Cricket. Ever since she was a little girl, Irsa had hated that nickname. It hearkened back to a time when she’d been cursed with reedy legs and a voice to match. Shahrzad was the only one who could use the dreaded sobriquet and not elicit a cringe—or something worse—from her.
For the tenth time in as many moments, Irsa studied her sister’s face, seeking an answer she hoped to understand. Her sister was just as lovely as ever, though her features had changed in the few short months she’d been at the palace. Not by much, and not in a way most people would notice. Her cheeks had lost some of their roundness, and the bronze of her skin had lost a bit of its glow. Thankfully, her chin was just as stubborn, her nose just as pert. But a shadow had fallen over her face; some kind of weight she refused to share. Her hazel eyes looked almost lucent in the nearby lamplight. Their colors had always been so changeable. So unpredictable. Much like her sister’s moods. One moment, she was bright and full of laughter, ready for any kind of mischief. The next, she was stark and serious, prepared to battle to the death.
Irsa had never known what to expect from Shahrzad.
But trust had never been an issue. At least not for Irsa.
“Of course I trust you,” she said. “But can you not tell me—”
“It isn’t my secret to tell, Irsa-jan.”
Irsa bit her lower lip and looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Shahrzad said. “I don’t wish to hide these matters from you. But if anyone were to discover that you knew of such things, they might hurt you to learn the truth, and . . . I couldn’t live through that.”
Irsa drew back. “I’m not as weak as you think I am.”
“I never said you were weak.”
Irsa’s smile was small and fleeting. “Some things do not have to be said. You didn’t have to tell me you were in love with Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. And I didn’t have to tell you I cried myself to sleep for weeks after you left. Love speaks for itself.”
Shahrzad pulled her knees to her chest and blinked at Irsa in silence. Sighing to herself, Irsa collected her satchel of tea herbs and reached for a sprig of fresh mint. “Are you coming with me to see Baba?”
With a brisk nod, Shahrzad unfurled to her feet.
A dry desert wind circulated through the Badawi camp. It blew spirals of sand around the warren of billowing tents. Irsa tucked her braid into her qamis to prevent its tail from lashing her face.
Shahrzad unleashed a colorful stream of curses when the end of her plait whipped against her cheek, tousling her hair loose. Black waves coiled above her head in a wicked tangle.
“Oh my.” Irsa suppressed a grin at her sister’s language. “Who taught you to say such things? Was it the caliph?”
“I hate it here!”
Though Shahrzad’s unwillingness to answer even the most innocuous question stung, Irsa ignored the twinge. “Give it some time. You’ll find it’s not so terrible.” She linked arms with her sister and pulled her close.
“Of all places, why are we in this godforsaken desert? Why has the old sheikh granted us refuge?” Shahrzad spoke in as low a voice as the wind would permit.
“I am not privy to the details. I only know he sold Uncle Reza horses and weapons. His tribe trades in both. Perhaps that is why we are allowed to stay.” She paused in thought. “Or perhaps it is merely a result of his closeness with Tariq. The sheikh treats him as though he were a son.”
“So then, has he not joined forces with Tariq and the other soldiers? Is he not involved in the war effort?” Shahrzad’s brows drew together in confusion.
“I do not think so,” Irsa retorted. “But when I attend the next war council, I’ll be sure to gather more details for you.”
Shahrzad shoved tendrils of hair behind an ear and rolled her eyes.
As they continued crossing the sands toward their father’s tent, Irsa watched her sister make a slow scan of their surroundings. Her eyes trailed Shahrzad’s until they fell upon a thin figure in the distance, mirroring their measured study.
A bony elbow jabbed Irsa’s side. “Who is that boy?”
“Ouch!” Irsa jabbed back. “You mean Spider?”
“What?”
“Oh, I call him Spider, on account of his gangly limbs and his tendency to lurk. He arrived with the Emir of Karaj. I believe he’s the emir’s distant relative. I think his name is Teymur or Tajvar or something of the sort.” She waved a dismissive hand.
“He has a . . . disconcerting look about him.”
Irsa frowned. “He’s a bit odd, but he’s harmless, Shazi.”
Shahrzad pinched her lips together and said nothing.
Irsa pulled back the flap, and they ducked inside their father’s tent. In the arid heat of the afternoon, the darkness within had grown even more stifling. They lit an oil lamp and prepared another tumbler of water, fresh mint, and tea herbs. Their father choked down the mixture as he had that morning, still muttering and clutching the ridiculous book in his arms.