We Free the Stars

by Hafsah Faizal

  Zafira understood with a sinking, resigned certainty. This was the moment in which their allyship had come to an end. This moment, when Kifah had to choose.

  We hunt the flame, Kifah had said. They had hunted the light, found the good trapped in the stars tethered to the shadows. Who was to free them if the zumra was no longer together?

  We are. Together or not, they fought the same battle. For Baba, for Deen, for Benyamin, for the sultan who once was. Zafira tightened her grip and stared at her foe. She remembered her oath: to die fighting. She remembered Umm’s words. Be as victorious as the name I have given you.

  “Victorious until the end,” she whispered, and unleashed her arrow, knowing it was her last.

  CHAPTER 58

  There were moments before moments, in which the world was framed in startling clarity, a defined before hurtling toward a horrible after. Moments in which the powerful were powerless, in which promises became failings.

  This was such a moment.

  Nasir did not think Zafira saw Kifah running toward her after the briefest hesitation, or she would have waited before firing her last arrow. No—she had acted in defeat. She had opened her arms to the embrace of death, armed for one last fight.

  He saw the arrow impale her chest. Heard the horrible rasp of her breath.

  And his

  soul rent

  in half.

  A shattering so great, he could not breathe for an eternal moment. It was then that he knew his soul had found its match. Bright, burning, gone.

  Some word tore from him, foreign in its loudness, as if sound itself could stop and reverse time. He shoved people out of his path. The massive elder ifrit readied for another attack, and someone gripped Nasir by his middle and held him back. Forcing him to watch when he should have been there. To hold her. To stop them. To save her. He would give her his lungs if it meant she would breathe for him again.

  What was the point of a throne and a crown and the power it wrought, if he was powerless?

  “Let me go,” he shouted as the elder impaled the ground where Nasir almost stood. The force of it made something slip from his robes and fracture, pieces scattering across the stone. He snatched up as much of it as he could. The compass, silver and crimson. That small, insignificant trinket that had led him to her time and time again, gone. Like her.

  “No,” Altair growled in his ear. Would that something as impossible as a mirage had become true, and still lay out of reach. “I’m not going to lose you both.”

  Fair gazelle. Please don’t go.

  “Please,” he whispered and begged. His compass. His queen. His life. “Don’t go.”

  But death listened to no one, not even the Amir al-Maut. And Nasir watched as her butterfly wings fluttered once, and Zafira Iskandar fell to the ground, a silver star driving the light from his world.

  His yesterdays and his tomorrows, gone just like that.

  CHAPTER 59

  To live was to swear the oath of death.

  A cup from which every soul was destined to drink. So why, then, did it feel like she had been cheated? As if she had gambled away something precious?

  The stone was hard. Her lungs dragged breath after stubborn breath. The arrow shaft protruded from her chest and she laughed bitterly at the irony. Dizziness rolled through her with a flood of pain, but she felt the cold embrace of death, a stillness in the chaos.

  She would never apologize to Yasmine for failing her brother. Never again kiss Lana’s cheek. Never see a world of magic. Her last moments were recorded in a series of blinks:

  Kifah. Her bald head shining with the moon’s glow.

  Blink.

  The elder. Shrieking as it tore through Arawiya’s greats.

  Blink.

  The sky. Its endless stars glittering with prospect.

  Then a sound: the broken voice of a sad, sad prince. A king, unthroned. It filled her with an ache worse than the arrow. She should have said the words when she had the chance, because she meant them. With every last fiber of her bleeding soul.

  Her world went dark.

  CHAPTER 60

  The world bled black and white and bereft of color, the possibility of forever halved in a single strike. The elder roared, shadowy wings rising into the night. Perhaps it was Nasir’s sudden stillness or the telltale drop of his breathing, but Altair knew to release him and take a careful step back. Pain and anguish stirred into anger. His blades thrummed at his wrists, and the sounds of the battle faded.

  He pulled the Jawarat from his robes and pressed it into Altair’s hands.

