He stepped forward.

Without a word, Rahim moved to defend Tariq.

Irsa shrieked as the caliph raised both weapons against Rahim. She felt her sister struggle to catch her breath, struggle to sit upright, struggle to protest . . .

"Is she dead?" Tariq's grief caused his voice to crack through the blue darkness. "Just answer that question, you bastard, and you may do as you please with me."

"Why would I do anything for you?" the caliph replied, low and vicious.

"Because if she's dead, I don't care what happens to me!"

"Then we agree on at least two things." With that, the caliph shifted his attention toward Rahim, his swords glinting on a moonbeam.

"Please!" Irsa screamed. "Please don't-"

"Irsa." Shahrzad yanked her closer, still struggling, her face contorted, her words a ragged whisper. "You have to . . . yell at Khalid. Get up. Make him stop! Do something."

Irsa shook her head. He was the Caliph of Khorasan! Could a mouse even dare?

"Irsa!"

The clash of swords rang out in the desert, the ring of metal on metal pulsing through the air.

Yet Irsa remained motionless with fear. As though every cogent thought within her had been swallowed in a breath.

It was over in four strokes. There was no contest to be had. The Caliph of Khorasan was a demon, trained to wield blades forged in the Bluefires of hell itself.

Rahim tumbled into the sand, scrambling for his lost sword.

Irsa's heart flew into her throat.

Every part of her tingled with awareness. With inescapable realization.

It would not be enough for the caliph to disarm Rahim. Not in his current state. The monster of Rey would kill Rahim to get to Tariq.

To destroy Tariq for what he had done to Shahrzad.

And Irsa could not live in a world-refused to live in any world-where she had let such a thing come to pass.

So in the end, it wasn't the pleading whispers of her sister. It wasn't the fear that coursed through Irsa's blood. No. It was never the fear. It was so much more than that.

It was older than the desert, this feeling. And it forever put an end to the mouse's reign. Once and for all.

"Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!" Irsa roared. All eyes whipped back in her direction. "Stop this immediately. For if you do not, I promise Shahrzad will never forgive you!"

Her chest heaved as her gaze fell on the boy lying in the sand.

The boy who always asked the right questions. The boy who made her feel better than beautiful. The boy who gave her the strength to be a lion.

"And if you hurt Rahim, I will never, ever forgive you," Irsa finished, truth imbuing her words with a steel no sword could strike down.

Even the very grains of sand seemed to yield to her. Seemed to sigh back in relief.

The Caliph of Khorasan gazed at her for an unblinking moment. His features lost a measure of their severity. He stood straight.

And lowered his swords.

Then, as though nothing of import had occurred, the caliph strode back toward Irsa, restoring his blades to a single sword as he walked. Rahim clambered to his feet and retrieved his scimitar before carefully following in the caliph's footsteps, with Tariq in tow.

The caliph knelt beside Shahrzad and tried to lift her. She grimaced, the tension banding across her face. Her coloring had worsened considerably, her skin sallow, her forehead damp with sweat.

"We-have to take her back to the encampment," Irsa said, determined to remain calm despite the recent tumult. "For I don't think it's wise to remove the arrow here. The wound does not seem to be terribly deep, but she's still losing a great deal of blood, and Tariq uses-"

"Obsidian arrowheads." The caliph's eyes rippled with the remnants of a passing fury.

Irsa nodded. "It's likely to worsen the more she moves. We have to do something. Soon."

"Shazi?" The caliph reached for Shahrzad, and his suddenly gentle disposition had a strangely disquieting effect on Irsa. It was as though another person had settled into his skin. "I have to separate the shaft from the arrowhead before we move you."

Her sister nodded once into the fabric of Irsa's shahmina.

The caliph paused. "It will hurt."

Shahrzad licked her lips. "Simply do it and stop talking about it, you lout," she muttered in a barely audible tone.

Irsa was almost as astonished by her sister's fearlessness as she was by the sight of the caliph's mouth tugging upward with shadowed amusement. He drew Shahrzad closer, again with great care. With a quick snap, the caliph broke the shaft of the arrow as near to her skin as he could manage. Shahrzad muffled a cry against him, and her shaking continued with renewed vigor.

