We Free the Stars

by Hafsah Faizal

“You said this was a story,” Nasir protested, and she could hear the frown in his voice.

  His utter confusion tore a laugh out of her, and she fell back against him, nestling into the nook of his outstretched arms. It was only a heartbeat, and then realization struck them both like a snake. Nasir went still. Zafira straightened. The Jawarat observed her without a word.

  After a moment, Nasir audibly swallowed.

  “We’re nearly there,” he said quietly.

  Zafira nodded, shifting the book in her hands.

  She’d been at ease. Not intoxicated by lust or desire or need, just comfortable. With that one revelation came a flood of more: How she had come to expect his heated gaze and pensive smiles, and how well she fit in his arms. How he cared for her, in a way she thought an assassin could not. How she cared for him, as she once vowed she never would for anyone, least of all the Prince of Death.

  Nasir slowed Afya to a walk as they neared the Sarasin palace in the center of Leil. The streets were fuller, likely because of the lighter-than-black skies, less marred by darkness. In it, she could see the grandness that once prevailed. The details carved into every edifice, proof that here they once valued life.

  It was bittersweet, in a way. Hopeful, too. For if the Sarasins valued life once, it meant they could do so again. It made her think of her village, and how, despite how hopeless so much seemed, she had still found it in herself to feed her people, to care for them.

  What Sarasin needed, first, was someone to stand for them. To unite them, make them worthy of their place in Arawiya.

  They stepped through a glade of date palms to a sight that crowded Zafira’s throat. She had basked in the ethereal lure of the Demenhune palace and the majestic beast of the Sultan’s, but there was something about the Sarasin palace that stole her breath away.

  It emanated a dark beauty she had come to associate with all things Sarasin. Where the other two palaces sprawled, this one towered. Minarets rose to the cloudless skies, and the enormous obsidian dome in the center was cut with countless arched windows. Scrolling florals were carved into the gray stone, the slant of the sun deepening the rises and dips.

  Zafira had spent all her life thinking Sarasins to be monsters, and yet here was beauty she had never expected. They tethered Afya to a post to the side of the palace and sprinted to a smaller set of gates. Black-and-silver liveried guards were making the rounds, narrow swords set against their shoulders.

  She slid a glance at Nasir. What was it like to return to the place of one’s blood and know one was not welcome? There was a price on his head. Even if there weren’t, he’d killed the previous caliph in cold blood.

  Nasir dragged her to the shadows, surveying the surroundings as he spoke. “Raw materials come in twice a day. The carts should arrive soon.”

  “How do you know we have the right timing?”

  He straightened the knives along his belt. “That’s why I said ‘should.’”

  Zafira cast him a look as a rumbling filled the air. With a wink, Nasir pulled her deeper into the shadows.

  Three carts clattered down the stone road and halted before the black gates. The guards lazily sheathed their swords and strolled to them. Those locks could undo themselves quicker than the dastards were working them. The cart drivers echoed Zafira’s impatience, noisily rifling through sheaves of papyrus, ready for their coin.

  Nasir nudged her down the thin line of cover to the last cart, and Zafira didn’t breathe as they darted across the road in broad daylight—Sarasin’s definition of it, gray and murky. All the driver needed to do was glance behind him. All the guards needed to do was look a little farther down the road.

  She sent Nasir a look of alarm that he studiously ignored as he loosened the rope holding down the cart’s covering. While Zafira stared at the back of the driver’s head, Nasir peeled up the burlap and gestured for her to climb inside. She kept her footing light and winced as she slid between the sacks of flour and nestled into the far corner. The head of a nail dug into her shoulder, just above her wound. The horse shuffled, and the cart rocked with it. Skies, this was nowhere near a foolproof plan. She’d be safer if she tore open a bag of flour and doused herself in it.

  Nasir pursed his lips, clearly thinking the same, but there wasn’t time. The guards would turn toward the second cart soon enough. They’d be seen in a heartbeat. He gripped the edge of the cart to heft himself up and follow her inside—and froze.

