chamber is like a prison, once removed.

She sighed to herself, and the sound susurrated back at her from the heights of the vaulted ceiling. Shahrzad paced around the perimeter of the room, her bare footsteps leaving imprints on the shining black onyx. Then, like a whisper of a suggestion, they vanished without a trace.

The single lamp in the chamber’s center looked eerie and forlorn. It failed to provide enough light, rendering its flickering shadows more baleful than beautiful against the cool white alabaster.

It was a sad place to call a refuge, with just as unyielding an aspect as its master.

The more Shahrzad gazed at the chamber, the more she realized, and the less she understood. Everything had a specific place in this room—a designated order to its existence. The only things out of place were she and the bloodstained strips of linen at the edge of the platformed bed. Any evidence of life—or lingering emotions—did not belong.

Shahrzad strode to the bed and discarded the bloodied linen. Then she gathered the unused strips, along with the small container of salve Khalid had removed from the ebony chest upon their arrival. Its immense cabinet door was still ajar. Shahrzad walked toward it with the clean linen and the tub of salve in her arms. She tugged on one of the bronze rings and peered inside. As with the room, its shelves were meticulous in their construction and organization. Two were lined with books in descending height order, and another was stacked with scrolls bound by wax seals. A shelf at eye level contained an assortment of jars in various shapes and sizes. The empty space for the container of salve was evident, and Shahrzad replaced it, along with the strips of unused linen, in their clearly demarcated positions.

As she began to shut the door, her eyes fell on a leather sleeve filled with sheets of parchment, wedged like an afterthought between two massive tomes on a shelf high above her.

It seemed out of place. Just like her.

A small part of her knew she should leave it be. This was not her room. These were not her things.

But . . . it called to her. This collection of afterthoughts whispered her name, as if from behind a locked door with a forbidden key. Shahrzad stared up at the sleeve of leather.

As with Tala and her bluebearded husband’s ring of keys, the parchment pleaded for attention.

And, like Tala, she could not ignore it.

She had to know.

Shahrzad stood on her toes and tugged on the leather sleeve with both hands. It slid from between the tomes, and she clutched it to her chest for a nervous beat before kneeling against the black onyx. Cold fear skittered down her back as she raised the fold. The sheaf of parchment was inverted and illegible, so she grabbed the stack and upended it with care.

The first thing she noticed at the bottom was Khalid’s formal signature, composed in clear, neat script. When her eyes skimmed across the rest of the page, she rapidly discerned it was a letter—

A letter of apology, addressed to a family in Rey.

Shahrzad turned to the next piece of parchment.

It was another letter of apology. Written to another family.

As she leafed through the stack of parchment, her eyes began to swim in realization. In recognition.

These were letters of apology to the families of the girls murdered at dawn by a callous hand and a silk cord.

Each was dated. Each acknowledged Khalid’s sole responsibility. None offered any justification for the death. No excuse.

He merely apologized. In a manner so open and full of feeling that it left her throat dry and her chest aching.

It was clear they were written with no intention of being delivered. Khalid’s words were far too personal and introspective to indicate he ever meant for any eyes to see them apart from his own. But his unabashed self-loathing cut into Shahrzad with the effectiveness of a newly honed knife.

He wrote of staring into frightened faces and tearful eyes, with the abject knowledge he was robbing families of their joy. Stealing their hearts’ blood from them, as though he had the right. As if anyone had the right.

Your child is not a notion or a whim. Your child is your greatest treasure. And you should never forgive me for what I’ve done. As I will never forgive myself.

Know that she was not afraid. When she gazed at the face of the monster sanctioning her death, she did not quail. Would that I had half her courage and a quarter of her spirit.

Last night, Roya asked for a santur. Her playing drew every guard in the corridor to her door, and I stood in the garden and listened, like the cold, unfeeling bastard I am. It was the most beautiful music I have ever heard in my life. A music that rendered all thereafter dull and colorless in its memory.

Tears began streaming down Shahrzad’s face. She turned the pages faster.

Until she found the one addressed to the family of Reza bin-Latief.

How does one begin to apologize for robbing the world of light? Words seem strangely insufficient in such a case, and yet I fall to their uselessness in my own inadequacy. Please know I will never forget Shiva. For the brief moment she stared into the face of a monster, she deigned to smile and forgive. In that smile, I sensed a strength and a depth of understanding I could never hope to fathom. It tore at what professes to be my soul. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. A thousand, thousand times. At your knees, and it will never be enough.

