He didn’t know what he should say. I am falling in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop. Those weren’t words someone said aloud, were they?
“I can’t sit on that throne. I can’t rule,” he said instead.
Without you.
She turned to him fully. Her eyes glistened.
Why not? her face asked. “You can,” was what she said.
He shook his head. “The darkness—”
“Darkness doesn’t need to be destroyed. We need the dark as much as we need light. It makes us bold, as much as it makes us afraid.” She smiled. “Darkness needs only to be tamed.”
“Tame me,” he said in desperation. Shadows bled from his fingers.
Marry me. Love me. Be with me.
“Be mine, wholly and utterly.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “What if I want you to be mine?”
“Fair gazelle, jewel of my soul, I was already yours. I’ve changed for you. I’ve—”
“But I like you just the way you are,” she whispered. “Scarred, deadly, and beautiful.” She had wrapped her arms around her legs, containing herself, as if she would fall apart otherwise. “I promised a calipha her throne.”
“Honor before heart?” he asked quietly. The wind whistled across the rooftops, bringing with it surges of the city life below.
“It’s not always one or the other.”
“For you it is.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow, closing his eyes against a welling of pain. Closing away his heart as he had done long, long ago. The words inked inside his wrist had never rung truer.
He was wrong to have expected her to leave behind her entire life and join him in the dark palace of Sarasin, which half of Arawiya loathed and feared. He was selfish to wish and dream and hope.
She pulled back, barely meeting his eyes as she rose to her feet. “Rule well, Prince.”
Her face was wet as her tears fell to the rooftop. She was his moon and his sun. She stole his breath even when he had none to spare.
Why? he wanted to ask. Why was she ripping out their hearts and trampling them both? But it had always been one of the many things he loved about her: that he could never understand the enigma that was her.
He let her go. “Ride swift, Huntress.”
CHAPTER 111
Back in the Demenhune palace, Zafira stared at the ceiling of her room. After having experienced the unhindered magic of Sharr and dum sihr, the doled-out dosage of the royal minarets left Zafira wanting. She fisted her hands in her sheets, cursing the hearts, cursing the Sisters. Why was magic not giving her the joy it had on the royal minaret? Why was she so … empty?
Be mine, wholly and utterly. She tucked her blanket beneath her chin, ignoring the dampness of her pillow. Resorting to bitterness was good, if it meant less crying.
The door cracked open, and she cursed her numbed state for forgetting to lock it. The torchlight lit Yasmine’s silhouette.
“Zafira?”
“I’m sleeping.”
Yasmine didn’t care. “What did you do?”
At some point in the past two months, she had carved out half of her heart and given it to him. That was what she had done.
“You’ve been crying ever since you came back,” she said sadly. Of course it was Zafira who had managed to make her even more sad than she was. “I saw a vision just now. At least, I think it was a vision. I was in the palace again, looking for someone. I had a knife, so it could have been a dream. Zafira? Is it magic? Did you lose it? Why are you—”
A wild laugh tore out of her. Zafira had magic, all right. Her heart was a compass once more, and it was pulling her in a direction she didn’t heed.
“I came home, that’s why. I came home because Sarasin isn’t,” Zafira said simply.
Understanding dawned in Yasmine’s eyes. “We have no home.”
Zafira looked at her sharply. “Our home is in the western villages, and we’re going back tomorrow.”
Yasmine’s head snapped up. “For what? Neither of us have anything left there. Not our homes, not our families. Nothing, Zafira. Deen is gone, Misk is gone. Why would I want to live in a place that will haunt me for the rest of my life? The palace healers offered to tutor Lana, and I’m going to stay, too.”
Zafira stared at her.
“You’re running away from him, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. Lana told me. You run from the things that scare you.”
Zafira scoffed. “And yet I marched into the Arz every daama day. I trekked to Sharr. I faced the Lion of the Night.”
“Because you’re not afraid of the dark, or of evil, or of harm. You fear change and what it signifies.”
“This isn’t like your stories,” Zafira said angrily. “I can’t wear the crown of calipha and suddenly command an entire caliphate. I’m supposed to help the caliph’s daughter secure her throne.”
She owed that to Qismah, and more, after what she had done to her father.
“And you can do both. You won’t have to rule over Sarasin,” Yasmine said, sitting beside her. “He will.”
“So I’ll take care of his palace. Fold his clothes. Sit pretty. Care for—”
They were lies, and she knew it. He would ensure she was nothing but his equal. She could do for Sarasin as she’d done for her village, only tenfold. Care not just for a handful of houses but for an entire caliphate. She’d seen it when she’d spoken to Muzaffar.
That wasn’t what she feared.