"She's unlikely to remain conscious for long," the caliph said to Irsa in a quiet voice. "Seasoned soldiers have been known to quail long before this."

"S-s-stop talking about me as though I weren't here," Shahrzad rasped through chattering teeth.

"We're only a short ride from our encampment," Irsa said. "If we-"

"Take one of our horses," Rahim said from behind them. "Then ride back to the Badawi camp with Tariq. No one will question you if you return with Tariq, so long as your face is covered. I'll ride back with Irsa."

The caliph glanced over his shoulder at Rahim. Rahim did not flinch from his cool appraisal. After a beat, the caliph stood with Shahrzad in his arms. He did not say a word as they waited for Tariq to retrieve the horses. When Tariq moved to help with Shahrzad, Rahim stayed him with a hand to his chest before assisting the caliph himself. Soon, the caliph sat astride a dark bay stallion with Shahrzad's pale figure tucked before him.

Still in complete silence, the caliph pulled the hood of his rida' low onto his head and directed the horse forward, as though he intended to proceed without them. Then he swiveled Tariq's horse back in their direction. His eyes glowed down at them like embers in a fire.

"Tariq Imran al-Ziyad?" the caliph began, his thinly veiled anger giving the name the rancor of an oath.

Irsa saw Tariq's fists clench tight.

"Lead the way . . . before I rethink the matter and kill you outright."

A BROTHER AND A HOME.

IRSA DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF HER SISTER'S husband.

He was a confusing mixture of extremes, cloaked behind a black rida'.

With everyone else, he was chipped ice on a mountain. With her sister, he was a summer breeze across the sea.

Alas, this did little to change the fact that Irsa remained terrified of him. For she was quite certain he'd almost killed Tariq no less than three times since returning to the Badawi camp.

The first incident occurred not long after they arrived at Tariq's tent. Though on that score, Irsa supposed the caliph's enmity was somewhat warranted.

As soon as they concealed themselves within the tent, Irsa tried to remove Shahrzad's bloodstained qamis, so as to better see the wound in question. Of course it was not appropriate for Tariq to assist her with this. Especially in the presence of Shahrzad's husband. Surely Tariq could not have thought it was. Irsa was not quite certain why he'd even attempted to do so.

Foolish at best. A death wish at worst.

And in the face of a murdering madman?

A death likely to come about in any number of colorful ways.

Then, once the wound was cleaned, she and the caliph attempted to remove the arrowhead. Since neither of them was versed in such matters, it proved to be a challenging task, especially with Shahrzad's combativeness coming to the fore. In the end, they were forced to consult with Tariq, as he had been the one to fashion the arrowhead in question.

With the purpose of exacting a great deal of damage.

With the intention of shredding skin and shattering bone.

Irsa was certain the caliph meant to murder Tariq at this admission. Unfortunately, it did not much help Tariq's cause when he was the one to extract the arrowhead. After all, he was the one with the strongest understanding of its design. Not to mention the steady hands of a skilled archer. He managed to remove the arrowhead intact, which Irsa had been most grateful to see, despite the difficulty accompanying the effort.

Shahrzad bit down on a piece of worn leather while it was being done, and tears stained her cheeks for the duration. Though they all witnessed Shazi curse Tariq quite soundly afterward-which implied all was on its way to being mended-Irsa was still sure the caliph intended to do Tariq physical harm in the near future.

The last incident in which Tariq narrowly escaped an early demise occurred not long after Irsa cleaned Shahrzad's wound a final time with a mixture of old wine and warm water. Not long after Irsa realized the wound would not stop bleeding anytime soon.

When she knew it would have to be sealed shut with a hot blade.

Shahrzad was not a girl to flinch away from such a thing. Nor was she a girl to lament a scar.

But Irsa knew this would not be a small thing to stomach. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Shahrzad had already lost a fair amount of blood. Any more and it would no longer be a matter they could successfully conceal from the rest of the camp. When Irsa brought her suggestion to light, Shahrzad agreed it was not to be further debated.

In the end it was done using the slender tip of Rahim's khanjar dagger, so as to ensure the smallest scar. The caliph was the one to do it. At her sister's behest.

Shahrzad lost consciousness in the process. In truth, Irsa was glad of it. For the smell of burnt flesh alone was enough to sicken her.