Shahrzad sobbed, and the sound rang out in the chamber. The parchment shook in her hands.

Khalid was responsible. Whatever the excuse, whatever the reason—he was the one. He had killed Shiva.

He had robbed Shahrzad of this light.

She had known it, all along. But now, clutching the undeniable truth between her fingers, she realized how much she had wanted it to be a lie. How much she had wanted there to be some kind of excuse. Some kind of ready scapegoat. That, somewhere along the line, she would discover it was not his fault.

Even now she knew how ridiculous it sounded.

But it was breaking her . . . slowly. The wall around her heart was crumbling, leaving behind scorched embers and bleeding wounds. Her sobs grew louder. Shahrzad wanted to hurl the leather sleeve across the room, shred its contents, and deny its pernicious truths, but she lifted the next page. And the next.

So many.

And not a single explanation.

She continued scanning the parchment, searching for a semblance of purpose behind such senseless death. Clinging to this thread of hope, she labored on.

Until finally, her eyes fell on the last page, and her heart faltered.

It was addressed to her, dated for that fateful sunrise with the silk cord.

Shahrzad,

I’ve failed you several times. But there was one moment I failed you beyond measure. It was the day we met. The moment I took your hand and you looked up at me, with the glory of hate in your eyes. I should have sent you home to your family. But I didn’t. There was honesty in your hatred. Fearlessness in your pain. In your honesty, I saw a reflection of myself. Or rather, of the man I longed to be. So I failed you. I didn’t stay away. Then, later, I thought if I had answers, it would be enough. I would no longer care. You would no longer matter. So I continued failing you. Continued wanting more. And now I can’t find the words to say what must be said. To convey to you the least of what I owe. When I think of you, I can’t find the air to

The letter stopped short there.

Shahrzad puzzled over it for the span of a heartbeat.

Then a conversation from their past echoed around her, like a song from a distant memory:

“And how will you know when you’ve found this elusive someone?”

“I suspect she will be like air. Like knowing how to breathe.”

The letter drifted to the floor, back to its scattered brethren. Everything around Shahrzad fell to shadow and silence. To the bitterness of knowledge and the brilliance of understanding.

In a rush, she was taken back to that awful dawn and the feel of the silk cord around her neck. She forced herself to recall each part of it—the silver light as it crept across the blue blades of grass, the mist in the early morning sun, the penitent soldier with the burly arms, and the old woman with the fluttering shroud. The fear. The anguish. The nothingness. But now, as she closed her eyes, her mind conjured a parallel world of sorrow—of a boy-king at his ebony desk writing a letter to a dying girl, with the sun ascending at his shoulder. Of this boy halting in unexpected awareness, with his hand poised over the parchment. Of him racing down the corridors, with his cousin at his heels. Bursting into a courtyard of silver and grey, punctuated by black ink and burning agony—

Wondering if he was too late.

Swallowing a tortured scream, Shahrzad threw the sleeve and its contents across the shining onyx.

Her own awareness had risen like the dawn at her back. Like a leaden sunrise veiled in a swirl of storm clouds. It was no longer enough to have answers for Shiva’s sake. Indeed, it had ceased to be about mere vengeance the moment Khalid’s lips touched hers in the alley by the souk. She had wanted there to be a reason for this madness, needed there to be a reason, so that she could be with him. So that she could be by his side, make him smile as she laughed, weave tales by lamplight, and share secrets in the dark. So that she could fall asleep in his arms and awaken to a brilliant tomorrow.

But it was too late.

He was the Mehrdad of her nightmares. She had opened the door. She had seen the bodies hanging from the walls, without explanation. Without justification.

And without one, Shahrzad knew what must be done.

Khalid had to answer for such vile deeds. Such rampant death.

Even if he was her air.

Even if she loved him beyond words.

• • •

His guards were on edge and much too close.

Their glaring torches and clattering footfall were not doing service to the torturous ache in his head. Nor were they of benefit to the fire that battled for dominion over his eyes.

When a nervous sentry dropped his sword with a noise to rouse the dead, it took all of Khalid’s willpower not to snap the young man’s arm from his shoulder.

Instead, Khalid paused in the darkened corridor and pressed his palms to his brows.