  “Protect it,” he rasped, and sprinted forward, snatching a broken sword as he went. His vision blurred as he arced his blade across an ifrit and shoved a hashashin out of another’s path, for in this moment, they were allies still sworn to Ghameq.

  Nasir swiped the dampness from his face, and when the elder swept its talons, he leaped atop its arm, charting his upward path. It shrieked in panic, flinging its hand. Nasir launched toward its head, narrowly missing another lash of its claws before he grabbed one of its horns. The elder teetered off balance. Nasir swung toward the second horn with a grit of his teeth, wrenching himself between them.

  People screamed far below as Altair unlocked the courtyard gates. The Great Library windows flashed like dandan teeth in the moonlight, glancing off Nasir’s blade as he plunged it into the elder’s skull, a spray of blood coating his clothes, his hair, his face. The beast swayed. Nasir drove the sword into it again and again, and with one last howl, the elder collapsed in a heap.

  The silence made him want to weep.

  Nasir stepped from the creature’s head and dropped the sword with a clatter. A score of people stared. He did not need the sun to read their faces, to understand the troubled looks and the fear widening their eyes.

  He had been the Amir al-Maut until she had come and torn the monster to shreds with sharp words and coy glimpses. It was only fitting that the Prince of Death had returned, now that she had been taken from him.

  He’d had enough. He would let the Lion do as he willed. He would take her, bury her, and—

  Seif stopped him. “He will not cease until every last one of us is dead. We must leave.”

  “And let him have the throne?” an official from one caliphate or another asked. “Your kind has always left us to suffer.”

  Seif turned, his scythes quick as snake tongues as he sliced an ifrit in three.

  “I’m not in the mood, mortal. Confront him yourself if you wish. Die, if you’d like.”

  The official blustered before catching sight of Nasir and deciding his chances of persuasion were slim. He stormed off in anger.

  Altair jogged to them. “Yes, good, great talk,” he said with false cheer, tugging on Nasir’s sleeve. His stare was fixed at the open window, where another wave of ifrit gathered. Lana, Kifah, and the rest of the Nine were nowhere to be seen. “I love words, don’t you? Let’s share some later. Now, yalla.”

  “Front courtyard. Horses. Meet me at the Asfar trading house,” Seif shouted, sprinting back toward the palace.

  “I can’t leave her,” Nasir said, stopping inside the gates. “Not like this.”

  Altair dropped a hand to his shoulder, and Nasir took a fortifying breath when his gauntlet blades hummed. “Some honors must be forfeited so we may fight another day. If anyone can understand that, it would be Zafira.” He worked his jaw. “And Benyamin. I will never forgive myself for leaving him there, but we had no choice. That throne is yours by right, and I need you alive to put you on it.”

  The horde thickened, and the crowds continued to thin as people either fled or fell. A fire rippled to life, casting the dead in orange. He was neither soldier nor general, but even he could see that this battle would not be won. As long as people remained in the courtyard, the ifrit would attack, but the Lion was no fool: He wouldn’t harm anyone beyond these gates. Not yet.

  Nasir dropped his shoulders. He left behind half of his soul and the whole of hi
s heart.

  * * *

  The horses were glad to flee the Lion’s dark kin. The dappled coat of Nasir’s steed glowed in the moonlight, reminding him of silver silk. Fear tainted the city, rumors slipping from loose tongues even at this hour, but he and Altair paused for no one as they raced through the streets.

  Nasir was numb and aware of nothing. Only his inhales that would never be matched with another’s. Only his exhales that would stretch for the rest of his days.

  Altair led the way to the Asfar trading house—a narrow building with a bronze gate, two camels idling just inside, a third asleep behind the low swaying shrubs. Nasir dismounted with a wave of exhaustion. A gentle breeze looped through the blue-black sky, slipping beneath the hair brushing his neck. Moments ticked by with his heartbeat, each one playing out Zafira’s death afresh. They’d been in such a hurry before, every instant leading to something else—the medallion, the feast, Altair.

  Time had no meaning anymore.

  Haytham’s son approached as if Nasir were a wild animal and said, “Shukrun.”

  Nasir stared back.

