SAMPLE CHAPTERS ONLY

She’s at the bazaar again, and so is he. Over the past few days, he has made a habit of seeking her where he knows she frequents, and fortune has favored him so far.

When she was a child, her family lived in Baghdad. It was then that he met her. Though they spent only a few months together, he recalls it as clearly as the midday sun. But she might not remember him. Even if she was the one who declared them friends, she had been only four, and he seven.

As a little girl, she was curious and chatty, often getting herself in tussles. He wonders what she is like now.

She picks a pendant from one of the jewelry stalls. A golden chain glitters in her hand, her eyes lingering on it with longing, before she returns it and walks away.

Once she is gone, he approaches the same stall and lifts the pendant she had been eyeing.

“How much for this piece?”

⁀➴

“Who is al-Shafay, Dayi?”

“There are many rumors in answer to that question. Why do you ask, dukhtaram?”

“I’m curious how he has ruled the kingdom these three years without revealing his face.”

Noura pours the tea into the cups and places one before her uncle. She never took much interest in politics before, not until finding the caliph’s seal. Now, the Khalifa is all that’s on her mind.

Her uncle hums, running a hand over his graying beard. “People have theories. But all they do is mislead others. Perhaps he’s of royal blood, as the royal council tells everyone. Or perhaps an outsider. But he’s not a son of Khalid bin Abd al-Malik, which is why he keeps his identity hidden. Though he may be of royal blood, he’s not a lawful heir to the throne.”

“Do you think the sons of Khalid are really dead?” she asks.

“Allah knows best, dukhtaram.” Her uncle sips his tea. “Three years is a long time. There was even a burial in name only for Yusuf bin Khalid. For a man who restored peace to Baghdad after his uncle’s rebellion, it would be a pity if Ameer Yusuf died at the hands of his own brother. But alas! Greed does strange things to a man.”

She stares into her teacup. Her reflection stares back at her. Those who witnessed that war, the first rebellion, still bear scars on their hearts from its memory.

She had been only five, remembering little of that time. But many people lost their lives, including those from the royal family. It was the same year her father fell ill, passing away shortly after.

“But they say,” her uncle continues, tracing the rim of his cup, “Suleiman bin Khalid lived. Though the younger prince rebelled against the older one for the throne, it was al-Shafay who claimed it. Twice, war brought no victory to the men who led it.”

The second time the drums of war rang, the sons of Khalid bin Abd al-Malik fought against each other. She remembers it as if it were yesterday. The news of Yusuf bin Khalid’s death spread like wildfire, and the public mourned the loss of their caliph. Some condemned the younger prince’s rebellion, while others supported it.

When al-Shafay ascended the throne, he persecuted everyone who rebelled against Yusuf bin Khalid. But did he really die? Where did Suleiman bin Khalid disappear? If al-Shafay is a prince, why does he not reveal himself?

Her questions remain unanswered.

Her uncle leans against the cushions, smiling. “Eskander has been telling you stories?”

She shakes her head, smiling back. “You know he doesn’t like sharing stories of the palace. The most he tells me about are his journeys to these different, beautiful places.”

“Has he also been teaching you how to swing a sword?”

“Yes, but I still need a lot of practice. I’ve never once overcome him.”

An amused chuckle comes from her uncle. “Of course. He’s General Teymour’s son. The best, like his father.”

He places the now empty teacup on the tray and she offers to refill it. He declines, and she presses her own cup to her lips.

“When is he coming home again?” her uncle asks.

“He didn’t say, but I hope it’s soon.”

And she hopes so desperately. For now, she has the caliph’s seal. Until Eskander returns and she hands it to him, there is no other way for her to march to the palace gates and return it to the Khalifa herself. If found with her, or stolen and misused, it could bring great peril to everyone.

But days have folded into three weeks since the incident. Who was the man she saw that evening, and how could he have the caliph’s seal? Such thoughts keep her awake at night. Though what bothers her more is why he stole her pendant and left the seal with her.

Perhaps he was a thief who somehow got his hands on the seal. Then, to save himself from the consequences, he discarded it and stole her gold pendant when the opportunity arose. Now, she is the one left to bear the burden.

There is a knock at the door. Before she can get up, her mother appears from the kitchen and gestures for her to remain seated.

She answers the door. There is an exchange of greetings, and then a man’s voice speaks. Noura cannot hear what he is saying, but she can tell his tone is formal and his Persian accented. A few moments later, her mother enters the sitting area with her brows furrowed.

“Who is at the door, Maman?” Noura inquires.

“Guards,” she replies, a hand on her heart. “From the palace of Baghdad.”

A surge of nausea suddenly makes her sick, the tea she had been drinking rising back up. She fears she knows why palace guards are at their door. She wishes she didn’t.

“Guards?” Her uncle rises to his feet. “Why are they here?”

“A spy in the palace has stolen the caliph’s seal, and they are searching every house for it.”

The hair on her body stands, her skin breaking into a cold sweat. She licks her suddenly parched lips and pushes herself up.

Her uncle steps toward the door. “If a spy has stolen the seal, why do they not look for him rather than search every house for it?”

“I do not know, Dadash,” her mother responds. “I told them we’re hiding no one and nothing here, but they insist on searching the house.”

They know. A voice in her head screams.

They know where the seal is. There is no other way guards from the palace of Baghdad would come all the way to Isfahan looking for it, and coincidentally appear at their door.

