"I don't know what you're talking about." She lifted her chin, trying to conceal her apprehension.

"Shahrzad. I've already spoken to Irsa. I know it was she who drugged me."

Shahrzad remained stone-faced, though her heart missed a beat at the mention of her sister.

"She refused to say anything further on the matter, but you know as well as I that Irsa is incapable of uttering a falsehood. And her attempts to avoid disclosing the truth belied her actions." His face screwed tight in frustration. "Therefore I must insist that you-" Though it took effort, her father managed to temper his reaction. "I am not angry, dearest. I know someone must have coerced you. Perhaps the caliph or someone with the desire to undermine-"

"No. No one coerced me to do anything. Because nothing has been done."

Again, a flash of cold light filled her father's gaze. "Do not lie to me, daughter."

Shahrzad steeled herself even further. "Where is Irsa, Baba?"

No response, save for a soft inhalation of breath. The barest of hesitations.

"Baba?"

He opened his mouth to answer, then paused a telling beat. A beat that made Shahrzad's throat swell tight with trepidation. Her father offered a kind grin. "You are still weak from the journey and your injuries. Allow the sultan's servants to tend to you, after which you should join us for dinner. The sultan's daughter has been quite worried about you. I promise all will be discussed tonight."

Shahrzad reached for him, unable to conceal her fear any longer. "Baba, please don't-"

"I have allowed you a great deal of freedom, daughter. Perhaps I have allowed you too much." Her father's tone was firm. He stood quite tall. Taller than Shahrzad ever remembered him standing. Indeed, she had not seen him act with such vim since before her mother had died. "You have defied me long enough, Shahrzad. I will not allow you to lie to me about this. You are toying with something far too dangerous and far too important. Rest for now. And we will discuss the matter later." Jahandar turned away.

"Please just tell me if Irsa is-"

"Rest. And we will discuss the matter tonight . . . when you are ready to tell me the truth." With that, Jahandar al-Khayzuran strode from the chamber in a whirl of fine silk.

Shahrzad sank back beside the shards of broken porcelain, still clutching her makeshift weapon.

The panic she'd been fighting since she'd first caught sight of her father-no, since the first inkling of where she was had begun to take root-washed over her with a dire sort of urgency.

The war she'd meant to end had now slipped beyond her control. Far beyond the boundaries of her worst fears come to pass.

For as soon as word reached Rey that Shahrzad was being held prisoner in Amardha-was now a "guest" of the uncle who most assuredly planned to use her as a pawn-Khalid would march on the city with a host at his back.

Of that, Shahrzad was certain.

And, though the truth of it would undoubtedly cost Shahrzad her father's trust and more, she was also certain of another thing: Khalid had already destroyed the book. Which left them nothing with which to bargain. Nothing to use as leverage.

Except her.

But Shahrzad was not a fool. She would not quail before the Sultan of Parthia. Would not beg for even one word of kindness from her enemy. Nor would she wait to be saved, like a child wailing in the wings.

She would do what needed to be done.

She would find Irsa. And uncover a way out of this cursed city.

Or die trying.

Her worry about Irsa made Shahrzad comply.

Even though she did not think her father would permit her sister to be harmed, Shahrzad no longer knew what thoughts swirled behind his power-hungry eyes.

So she said nothing when the servants entered the room to help her bathe and dress.

Strangely, the entire affair seemed eerily reminiscent of the day Shahrzad had first arrived at the palace in Rey, when the two servant girls had readied Shahrzad for marriage to a monster. When they'd scrubbed sandalwood paste on her arms and dusted her skin with flakes of gold before placing a heavy mantle upon her shoulders.

This time, Shahrzad's garments were nearly as elaborate as they'd been that fateful afternoon.

Vermillion. A rich red that reminded her of a setting summer sun.

Or fresh blood trickling from an open wound.

The sirwal trowsers were cut from the finest silk, embroidered in gilt thread. The fitted top was low across her chest. Much lower than Shahrzad was accustomed to wearing. The mantle was fashioned from a thin gold fabric. Not from the more typical damask. This fabric instead resembled gossamer. In the light, it hinted at everything beneath.

