But today, the invitation—it had made something rear its head.
“Were you going to tell me?” he asked instead. He sounded tired. Resigned. “About the letter, Zafira. The invitation you have in your pocket right now.”
She bit her tongue. Lana. Deen was the one who had come when Zafira was in her room.
“I know you,” he said. “I saw you at the wedding with that look in your eyes, and I thought it was because of Yasmine. But it wasn’t, was it? It’s the same look you have when you stare at the Arz, and I should have realized.”
She drew her eyebrows together. “What look?”
“Elation. Adoration, even,” he whispered, and clenched his jaw.
Zafira’s pulse fluttered. Hadn’t she used the same word to describe the way the silver-cloaked woman stared at the Arz?
“I don’t know where it came from, but I know it’s an invitation to chaos.”
“Deen, it’s magic. We could have magic again. How can you not want that?” she asked. Sharing the invitation with him opened a spigot inside her, and she wanted to throw back her head and shout. Every story her father had spun could be real. Oh, what she would give to feel the rush that the old ones had known. To have magic thrum at her fingertips. “You’re less excited than I thought you would be.”
“Did you miss the part about Sharr? And before that, you’ll need to travel across the Arz.”
“I go there every day.”
“You don’t cross it, Zafira. No one has. Magic might lie at the end of this journey, but that doesn’t mean you will attain it. There is no reason to get anyone’s hopes up. Least of all yours.” He rubbed a hand across his face, and Zafira knew he was upset.
“But think about it,” she insisted. “Magic means no more cursed snow. It means the Arz won’t swallow us whole, because it won’t exist anymore. You can do everything you’ve always wanted to do.”
“At what cost?”
Zafira met his eyes as the cold clouded between them. “At whatever cost it takes. I owe the world this much, don’t I? I owe it to the world to try.”
“You owe the world nothing. Do you even know where the letter came from? Do you really think magic can be restored with a book?”
Something flickered in his eyes when she didn’t respond.
Silence stretched between them until he sighed. “Yaa, Zafira. Will you go, then? Alone?”
“I think so,” she said, but felt the need to say more. “How far can we run before the Arz reaches us? Running is not a life.”
More silence, in which Deen looked sad, terribly so. She reached for his hand and curled her pinkie around his, but his eyes strayed to her lips and she had to remind herself that he was no longer the boy who cared for her like a sister. That she was no longer a little girl. That he had just asked for her hand in marriage.
Such closeness didn’t bode well.
As if hearing her thoughts, he tucked the same wayward strands of hair behind her ear again, admiration in his gleaming eyes, and he leaned closer, barely. Zafira found herself running her tongue over her cold lips. The golden curls at his forehead begged to be touched, but her eyes dropped to the fullness of his mouth.
“Zafira,” he whispered.
Marry me. Her daama brain started working again. She took a step back, the words from the letter suffocating her breath.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, a quake in her voice. The moon was bright enough that she could see desire darkening his eyes.
And the House of Selah, imposing behind him.
Something ached in her heart, but she steeled the shards in her chest and turned away.
CHAPTER 10
With every step of Sukkar’s hooves, Zafira found it harder to think. If she was going, she had to decide now. If she was going, every passing moment took her closer to the quest. To Sharr. To leaving her village.
She slid from Sukkar’s back with a heavy exhale.
Deen followed close behind on his own horse, Lemun. It had seemed like a peace offering at first, inviting him to spend the rest of the night in her house instead of at his friend’s. But now, with him here, all she could do was worry. She had started more than one conversation on the short ride home, but each exchange had dwindled to an uneasy silence with no more than a few words from him.
Meager light illuminated the sloshy alley between her house and that of the Ra’ads, which led to their rickety stable. Zafira trailed her gloved fingers across the crack in her kitchen window, where a trio of potted herbs sat wilted and browned, despite Lana’s fervent efforts. Like Demenhur, the caliphate that once grew Arawiya’s cures.
It could grow them again. She released a breath and disappeared into the stable. Inside, Deen lit two lanterns and settled Lemun beside Sukkar. Zafira brushed a hand down her horse’s neck, and Sukkar nudged her with a small, concerned snort.
A warning she didn’t heed.
She thought she saw a flicker of movement to her left, and she instinctively checked to make sure her hood shrouded her face. Discomfort thickened her blood, slowed her mind.
A flash of silver stirred dread into her stomach.
“Peace unto you, Huntress.”
Deen drew a sharp breath in the sudden stillness. She knew that voice and the lilt of that word. Huntress. She turned.
The stable doors hadn’t opened to let anyone in, but why use doors when one could materialize as one wished? Something dark hummed against Zafira’s skin, and Deen grabbed her hand. Sukkar and Lemun scrambled back against the wall, snorting in panic.