Yasmine touched her hand. “I don’t know him the way you do, but I was there. I saw how he looks at you. If he’s the darkness, then you’re his moon, and the moon wasn’t made to be caged. It’s a beacon to behold, a relic to revere. To be loved.”
Zafira didn’t realize the tears were falling until Yasmine brushed them away. She never knew she could hurt so much. Want so much. Lose so much.
Yasmine whispered, “He will give you what Deen could not.”
“I don’t need a man to complete me.”
“No,” Yasmine agreed with a sad smile. “We never do. Your happiness completes you. And if he is what makes you happy, why would you throw him away?”
Zafira closed her eyes. She wanted him. She wanted him so badly she could not breathe, she could not think, she could not be. Which was precisely why she should stay away, wasn’t it?
The Jawarat regarded her from her bedside table. It was the embodiment of memories and magic and the reason for all the wrongs she had done. Wrongs she would have continued, had he not been there for her. Had he not believed in her, understood her, the way no one else had.
Loving him was a knife to her throat, thorns around her heart. The fragility of life in the clasping of their hands.
Outside, a bird trilled as Demenhur awakened to a new world. One Misk would never see.
Her whisper was soft. Raw. “What if I lose him?”
She had nearly lost him once.
“The way I lost the one I loved?” Yasmine asked. She cupped Zafira’s face. “I will forever regret every word I didn’t say and every moment I spent not holding his hand. The questions I never got to ask. The understanding we did not have. But I will never, ever regret marrying him.” She pressed her brow to Zafira’s. “Knowing you can lose something is what makes it more precious.”
CHAPTER 112
Listening to his people was a dour affair, but it was one Nasir did without complaint. It meant Sarasin was slowly but gradually beginning to trust him in the three months since he’d been crowned caliph, the prince who had killed so many of their own. Freeing the children of the camel races and giving them an abode in the palace had helped, too, but Nasir hadn’t done it for the people.
His wazir, a stern-faced man named Yasar, straightened every last missive they’d received from dawn until noon and handed it to him, signifying that it was time for another unbearably hot afternoon in his chambers, writing and stamping and poring over caliphate affairs.
“Oi, give him a break, old man,” Altair int
oned. He had come for a visit and was sprawled on the dais at the foot of the throne, going through missives of his own.
Yasar was miffed. “If you have a problem with how I manage my caliph, Maliki, I suggest you return to your palace.”
It was only a quarter day’s ride between Sultan’s Keep and Sarasin, and the new king was known for his spontaneous visits, dragging Kifah along with him. The only one missing from the zumra meetings was Zafira.
“I hear Qismah’s coronation as Calipha of Demenhur is one moon from now,” Kifah said.
“It is,” Nasir replied, and it was the only letter he’d happily opened, for the silver parchment sealed in navy, the colors of Demenhur, reminded him of her.
Not once had he doubted her. He could see the ice in her gaze, the ferocity in her bearing as she conquered the hearts of the thousand men who stood between Qismah and her throne.
The last merchant finally shuffled from the room, and as the guards closed the doors for the day, a ruckus rose from the hall. Altair sat up. Nasir paused, craning to see, nudging the young scribe out of the way so he could step off the dais.
“What is the meaning of this?” Yasar snapped when the doors flew open again. The guards drew their spears as a hooded figure stepped inside, moving with gazelle-like grace and snatching the air from Nasir’s throat.
“The caliph is no longer holding court,” one of the officials barked.
“Protect the king,” a gold-cloaked guard commanded.
“Drop your hood,” another one snapped.
The children paused in their chores to stare.
The newcomer lowered the fine hood of their cloak, exposing the delicate features that had plagued his nights and days and his every waking moment.
Nasir’s heart saw it fit to pause here. To stop and chronicle this instant in time.
And then he was running, stumbling, racing toward her, missives scattering behind him to Yasar’s disappointment and Altair’s laughter. His hands skimmed her shoulders, her neck, cupped her face.
“Zafira,” he whispered as papyrus drifted around them.
“Nasir,” she replied, as if she had never left. As if he hadn’t forgotten how to breathe.
His lips molded to hers. His life began afresh. Twin sighs escaped them, as if they had both been starving and salvation was finally theirs. The men murmured among themselves, and at the sound of Kifah’s ululation, Zafira pulled away.
“I hear Sarasin is in need of a calipha.”
CHAPTER 113
“Habibti,” her husband said, touching a kiss to her lips.
There was a scar at her breast, and another in her heart, for people had died because she lived.
“Hayati,” he breathed, pressing another to her ear and stealing her thoughts.
Around her, silver gossamer. Above, a painted sea of stars.
“Roohi,” he rasped, feathering her jaw until they were both panting, until a hot tear rolled down his face and fell to the hollow beneath her shoulder, searing her bare skin.
“Why do you cry?” Zafira whispered.