Shahrzad felt exposed. Vulnerable. Which she knew was not by happenstance.

The servants wove her black hair into a thick braid and wound strings of seed pearls around the shining plait. The bangles on Shahrzad's left arm and the hoops in her ears were of hammered bullion with matching seed pearls and tiny diamonds embedded throughout.

As her father had assured, Shahrzad had been well tended. Dressed to fit her station.

But she did not feel like a queen.

For a prisoner can never be a calipha.

But a calipha is only a prisoner if she chooses to be.

At these thoughts, Shahrzad threw back her shoulders and curled her toes within her pointed slippers. Her head high, she followed the servants into the corridor, where a contingent of armed guards stood at the ready, waiting to lead her toward the next destination.

Again, Shahrzad was struck by the overblown opulence of the sandstone structure around her. True, the palace at Rey had been marbled and polished past explanation, but there had always been a coldness to it. A kind of stark unwillingness to embrace all that it was. And now that Shahrzad saw all a palace could be, she was oddly glad Khalid had not appointed every corner with a gilt statue or every stretch of the eaves with a glittering tapestry. Indeed, it seemed every alcove in Amardha had been adorned in gold leaf or silver foil, every cusp framed with carvings and embedded with jewels beyond reason or taste, and the sight of it all made Shahrzad rather uncomfortable.

The only place where the palace at Rey outdid the sandstone edifice of Amardha was in its calligraphy. For Rey did boast an inordinate amount of elegant artistry. Of swooping flourishes and graceful swirls made in service to the written word. And Shahrzad knew it was because Khalid had a penchant for poetry.

While it was obvious Salim Ali el-Sharif had a preference for opulence.

Give me poetry any day.

Despite everything, Shahrzad almost smiled to herself at the thought.

The guards led Shahrzad down several more lavish hallways toward a set of beautifully carved doors as wide and as tall as any Shahrzad had ever seen. Of course, just as she'd come to expect in less than a day, the doors were coated in a layer of liquid gold, with handles of solid sapphire the size of her fist. Two guards pushed them open, and she followed the crush of soldiers down a series of polished sandstone steps into a cavernous room of pale pink granite veined with deep threads of burgundy. A single long table stretched through its center, lit by lengthy tapers perfumed in rose water and myrrh. The tablecloth looked to be spun from the finest spider-silk, gleaming lustrous in the warm light cast from the tapers' glow.

Because the room could undoubtedly use more gold.

As far as the eye could see, Shahrzad took in an altogether unnecessary display of opulence. Even the scent of the tapers cloyed at the back of her throat, for it was overwrought. Overdone.

Overmuch.

Shahrzad was the first to arrive.

Again, she was certain this was no accident.

A guard directed her to a richly appointed cushion of darkest blue near the center. While none of the soldiers were outright rude to her, she did notice a certain sort of amusement ripple through the throng when the one nearest to Shahrzad-a young man with a scar slanted across his nose-leered down at her chest as she bent to take a seat.

Shahrzad gazed up at him, fire in her eyes. "Is there a reason you're staring at me in such a manner?" she said, her snappish voice bounding through the cavernous hall. "Have you a death wish, or are you merely as senseless as you look?"

He dipped his head in a terse bow, his jaw taut.

"That is not an answer, you insolent fool. And it barely constitutes a bow," she continued, determined to make a point of this interaction.

Shahrzad could not let any man in this cursed city treat her poorly. Even for a moment. For if they saw even a trace of weakness in her, it would be her undoing.

A wave of laughter filled the air at her back.

Shahrzad's body froze at the sound of it.

Salim.

"Just as silver-tongued as ever, my lady." He clapped his hands as though he meant to applaud her. The sound rang in her ears, sharp and crackling.

Shahrzad did not turn around. Would not dare give him the satisfaction. Instead she faced forward and put on a show of affecting a lighthearted expression.