  The guards were drifting their way.

  Khara. Voices rose. Someone shouted—one of the cart drivers, arguing over his payment. Zafira heard next to nothing over her pounding pulse.

  I like the sound of your heart.

  She did not like this newfound fear, the way it paralyzed her senses and slowed her blood. The Jawarat, which thrived on chaos, had no tumultuous words of advice. Nasir met her eyes, panic flitting across the gray.

  And then everything went dark as he dropped the burlap over her and the cart began to move.

  CHAPTER 85

  As they journeyed for Sultan’s Keep, Altair saw the results of his actions throughout the decades. The villages he had destroyed in Demenhur. The shops he had burned to soot in Sarasin. He had sacrificed much to garner the sultan’s favor. If only he had known it was his daama father he was slaving for.

  “At last,” Kifah shouted as they raced across the final stretch of Sarasin’s darkness, the morning light of Sultan’s Keep brightening with each heave of their horses.

  Arawiyans waded the sandy streets and loitered in the shadows. Date palms swayed in the idle breeze as children ran around their thick trunks. Women hoisted baskets of clothes and fruit, and merchants carted wares. To them, the new king was not an affliction; he was no calamity.

  Not yet.

  Altair noted the sun’s position. By now, the imposter of a caliph should be lying in a pool of his own black blood.

  There was a time when he envied hashashins. He’d seen Nasir meander through a crowd and casually perch atop a roof before his marks fell one after the other. There was grace to a hashashin’s movements, but an extra level of it when it came to the prince.

  It was strange, how differently they viewed death. Nasir saw the many pieces that made one person. Altair saw the many people that made a contingent, and it was a contrast he could appreciate.

  His palms slickened with anticipation. “Do you remember the way?”

  “You didn’t even see Aya’s house,” Kifah said, casting him a look. “What if I take you to a morgue?”

  “Always so morbid,” he said. “The house belongs to me.”

  “I didn’t know it was your house.”

  “Akhh, One of Nine. There is much about me you’ve yet to uncover,” Altair crowed. “I can recount every room, and every bed, and every time—”

  Kifah cleared her throat. “You know, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

  The streets were tame, people going about as if nothing were amiss, swarming stalls of fresh vegetables and fruits, and even if the city had been as dark as Sarasin, the smell of baked goods would have been a clear enough indicator that it was just after dawn.

  Altair paid a boy for a fold of pita lathered with labneh, passing half to Kifah.

  “You don’t seem anxious,” Kifah said.

  He cut his gaze to her. “I thought we already had this discussion.”

  They dismounted and let their horses free. Altair led Kifah down passageways and shortcuts he had discovered and collected along the years, stopping in his favorite alcove fitted in the remnant of space between two merchant houses and his own, with a fountain tiled in blue and red that he had commissioned himself.

  “A beauty, isn’t she?”

  Kifah didn’t appreciate it. “If you like doing nothing.”

  Altair sighed and gestured to the alley leading to the house, but paused when several voices and the hissing of steel against stone drifted to them.

  “Is that a grinding stone?” Kifah whispered with a frown, bald head gl
eaming. “It looks like someone’s made themselves at home.”

  They crept through, footsteps light and breathing shallow. The weight of his scimitars was a reassurance, even if a reminder of his halved eyesight. In the courtyard, a man with a tasseled turban stood with around forty or so others, hands on his hips as he surveyed their progress, readying weapons and securing provisions.

  “Khaldun?” Altair guessed.

  The man whirled in surprise. It was him.

  Altair grinned. “I should have known it was you.”

  The half Sarasin clearly looked too pleased for Kifah’s liking, for she leaned forward and said, “Misk Khaldun? I overheard that his wife chased him off.”

  Altair’s eyebrows flew upward. “Are we talking of the same girl Benyamin gave you permission to marry?”

  Misk floundered. He wasn’t bound by any pact. He could have easily told the girl—he had to trust her enough to want to spend the rest of his days with her.

  Altair laughed. “Akhh, now this is a tale I must hear and a girl I must meet.”