The woman’s cloak shimmered like liquid metal, and only now, free from the fluttering curtain of snow, did Zafira realize her youth.
Skies. She wasn’t an illusion. She really had stood before the Arz and murmured those cryptic words. She really had placed the letter in Zafira’s satchel.
Why is she here? Zafira lifted her chin. She was not going to cower.
Sukkar and Lemun continued to struggle in fear. Deen tried to soothe them with a distracted hand, but his apprehension only made their protests increase. The woman flicked her wrist, and the very air wavered before the horses quieted.
No.
They stopped breathing altogether.
Deen’s eyes were wide. Zafira barely restrained herself from stepping back.
Magic. Magic that shouldn’t exist. There was no other explanation for how the woman had frozen the horses solid. For how she had appeared—and disappeared—out of thin air.
The rotting walls of the stable suddenly felt like a steel cage.
The woman laughed without mirth, piercing Zafira with startling dark eyes. Ancient eyes, she realized with a start. Her youthful face was a ploy. What devilry was this woman capable of?
“Oh, they will live. But for the sake of my hearing, they will remain this way until I take my leave.” Her eyes snared on the black mold staining the wood, nose wrinkling at the stench of decay. “Which will be soon, I hope. You wanted to see me, didn’t you?”
Zafira wasn’t going to react to the fact that the woman had somehow heard her unvoiced question. She wasn’t going to wonder why, out of all moments, she had chosen the moment when Deen was with her to visit. If she did, she would go mad.
“Who are you?”
The woman’s crimson lips twisted into a one-sided smile. “The Silver Witch. Fitting, laa?”
More like unimaginative. What happens when you change your cloak? Zafira thought, surprising herself. It seemed a part of her still hadn’t registered the seriousness of her situation.
“And are you friend or foe?” Zafira asked, and Deen murmured something.
The woman’s smile widened. “Someone like you.”
Zafira looked at Sukkar. The silk of a shadow whispered against her skin, reminding her of the Arz, teasing fear into her heart. The lanterns flickered.
“I am nothing like you,” she said darkly. Malevolence spilled from the woman like morning mist.
The witch hummed but didn’t object. “It won
’t be long before the Arz descends upon your people.”
This, Zafira knew. She woke with the knowledge, she slept with the knowledge. She breathed in dread with every waking day. But she didn’t like the way the woman said “your people.”
“They are not slaves; they do not belong to me.”
The woman—witch, skies—looked smug. “Oh, but you slave over them. You hunt for them, feed them, worry for them. When you unfolded my letter, your very first thought was of them. Your kingdom may have a king, Huntress, but you are very much its concerned queen.”
“The letter,” Zafira said through clenched teeth, and Deen had to pull her back. “Tell me about the letter.”
The Silver Witch stepped closer with a curious look. “You do not fear me.”
You terrify me. Zafira released a quivering breath, hearing Baba’s voice. Fear breeds death. Confidence breeds freedom.
“The way I see it,” she said, “you wouldn’t have invited me if you didn’t need me. So I have nothing to fear, do I?”
The Silver Witch laughed. “You think yourself irreplaceable? There’s many a hunter in Arawiya, girl. I invited you only because you topped my list. Indeed, you have a good deal to fear.”
There’s no other hunter who can do as I can. But Zafira wasn’t about to test that theory. “Why not go to Sharr and retrieve it yourself?”
“If it were so simple, I wouldn’t stand amid this rot.” Disdain dripped from the Silver Witch’s frown.
“If a witch who can wield magic can’t retrieve it, what good is a girl with a bow?” Zafira asked, and she could hear Deen trying to keep silent.
The witch clucked her tongue. “The more you think about it,” she said, leaning close, “the madder you’ll become. Wise words, those.”
“Baba’s,” Zafira whispered.
Deen moved then. He wound his pinkie around hers, grounding her.
The Silver Witch smirked. “The one who would not have died if you hadn’t been bedridden. I watched him breathe his last. Quite brutal, your mother.”
Red pulsed in Zafira’s vision. How long had the woman spied upon her and her family? And why?
“Thank you for watching,” she bit out.
“Not even I can control the Arz.” The witch’s expression turned wistful. Adoring. “There is a certain beauty in chaos, magnificence in the uncontrollable.”
“You lie,” Deen seethed.
Zafira was frozen with the image of Baba’s lifeless body. Deen rubbed his hands up and down her arms, but Zafira wanted to fold into herself.
“Ah, he speaks,” the witch said with a smile, and Deen’s swallow was audible. “Alas, I cannot lie.”
The moment the witch set her sights on Deen, Zafira felt a chill down her spine. She shoved thoughts of Baba away and stood straighter. “If you can’t control the Arz, then how would I stand a chance in Sharr?”