“Leave,” he grumbled to his guards.

“Sayyidi—”

“Leave!” Khalid’s temples pounded as the word reverberated down the halls.

The guards glanced at one another before bowing and taking their leave.

Jalal remained against the wall in somber watchfulness.

“That was rather childish,” he chastised, once the soldiers had turned the corner.

“You are free to leave, as well.” Khalid resumed his trek toward his chamber.

Jalal cut in front of Khalid. “You look terrible.” His eyes were bright, and his forehead was lined with worry.

Khalid stared back at him, calm and aloof. “I suppose you expect me to confide in you, following your honest assessment of a rather obvious condition. Forgive me, but I’ve had a trying evening, Captain al-Khoury.”

“I’m truly concerned.”

Khalid feigned bemusement. “Don’t be.”

“If you refuse to talk about what happened tonight, I must continue to press the matter.”

“And you will be met with disappointment at every turn.”

“No. I won’t.” Jalal folded his arms across his chest. “You are a disaster. You flinch at the slightest noise, and you nearly ripped that poor boy’s head off for dropping his sword.”

“The boy was stumbling about, wielding an unsheathed blade. I find it fortunate he didn’t trip and impale himself on the cold steel of his own stupidity.”

“Your sarcasm gets more brutal with age. And with arrogance. It’s not nearly as entertaining now.”

Khalid glowered at his cousin. The blood pulsed along his neck and thrummed in his temples. Each beat blurred the lines of his vision.

He shoved past Jalal.

“What were you doing tonight, sayyidi?” Jalal called after him. “Do you realize you put our entire kingdom at risk when you discarded your weapon at that hired dog’s behest. He could have killed you, and you would have left Khorasan without a ruler. You would have allowed Salim’s mercenaries to leave us leaderless, on the brink of potential war with Parthia.” He paused pointedly. “All for the sake of a girl—one of so many.”

At that, the frayed strands of Khalid’s composure tore apart, and he turned the full force of his fury onto Jalal, whirling around and freeing his shamshir from its scabbard in a single, fluid motion. He raised the curved edge of the blade until it was positioned a hairsbreadth from Jalal’s heart.

Jalal stood still, his serenity at odds with the situation. “You must love her a great deal, Khalid-jan.”

After a beat, Khalid lowered his sword, his brow marred by pain and consternation. “Love is—a shade of what I feel.”

Jalal grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. “As your cousin, I’m glad to hear it. But, as the captain of your guard, I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t alarmed by tonight’s events. You are not responsible to only one girl.”

“I’m aware of that.” Khalid sheathed his sword.

“I’m not so certain you are. If you plan on behaving is such a heedless fashion, I think it’s time to tell Shahrzad the truth.”

“I disagree; therefore, this discussion is over.” Khalid strode down the corridor once more, and Jalal walked at his side.

“She’s family now. If you are willing to die for her, then it’s time we entrust her with our secret,” Jalal pressed in a quiet voice.

“No.”

He reached for Khalid’s shoulder. “Tell her, Khalid-jan. She has a right to know.”

“And how would you react to such news?” Khalid shoved his hand aside. “To the knowledge your life hovers on a precipice, bound by a mutable curse?”

“My life is at risk every day. As is yours. Something tells me Shazi does not live in a world that denies this fact.”

Khalid’s eyebrows flattened. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not ready to tell her.”

“And you never will be. Because you love her, and we fight to protect those we love.” Jalal halted by the corridor leading to Khalid’s chamber, and Khalid advanced down the marble and stone without a glance in his direction.

“Sayyidi?” Jalal continued from behind him. “Make sure you summon the faqir tonight. You are a bowstring ready to snap.”

Khalid shoved past the first set of doors into the antechamber and moved toward the entrance of his room. He paused before nodding to one of the guards, who twisted one of the bronze handles and pushed open the polished wood.

Upon crossing the threshold, Khalid found the room completely silent. Utterly still. The only things amiss were the bloodied strips of linen and the pitcher of water beside the raised platform—

And the girl asleep in his bed.

Shahrzad lay on her side. Her dark hair was splayed across dull silk, and her knees were tucked against the lone cushion on Khalid’s bed. A fringe of black lashes curved against the skin beneath her eyes, and her proud, pointed chin was tucked into a gathering of silk beside her palm.

Khalid sat down with care and refrained from looking at her for too long. Touching her was not an option.