  Kifah murmured something too low to hear.

  “What brings you to Sultan’s Keep?” Altair asked. Misk was one of his better spiders, ambitious and honest. It was because of his quick thinking months ago that they’d secured a trade route with the outlying villages of western Demenhur for the region’s supple wood—though that wasn’t why he’d been stationed there. He had been tasked with uncovering Zafira’s identity, and he’d failed.

  He’d returned months later with something else, instead. Altair had seen the look in Misk’s eyes, a look that would overcome Benyamin whenever he’d speak of Aya. Altair still remembered his envy with shame.

  “Your note to escape came too late. The western villages are gone,” Misk said, and Altair wished he didn’t feel his pointed words so keenly. “My home. My life. The lives of everyone I knew.” He looked toward the palace. “Vengeance didn’t seem so terrible an idea.”

  These were the men Haytham had spoken of, the ones Altair had ventured to find. The rebels. They were all Demenhune, far from their snowy abode.

  Altair regarded him. “In that case, marhaba. You may die with us, but at least we will die fighting.”

  Misk lowered his head, accepting. Never had Altair expected rallying rebels to be this easy.

  “What of your wife?” Kifah snapped, and Misk looked affronted. “Your duty to her precedes your duty to your kingdom.”

  Altair held his tongue. She was right, but he wasn’t one to meddle in the affairs of others, especially when it came to wives as fiery as it seemed Misk’s was.

  A cry echoed through the morning air and every gaze flew upward as something hurtled past the date palm, diving for them. Hirsi. Altair held out his arm and the bird landed with spread wings.

  Altair’s spirits rose. He had reached Sultan’s Keep. The rebels were on his side. His mother would travel for the Great Library now that Hirsi had returned—

  “Oi,” said Kifah, full of foreboding. “Is that … your note?”

  Hirsi chirped proudly.

  CHAPTER 86

  Zafira held her breath, expecting the carts to halt and swords to be drawn and turmoil to break loose. Where was Nasir? The only plausible solution was that he had remained behind, sending her beyond the gates on her own. Laa, laa, laa.

  The carts rattled to a stop. Her mind buzzed. They had found him. They had—

  One of the carts moved away, and footsteps crunched along the sand. Her relief was quickly replaced by another fear: The carts were being halted for inspections. Of course they were—this was a palace. Zafira’s heart drummed loud enough that she wouldn’t be surprised if the drivers thought their sacks of flour had suddenly found a pulse.

  Footsteps shuffled near, and she knew by the thud of boots that it was a guard. She screwed her eyes closed, pressing herself as low and flush against the side of the cart as she could.

  “Yalla,” the guard droned. “It’s almost time for my break.”

  Guards are lazy, Yasmine reassured her.

  She closed her eyes even tighter, knowing that miles away in Thalj, her friend was livid with hurt and anger because Zafira had left without a word.

  Something pushed against the wood—the guard leaning against the side of the cart. Something else rustled.

  The burlap. Sweet snow. No, no, no. Gray light slipped into the cart as the cover was peeled back, bit by bit. She dug her toes beneath a sack of flour.

  The guard paused.

  Her limbs shook.

  “Eh? Tell me again?”

  She couldn’t make out the response over the roaring in her ears.

  The guard broke out in laughter, the strangest guffaws making Zafira bite her tongue against a laugh of her own. Khara, did her brain not understand the danger she was in?

  The burlap fell closed. The guard moved away, talking more animatedly than he had just moments ago, and Zafira’s exhale shuddered as the cart jostled forward again, at last rumbling to its final stop. The driver leaped down, tipping the cart with his weight.

  And then, nothing.

  What was she supposed to do now? She held her breath as the footsteps faded, reminding herself that she trusted her ears more than her eyes.

  She lifted a smidge of the burlap and peered into the stall. No one was there. Drivers only drove. They didn’t unload goods. Which means the ones who do will come along next, oaf. At the count of three, she threw off the covering and leaped over the side of the cart. She fell with a sharp sting down her chest, knees jarring.