"Your soldiers could stand to learn a lesson in respect, my lord." Shahrzad grinned as the Sultan of Parthia came into view.

Salim returned her strident greeting by bowing with a flourish. "And I suppose you intend to give it to them?" He braced a hand on the gleaming hilt of his scimitar.

A hand meant to remind Shahrzad of her position.

"Well, someone should." She grazed her fingertips across her forehead as she emulated his mocking obeisance.

Jahandar al-Khayzuran followed the sultan, dressed in his silken finery, palms folded before him, his expression warring between pensive and perturbed.

Either her father did not know she and Salim had already established a troubling rapport or he was laboring to conceal the knowledge. Shahrzad refrained from meeting her father's gaze. The betrayal was still too fresh. And she did not want Salim to know how at odds they were.

How hurt she was by her father's treachery.

Salim moved to sit across from Shahrzad, a tranquil elegance to each of his movements. His heavily embroidered mantle and his beautifully tailored garments were just as overwrought as his palace. Like a simpering cat recently fed on the richest cream, Salim smiled at Shahrzad, his perfect mustache sloping above his wolfish teeth.

"I'm so glad you've come to visit us in Amardha, Shahrzad-jan. It's been long overdue."

"Visit?" Shahrzad peaked a brow. "That's a rather interesting choice of words."

Salim lounged, his elbow against the sapphire cushion to his left. "Surely you prefer it here to that tribal outpost you've been forced to bide your time in for the past few weeks."

"I couldn't say. My doors were never locked in that tribal outpost."

"Indeed." He aimed another spurious grin her way. "Do tents have doors?"

"Indeed they do not. But at least I had the pleasure of my sister's company there. I don't suppose you'd care to-"

"Of course! How inconsiderate of me. You must be quite hungry." Salim laughed, motioning toward the double doors behind her. Her father did not even bother turning as he fidgeted with the scalloped spoon beside his plate.

Shahrzad heard them swing open, and the scent of butter and spices wafted her way. Despite her resolve not to eat a morsel until she'd learned of Irsa's whereabouts, the intoxicating aroma made it rather difficult for her to stand firm in this conviction. When the servants placed a silver platter of spiced potatoes before her, along with a perfect mound of pistachio-and-pomegranate rice surrounded by skewers of saffron chicken, still-flaming lamb kebabs, and steaming tomatoes all heaped upon ornate serving trays, Shahrzad's stomach rumbled with hunger.

She could not remember the last time she had eaten so well.

Her mouth salivated at the smell of the simmering stew set before her-one of aromatic lentils and caramelized onions. The sweet scent of cinnamon and cloves called to her, the dates and the aubergines taunting her even further.

The last straw was the sight of the quince chutney.

Shahrzad sat on her hands.

"Are you not hungry?" Salim asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. "I've selected dishes I'm told are your favorites."

Her father frowned at her. "Shahrzad-jan, the sultan's daughter told the cook to prepare a special meal in your honor."

"I'm sure she did," Shahrzad muttered, gnawing the inside of her cheek.

"Perhaps my daughter can persuade you to eat." The light in Salim's eyes burned bright as he glanced over her shoulder.

Shahrzad did not look behind her, for the last thing she wanted to see at the moment was the perfect smile of Yasmine el-Sharif.

If she attempts to bait me tonight, it will not be soot I smear on her teeth.

No.

It will be my fist.

"Come, daughter," Salim called out. "Our guest is quite excited to see you."

Indeed. Positively thrilled.

Shahrzad pursed her lips and wrapped her fingers around the silken cushion at her sides as though it would imbue her with the strength to remain calm.

The soft shuffle of slippered footsteps on polished granite emanated nearby.

With obvious reluctance, Shahrzad lifted her gaze.

Eyes the color of a cerulean sky sparkled down at her.

Shahrzad's chin struck her collarbone in horror.

"Hello, Brat Calipha."

Despina.

Many things happened all at once.

First, Shahrzad bolted to her feet, intent on attacking her former handmaiden. A flurry of motion converged upon them.