Even if they ransack every house in the kingdom, the likelihood of their ending up at the exact location of the seal within three weeks is not less than a miracle.

“Let me talk to them,” her uncle says.

Her mother follows him to the door.

Noura hurries to her room. With trembling hands, she throws open a chest and drops to her knees. In her panic-stricken state, it takes her a while to find the sunduqcha in which she hid the seal.

The voices outside grow louder. Her thoughts scatter. If they search their house—if they find it—no one will believe her story. Fate aside, she cannot bear the shame of it. In her haste, she tucks the seal under her kamarband.

“We’ve orders from the grand vizier of al-Shafay, Ameer Zakariya bin al-Hakam, to search this place,” a voice booms. “We mean no harm. If the seal is not here, we’ll leave without causing you any more trouble than this. Cooperate with us and allow us to do our duty.”

From behind the wall of the sitting room, she peers at the men at the threshold. In that instant, she recites every prayer she can think of.

Then her mother mentions Eskander. Noura sees a ray of hope. Perhaps they will be lenient and believe the seal cannot be here. After all, they cannot simply ransack the house of the general of Baghdad. It would dishonor him.

“General Eskander Teymour?” The guard raises an eyebrow. “This is his house?”

“Yes, and I have a young daughter inside,” her mother reasons. “I cannot allow a group of men to break in.”

“Commander!” the guard calls out.

Another man appears at the threshold. He is taller than his fellow, his chest broad, his long hair worn in a braid that falls just past his shoulders. His eyes are narrowed into slits, sharp and unforgiving. She senses nothing but hostility from him.

“This is General Eskander’s house,” the guard tells his commander.

The commander’s narrowed eyes widen by a fraction. There is a barely perceptible quirking of his lips, one she doesn’t miss. He unhooks a scroll case from his hizam and unrolls a scroll, holding it before her mother and uncle.

“I am Muawwiz bin al-Jarrah, commander of the special troops of the royal family. I’ve been ordered to search this house for the caliph’s seal. It has come to our knowledge that this is where it is.”

“You must be mistaken,” her uncle argues. “How can we have the seal? We’re no thieves!”

“That remains to be seen,” Commander Muawwiz retorts.

He gestures for his men to enter. The protests of her family fall on deaf ears as they barge in.

Everything blurs before her eyes. The men wreak havoc in their house, raking through every nook and corner. They drag furniture, turn cushions, and demand to search every chest.

She grows lightheaded with every passing minute. When they tire themselves without finding it, their attention turns to the residents of the house.

She has been standing in a corner all this time while the horrors unfold. Commander Muawwiz’s hawk-like eyes find her, his gaze fixing upon her, and a warning rings loud in her ears.

“Come here.”

The floor shakes beneath her feet at his command. She remains rooted to her spot. Her mother clasps her wrist and pushes her behind her.

“You won’t touch my daughter!”

“I only take my orders from the Ameer, sayyidati.” He jerks his head toward them, directing his men. “Search them too.”

Her uncle steps forward to defend them. But before another second is wasted, Commander Muawwiz draws his sword, the sound of steel striking her like a thunderbolt.

“Move!”

In the blink of an eye, they’re dragged away from each other. Her mother’s screams bounce off the walls of the small space.

The commander marches toward her. Her hand instinctively flies for her dagger, but it’s not strapped to her kamarband. She immediately leaps in the opposite direction.

“Call a maidservant!” he orders.

“Argh!” she lashes out at him with her bare hands as he reaches for her.

He catches her fists in his and pushes her against the wall. “Stay still.”

A moment later, a woman appears beside the commander. He nods at her, and she begins searching her body for the seal at once. Noura tries to shrink away from her touch, but Commander Muawwiz holds his sword at her neck, forcing her still.

And then, the woman’s hands press to her waist. She pauses to feel the item beneath her kamarband. Noura holds her breath, her soul rising to her throat.

The woman turns to the commander, a silent communication passing between them. Without a word, she rips the kamarband from Noura’s body. The seal clatters to the floor and rolls to the commander’s feet.

Commander Muawwiz sheathes his sword and kneels. He picks up the seal, studying it to make sure it’s what he has been looking for. Then his eyes snap to her, filled with unspoken accusations.

“I d-didn’t…” Noura turns to her mother, helpless, at a loss for words. “I didn’t steal it,” she manages to say.

Her family is stunned into silence, eyes round and lips apart.

In the next instant, whatever life is left in her is stripped away as the commander hurls her over his shoulder. A sense of shock paralyzes her before she can react.

“Don’t take away my daughter!” her mother screams.

Noura gasps, her lungs burning as if she is drowning. They’re taking her away from her home. Dread chokes her, and she slams her fists hard against the commander’s back.

“No! Let go of me!”

She delivers blow after blow, but Commander Muawwiz heedlessly carries her out of the house. Her mother and uncle run after her.

“Shame on you bastards!” her uncle curses at the guards who hold him back. “Release my niece!”

Noura witnesses the sheer agony on her mother’s face as she wails and begs.

“I didn’t steal the seal!” she hits the commander again.

He pays her no mind and throws her onto a horse before mounting the one beside it.

“Let’s take you to the palace, little thief.”

He snaps the reins, and in a heartbeat her house is lost in the distance, her mother’s voice nothing but a cry in the air.