  He hated him, this innocent boy of eight. He hated his pale skin, hated his lilting accent. Hated that he still had a father. Anguish tore from Nasir’s mouth.

  She was gone.

  Altair gently led the boy to the camels with a murmur. When he returned, he couldn’t mask his pity quickly enough, and anger flooded Nasir’s veins, sudden and blinding. He shoved Altair against the wall, gripping fistfuls of his tattered shirt.

  “This is all your fault.” His voice was breathless, raw. He was losing his mind.

  Altair didn’t fight back. “What could I have done to stop it?”

  Nasir clenched his jaw at Altair’s gentle tone. As if he were a child.

  “Tell me, Nasir. Beat me, if you must. Tear me to shreds, if it will ease your suffering.”

  “You could have used your light. Destroyed them the way you blasted the doors. You could have—”

  He dropped his hand with a sob, and Altair pulled him to his chest. Nasir stiffened at the first semblance of an embrace he hadn’t had in years. Then he dropped his brow to Altair’s shoulder.

  They stood like that as Nasir’s vision wavered. As his father lay on the cold hard tile near the throne he had never truly ruled from. As his fair gazelle lay beneath the moon, an arrow through her heart.

  “I thought I could earn his trust. Hinder him in some way,” Altair said softly. “I swallowed bile as I indulged him, as I searched for anything that could bring him down. I thought for certain I’d gained an upper hand when you told me of the black dagger, but then Aya took his hand. I lost a daama eye. I was shackled. Drained of power as they used my blood.”

  Nasir focused on the rumble of his words through his chest.

  “Just standing upright requires more effort than I can summon. It was chance that broke the doors, not me. I tried, habibi. I did. You are not the only one who loves her.”

  Loved, Nasir corrected in his head. Words so recklessly thrown in the present were now rooted in the past.

  “Ghameq?” Altair ventured.

  Nasir couldn’t answer, not without the frayed edges of his sanity unraveling, but Altair understood.

  The general sighed. “May the remainder of his life be lived in yours.”

  Nasir pressed his lips together. Life, however much or little was left, would be long indeed.

  “In any case, you must acknowledge the great blessing permitting you to remain by my side yet another day,” Altair announced as the streets stirred with approaching horses. “There is no greater honor.”

  Nasir drew away, but his retort faded when Altair’s face sobered.

  “Do you understand, brother? You’ll have me. No matter how thick the night, I will always be there to light your way.”

  CHAPTER 61

  When the sand settled, the night framed two horses beneath the moon. Seif dismounted first, and Altair knew he’d learned of Zafira when he saw pity in his pale gaze. Pity never brought the dead back. It was an insult, plain and simple, one Nasir noted with the barest of growls in the back of his throat.

  The second rider dismounted, a safi as tall and thin as her late brother, giving reason to why Seif hadn’t joined him and Nasir in their escape.

  “Leila,” Altair greeted. Her abaya was far too scandalous for a funeral. The angled neck plunged almost to her stomach, her pale skin contrasting against the dark, glittering fabric. It was a sight he would have appreciated, had circumstances been different. Had her soft umber eyes, which matched Benyamin’s exactly, not been a sight too painful for this moment.

  She nodded in return. Tears stained her cheeks. Blood dripped from her dress—her mother’s blood. He’d seen the Alder calipha on the floor, an eternal lifeline cut short by hatred. A death as heinous as her son’s.

  “Head for Demenhur,” Seif instructed. “Neither Sultan’s Keep nor Sarasin is safe. I’ve directed the Pelusians to do the same. Lana rides with them.”

  Altair pushed away from the wall and strode to them, leaving Haytham’s son by the gate. He didn’t know who Lana was. “I’ll be making a few stops along the way. The gossamer web needs to know the truth of what happened in the palace. We can—” He stopped at Seif’s chargin. “You’re leaving.”

  “Aya was my charge,” Seif replied hoarsely.

  Of course.

  “And now she’s dead,” Altair finished numbly, fighting the rage that threatened to spill. “Died making the Lion what he is.”

  “Why?”