Again, Tariq nearly escaped death. Of that Irsa was quite certain.

For after the wound was sealed shut-when it was clear Shahrzad had lost all sense of herself-the caliph seized the front of Tariq's qamis with his left hand, still clutching the hilt of the red-hot dagger in his right. Irsa felt the hatred gather in the space between them as sure as she felt the weariness take hold of her bones. The only thing stopping the caliph from seeing his wishes come to fruition was Rahim.

Rahim pulled Tariq away. Forced him to leave. Then followed him, an apologetic glance thrown over a shoulder.

Tariq had been quick to oblige, disappearing into the darkness, his face a storm of regret. But-thanks to Rahim-at least Tariq was still alive.

Now it was just Irsa and the caliph alone with Shahrzad. Alone in Tariq's tent.

Irsa, alone . . . with an infamous murderer of young girls.

She finished wringing out the bloodied linen in a bowl of lukewarm water and stood, trying to stave off the settling fatigue. The caliph remained beside Shahrzad, studying the wound in her back and the fresh wrappings draped over it.

"When she wakes, I'll bring her some barley tea with valerian root. It should help fend off the fever and let her sleep through the worst of the pain." Irsa bit her lip, briefly lost in thought.

The caliph did not respond, nor did he look her way. Instead he remained focused on Shazi, his expression unreadable.

Irsa could not ignore her compulsion to fill the torturous silence with sound. "Though it seems foolish to say so," she babbled. "I'm-grateful the arrow struck at such an odd angle, for the wound is not terribly deep. She'll be sore for a few days, and I'm certain her shoulder will hurt her for a while, but . . . it could have been much worse."

The caliph finally shifted his gaze from Shahrzad to regard Irsa with a set dispassion. "Yes," he agreed. "It could have been much worse." His eyes narrowed. "Had you not been there, many things could have been much worse. I thank you for that, Irsa al-Khayzuran."

A nervous flush bloomed across her cheeks. After all, it was not every day the Caliph of Khorasan considered her as though she were a question he sought to answer. "Rahim . . . brought you a change of clothes." Irsa took a calming breath. "There's clean water in that pitcher there, and-should you need more-there's a trough not far from here. I'm sure you'd like to wash away all the-blood. I can step outside if you wish . . . sayyidi."

At that, the caliph waited to respond, as though he were gathering his thoughts. It was impossible for Irsa to tell, for he was impossible to read.

Impossible in every which way.

"There's no need for you to call me that."

A flare of surprise shot through Irsa, stilling her hands of their fidgeting. "But-"

"I'd like for you to call me Khalid." The caliph braced his elbows on his knees. "Since you've already scolded me in typical al-Khayzuran fashion, it shouldn't be too difficult." An odd trace of humor flickered across his face.

Irsa's flush spread from throat to hairline. "I-I apologize for that. I wasn't in my right mind."

"I disagree. I think-of all of us-you were the only one precisely in your right mind."

The intense way the caliph looked at her-as though he could see past her eyes into her very mind-only deepened Irsa's feeling of awkwardness. She brushed back the strands of wispy hair that had fallen into her face. "I suppose you were a bit . . . hot-tempered."

The suggestion of a smile played across his lips. "A fault for which I'm sure to be reprimanded in the near future." He glanced down at the sleeping figure of Shahrzad. "Deservedly."

"Yes." Irsa smothered a grin, despite her unease. "You probably will be-though how Shahrzad can manage to reprimand anyone for possessing a bad temper, I will never understand."

At that, the caliph truly smiled. The gesture managed to soften all the edges of his profile, rendering him almost . . . boyish. Almost beautiful.

Absolutely less monstrous.

The realization caught Irsa off guard. It was the first time she truly grasped the fact that the Caliph of Khorasan was still only a few years older than she.

Still only a boy in his own right.

And perhaps a boy with a bit more to him than the stories foretold.

Irsa wove her braid between her fingers in careful consideration of this fact.

Once again, they both fell silent.

"I understand your discomfort around me," the caliph said quietly. "My behavior earlier was reprehensible. And I'd like to apologize for it."

When Irsa's face reddened a second time, it was for an entirely different reason.