Roohi, roohi, roohi. He stitched her soul anew.
“Because my heart cannot contain it.”
CHAPTER 114
Later, much later, perhaps one or ten or fifteen days after he had bound his life to hers, light streamed through the open windows as the palace slept away the midday heat. She murmured sleepily beside him, lashes feathering the tops of her cheeks. The book bound to her soul lay at ease in the room just beyond.
He lifted her arm and touched his mouth to the skin inside her wrist. This was what he feared more than the dark, more than the power at his grasp: the whisper of her pulse, petering to silence. Taking her from him.
Fear made his love grow. To fear was to live and to strengthen. It was maddening as it swelled in his heart, and yet, amid all his feelings was one more, stirring foreign and raw: contentment.
I once loved, he had inked on his wrist. I will again, he inked on the other. He opened his palm and a plume of shadow curled to life. It was a reminder: People lived because he did.
And to think, once upon a time, Nasir Ghameq, Caliph of Sarasin and Crown Prince of Arawiya, had wished he could feel nothing at all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I hear every author reaches a moment in her career when they simply can’t anymore. When they fall deep where the waters are dark and the light vanishes from sight. I reached that low with We Free the Stars. It was a beast of a book, a monster that took everything from me, and I was afraid I’d never reach the end.
And I wouldn’t have, if not for my family. My mother, who believed in me from day one. My father, who attended every last industry event and pushed me to go beyond my limits. My brother, Abdullah, just because. My sisters, Asma and Azraa: the pillars that kept me sane. Thank you for pulling all-nighters with me, for reading draft after draft and line after edited line, for being the tireless advocates I couldn’t have found anywhere else.
That’s my family, but a book’s family is a lot larger, and there are so many more amazing souls to thank.
To Janine O’Malley, for making me suffer—I’m kidding. Sort of. But thank you. For believing in me from day one and for your endless patience and wisdom. For the extensions upon extensions, and the chocolate. For knowing I’d get there as you asked all the right questions, even when they made me want to tear my hair out. This book would not be what it is without you, and I don’t say that lightly. To Melissa Warten, who never asked to be stuck with me and the complex world of Arawiya, but made it shine in ways I never imagined. Thank you for your relentless support and friendship.
To my team at Macmillan, a family I adore and love and appreciate so, so much. To Brittany Pearlman, publicist extraordinaire. Thank you for escorting me around the country and working tirelessly for this series. For going out of your way to ensure I felt safe. To Molly Ellis, for accompanying me to Macmillan dinners and keeping my headaches at bay. To Allison Verost, for pulling all the strings. Our breakfast at SDCC 2019 continues to be one of the highlights of my career. To the magnificent Melissa Zar and Jordin Streeter. To Mariel Dawson, secret ally. To Katie Halata and Kristen Luby, for making Sands of Arawiya shine in all things S&L. To Fierce Reads tour queen Morgan Rath. Also Joy Peskin, Jen Besser, Jon Yaged, Callum Plews, Kathryn Little, Gaby Salpeter, Mary Van Akin, and all the magicians in sales who make wonders happen.
To Elizabeth Clark for the design, Erin Fitzsimmons for the gorgeous typography to match, and Simón Prades for the killer cover art once more. Thank you for turning my book into art.
To John Cusick, for your reassurance and your support, which I could always count on, and for your undying enthusiasm.
Special thanks to Joan He, girl and goat. To friends Brittany Holloway, Lisa Austin, Mary Hinson, and Sara Gundell. To Korrina Ede and the OwlCrate team for bringing the book to thousands of new readers, to Shelflove Crate and Illumicrate, and to the lovely Meagan and her team at FaeCrate. To Allie Macedo, Rameela, Nawal, and Sanya: We Hunt the Flame couldn’t have found bigger fans and enthusiasts. Thank you for making my days full of love. To the WHTF Street Team, for all your support. We were one heck of a team. To the unyielding creativity of bookstagrammers and the tireless advocacy of bloggers and influencers, booksellers and librarians: thank you. Your work does not go unnoticed.
As always, last but never, ever least: you. Thank you for picking up this book and this series. For every post and every email, for the fic that you write and the art that you create and the edits that you whip up: Thank you. You make my days special, and I’m forever grateful. Thank you for being part of the zumra. Shukrun.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hafsah Faizal is the New York Times bestselling author of We Hunt the Flame, and the founder of IceyDesigns, where she creates websites for authors and beauteous goodies for everyone else. When she’s not writing, she can be found designing, deciding between Assassin’s Creed and Skyrim, or traversing the world.
Born in Florida
and raised in California, she now resides in Texas with her family and a library of books waiting to be devoured. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Act I. Dark as a Hollow Grave
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
We Free the Stars Page 48