  The stall was wide enough to park all three carts. The horses that had drawn them snorted tiredly, waiting to be untethered. The place hadn’t been cleaned in months, it seemed, and the dust collected from the morose expanse of sand doused in gray light behind her clung to the odds and ends piled against the far wall.

  Immediately she knew she was not alone. She ducked her head lower, glancing beneath the cart to see if anyone was heading her way.

  “Hello,” someone whispered.

  She nearly screamed. Nasir clung to the bottom of the cart, dust in his hair and the keffiyah knotted around his neck. With a sheepish grin at her answering glare, he dropped and rolled out beside her as if he did this every daama day. She rubbed the backs of her knuckles across her chest, but before she could snap, he lifted them both to their feet and dragged her to a tiny alcove, hands around her shoulders as the drivers returned.

  “Now what?” she whispered, suddenly aware of his touch. There wasn’t even enough room in the space to turn around and face him.

  “Now,” he said smoothly, mouth feathering her ear, “we wait.”

  She held still. Her body pulsed as she fought the desire to nestle back against him. Feel him against her.

  “I wonder how we can pass the time,” he mused in that same low tone. For a moment, neither of them moved. Only the sound of their breathing filled the air. Then his hands left her arms and he brushed her messy hair away with a drag of his fingers. She shivered at the whisper of his breath on her skin before he pressed his lips to the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

  The drivers, Zafira suddenly thought, could take as long as they wanted.

  She let out a ragged wheeze and something inside her came alive. It tilted her head, granting him better access.

  “The way you breathe drives me to insanity, fair gazelle.”

  His daring did the same to her. His voice. The way his words slipped from his tongue, each one careful, each one beautiful. He had been a touch bolder since they’d begun stealthing about. He thrived on this, she realized. On the thrill of his missions.

  A curl of darkness whispered along her skin, widening her hooded gaze. She almost startled, but held herself, knowing this was a part of him, one he had not yet conquered. Shadows grazed her wrist and slipped down the slope of her neck, tender and questioning, wholly unlike the Lion’s.

  “Do you feel what they do?” she asked, lifting her palm. The dark wisps circled her
fingers, soft as smoke, and faded, suddenly shy beneath her scrutiny.

  He made a sound behind her, as if wishing he could. “It’s the same as a pen across papyrus. I control the pen but cannot feel the bleed of its ink.”

  She turned, brushing against him, grinning when he drew a sharp breath. She knew he could read her, knew he could see in her gaze that she accepted every part of him, every dark shard. His mouth trailed down her neck and fell to her collarbone. She gasped.

  “What was that?” one of the drivers asked.

  Zafira froze—or tried to. Every part of her pulsed with need, tangible and hot. Nasir’s lips curved into a dark smile, trailing lower, his bottom lip brushing away the neck of her dress. She bit her tongue against a sound. Burrowed her fingers into his hair. Sweet snow, this man. These feelings. She shifted her hips and his hands fell, gripping her tight against him with a barely audible groan.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were ghosts in this place,” another one answered. The drivers untethered their horses. She heard them mount, she heard the whip that made her cringe, and then they were gone.

  “If only they knew,” Nasir whispered, pulling away.

  “Wait,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  His fingers flexed in restraint. He looked at her feet. “They’ll be coming to unload the carts.”

  Of course. There was work to be done. “Later,” something possessed her to say.

  “Forever, Zafira,” he said softly. “Forever. You need only say so.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers.

  Yes, she wanted to whisper. Yes, the Jawarat echoed, but Umm’s hollow eyes flashed in her thoughts, and then Nasir was turning away and sliding open a door and disappearing into a dark hall.

  Zafira released a breath.

  Her mind was abuzz. She could barely see her surroundings, barely hear anything over her pulse and this terrible thirst inside her.

  “Is there no quicker way to get there?” she asked when Nasir returned.

  They paused as a trio of servants passed, one clutching a dallah while the other two held platters and trays, the whiff of the dates, grape molasses, and carob used to prepare jallab making her mouth water.