  The loathing behind that one word was so great, so unlike Nasir that both Altair and Seif turned to him fully in disbelief. He knew what the prince was thinking behind the flint of his eyes: It was Aya’s fault that Zafira was gone. But if they started down that path, blaming one thing upon the next, there would be no end, no future.

  “Some truths have no reason,” Seif murmured.

  “This one does,” Altair said with force.

  Leila spoke now. “After what she’d lost, you have no right—”

  “We’ve all lost something,” Altair bit out. No one knew how much he had once loved Aya. No one knew he was once the last to judge her. “Look at me. Look at him.” He gestured to Nasir. “We have lost, and we have suffered. We did not fall prey to insanity and the Lion’s lies. The difference, Leila, between Aya and us is that we do not give up.”

  The camels snorted in the silence, Haytham’s son’s soft murmurs lilting in the quiet. Seif’s brow was creased, his pale eyes slit.

  “He is right,” he said finally.

  “Thus, Benyamin died for nothing,” Leila said softly.

  Nasir looked away. Benyamin had died for the gray-eyed prince, for their future sultan, and for his brother.

  To Altair, that was everything.

  “He was valiant until the end,” Altair said solemnly. “He spoke of you even in the throes of death.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, carmined lips soft. “I expected nothing less from a Haadi. Now I am all that remains of Arawiya’s oldest family.”

  “Not much of Arawiya will be left to speak of if the Lion remains in power,” Altair said as Haytham’s son collected stones from the cool sand. “We need you with us. We need your aid. We need aid from Alderamin.”

  Leila’s gaze flicked to the ground. “My people will not—”

  “Your people,” Altair repeated quietly. “Alderamin is home to only a fifth of your people. Arawiya is the land of your people. Leave this division by caliphate aside, Leila. We are one kingdom.”

  “I am not one of them, Altair,” she said crisply. The gold filigree cuffing her elongated ears glinted mockingly.

  He set his jaw, the loss of his eye a beacon. “Neither am I.”

  “What you decide to do with your immortal life sets no requirement upon ours.”

  Altair breathed a mirthless laugh, regarding her. It was taking some adjustment, only being able to see out of one eye. It meant turning his head
and craning his neck far too much. “You were there for his first reign of darkness. You know what will happen. The darkness will spread from one caliphate to the next, and people will die. Even safin can starve.” He met Leila’s gaze, disappointed by her obstinacy. “Benyamin would—”

  “Do not speak of what he would or would not have done,” she demanded. “He is dead. My mother is dead. You need to understand that the title of Alder calipha will matter little when I ask my people to help you, for not one safi will feel particularly inclined to assist the mortals for whom my kin died.”

  The wind gusted toward them, grieving the night’s lost souls. It was a horrible truth, but had Leila been more like her brother, she would have agreed: It was worth trying. Worth rallying them, begging them for aid. Altair turned to Seif.

  “I will not abandon our cause, but I must return to Alderamin, too,” Seif said. “After tonight’s events, it is clear the Lion will seek the destruction of the remaining hearts. I must be there to protect the heart and the throne. The rest of the High Circle will do the same in the other caliphates. History stands to be rewritten, and if there is anyone who understands the merit of this opportunity, it is those of the Circle.

  “We will remain vigilant, and upon magic’s return, should you succeed, we will position restrictors to halt the flow of power until each caliphate gets their bearings.”

  Altair wasn’t ready to think that far just yet. To worry over the common person being unable to control the affinity he or she wielded felt trivial after what had transpired. He lowered his brow, sensing he had no leeway here. No amount of persuasion would work. Safin were stubborn that way.

  “May success ride in your favor, Seif bin Uqub,” Altair said at last. “Shukrun for your efforts.”

  Besides, he hadn’t come so far by relying on the halfhearted.

  CHAPTER 62

  Civilization faded to the swell of sand dunes lit blue, ghosts of the lost rising with the dust Altair’s and Nasir’s horses stirred in their wake. It was only after they crossed the border of Sultan’s Keep and passed into Sarasin that Altair allowed himself to breathe freely for the first time since they’d fled the palace.