She was a dangerous, dangerous girl. A plague. A Mountain of Adamant who tore the iron from ships, sinking them to their watery graves without a second thought. With a mere smile and a wrinkle of her nose.

But even knowing this, he surrendered to her pull. Succumbed to the simple need to be by her side. With a slow exhalation of breath, Khalid placed his shamshir on the floor and eased his body next to hers. He stared up at the ceiling, at the single flame in the golden lamp above his head. Even the dim light shining from its depths pained his eyes. He shuttered his gaze, trying to push past the weariness and the ever-present torment of the chained beast roaring inside his head.

Shahrzad shifted in her sleep and turned toward Khalid, as though drawn by her own inexplicable compulsion. Her hand fell to his chest, and she settled her brow beside his shoulder with a muted sigh.

Against his better judgment, Khalid opened his burning eyes to look at her one more time.

This dangerous girl. This captivating beauty.

This destroyer of worlds and creator of wonder.

The urge to touch her now past logic, Khalid’s arm moved to encircle her in an embrace. He buried his nose in her hair, in the same scent of lilacs that taunted him from outside his window. The small, graceful hand on his chest drifted higher, beside his heart.

Whatever torment he had to endure. Whatever evil he had to face.

There was nothing that mattered more.

Then he heard a noise in the far corner of the room.

He blinked hard, trying to refocus. His muscles tensed with heightened awareness when a flash of movement blurred across his vision. Khalid squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to clear the lines, fighting to see through the layers of fog and shadow. The pain between his brows grew as his pulse rose to meet the unforeseen challenge.

Another blur of motion flitted across the room, this time in the opposite corner.

Khalid removed his arm from around Shahrzad and reached for the pitcher of water by the platform.

When a new flash of movement caught his attention beside his desk, Khalid heaved the pitcher in its direction and shot to his feet, his shamshir in hand.

The sound of the pitcher shattering against the ebony woke Shahrzad, and she sat up with a startled cry.

“Khalid? What’s wrong?”

Khalid said nothing as he regarded the stillness around his desk. He blinked again. Hard. His eyes blazed with the fire of a thousand suns. He pressed a palm between his brows and gritted his teeth.

Shahrzad rose from the bed and strode to his side. “Are you—hurt?”

“No. Go back to sleep.” It sounded needlessly cruel, even to him.

“You’re lying to me.” She reached up and wrapped soft fingers around his wrist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Again, his pain lanced through the word, making his response more abrupt than he intended.

She tugged on his arm. “Liar.”

“Shahrzad—”

“No. Tell me the truth, or I’m leaving your chamber.”

Khalid remained silent, the beast in his head roaring with untold vigor.

Shahrzad choked back a sob. “Again. And again.” She spun on her heel and glided toward the ebony doors.

“Stop!” Khalid tried to go after her, but his head throbbed and his sight distorted to such a degree that following her was impossible. With an incoherent slur, Khalid dropped his shamshir and sank to his knees, his palms clutching either side of his head.

“Khalid!” Shahrzad gasped. She ran back and crouched beside him. “What is it?”

He could not respond.

Khalid heard her race to the doors and yank one open.

“My lady?” a guard inquired.

“Find Captain—no, General al-Khoury,” Shahrzad insisted. “Right away.”

She waited by the door until a soft knock struck a short while later.

“My lady Shahrzad,” his uncle began. “Is everything—”

“His head. Please. He’s—in a lot of pain.” The sound of fear in her voice unnerved Khalid. More than he cared to admit.

“Stay with him. I’ll return shortly.”

The door closed.

Shahrzad returned to his side. Khalid leaned back against the edge of his bed and braced his elbows on his knees, pressing both palms to his forehead with enough force to paint stars across his vision.

When the door opened once more, Shahrzad stiffened. He felt her draw closer in wary protectiveness.

“Sayyidi.” The voice of the faqir echoed from above him.

Khalid sighed, his eyes still squeezed shut.

“My lady,” his uncle said. “Please come with me.”

Her body tensed even further, gearing for battle. “I—”

“Shahrzad-jan,” his uncle interjected very gently. “Please.”

“No,” Khalid rasped. He reached out a hand for her. “She stays.”

“Khalid-jan—”

Khalid forced opened his screaming eyes and stared up at his uncle.

“My wife stays.”