The witch’s dark eyes flashed, and Zafira felt she had pushed too far. If the woman could freeze the very heart of a horse, Zafira did not doubt her own could be shattered in the blink of an eye. And Deen’s.
Deen, who was here because of her.
“I am not forcing your hand, Huntress. Come if you wish, or step aside and I’ll find another. Pity, I thought you would want to claim such a victory for a woman.”
Zafira hesitated.
The witch curled another smile. “Think of it. A life without the shadow of the Arz, with the Baransea at your borders and magic at your beck and call. I will even go so far as to provide passage across the sea. When your caliph comes to see you off, as he will, you’ll be in a prime position to strike a bargain or three. You have so much to gain.”
She might not be forcing Zafira’s hand, but she was certainly guiding it.
“Why the caliph? If this is for all of Arawiya, the sultan should be involved.”
“A caliph is as much a king of his caliphate as the sultan is of his kingdom. And the sultan, as we both know, has had dark notions as of late,” the witch replied.
Zafira recalled the men who had ambushed her and, before that, the crown prince who had murdered Sarasin’s caliph upon the sultan’s orders. Dark notions, indeed.
“As biased as your caliph is, he is a good man. I thought it best to inform him before sending the legendary Hunter of his caliphate on a dangerous mission to Sharr.”
“What have you to gain?” Deen asked.
The witch’s careful expression wavered. Sadness tipped her lips and creased the folds of her dark eyes.
An act. It has to be.
“Is it wrong to seek redemption as any mortal might?”
As any mortal might? Zafira shivered at what that meant the Silver Witch could be. She slid a glance at Deen, but he barely breathed.
“It depends on what you seek redemption from,” Zafira said carefully.
“I wronged someone I once loved.”
Zafira lifted her eyebrows, and the witch’s sorrow vanished as quickly as it had come.
“If you don’t believe in redemption, Huntress, then believe this: by the year’s end, the Arz will consume every piece of Arawiya. A small risk, embarking on this journey, laa?”
She was right. Sharr might be a sentence of death, but the people of Arawiya had already been sentenced to death. It was only a matter of time—so little time, too. Less than Zafira had anticipated.
It seemed so simple. Journey to the island, find the Jawarat, end the cursed Arz, and restore magic. But Sharr.
“How can a book restore magic?” Zafira asked.
“In the same way a book can reenact the history of civilization, instruct upon a delicious dish, or tell a tale of pleasure,” she said, as if Zafira had asked the most obtuse question known to man. “Do you question how a girl like yourself returns from the Arz?”
The witch was adept at answering questions with more questions.
“And you expect her to go alone?” Deen asked. “Why not have the caliph send men with her?”
“If I wanted a party, boy, I would make one,” the witch said. She turned, cloak fanning around her. “Death will be her companion. He’s kept her safe all this time. Why stop now?”
Zafira shivered at her choice of words. Deen’s pinkie tightened around hers, pinching until she tugged away. She heard the woman’s voice once more, a hushed whisper in her ear despite the distance between them.
Farewell, Huntress.
An icy fist tightened around Zafira’s throat. She struggled to breathe, and when she could, the witch was gone.
CHAPTER 11
Nasir woke to a manservant beside his bed. He scowled and dragged a hand across his face, stubble scraping his palm.
“What is it?” he rasped.
The man looked at his own feet, dark hair cresting his near-translucent skin, an angry scar on his cheek. Demenhune, as far as Nasir could tell. The servants of Sultan’s Keep hailed from nearly every caliphate except Alderamin, for safin bowed to no man. It was Ghameq’s luck that Alderamin and Sultan’s Keep were separated by the Arz and the Strait of Hakim, for Nasir doubted his father would sit on the throne otherwise.
“The sultan—”
“I’m coming,” Nasir snapped.
The man flinched and hurried out the door.
Nasir slid from the bed and stepped into the adjoining washroom. His stomach growled, thunderous, but as he finished dressing, he knew he wouldn’t have time for a meal, for the sultan didn’t tolerate tardiness.
What would it matter if I were late?
His mother was dead. Kulsum had lost her most prized possession. But there would always be something—the sultan could carve out Kulsum’s eyeballs, peel the fingernails off Haytham’s son. There was always something Sultan Ghameq could do to make one wish he had obeyed, to make one wish for death.
Nasir focused on the soft thuds of his footsteps until his breathing slowed. The massive doors to the throne room groaned as they swung inward, revealing the sultan on the Gilded Throne, receiving emirs. He was always awake, alway
s at work, always sharp-eyed.
Nasir waited, even as the emirs sneered at him while they walked past, proud they were given the sultan’s attention before the crown prince was.
When only the two of them remained, Ghameq eyed Nasir’s clothing. “Where are you going?”
“You summoned. I thought it was for another kill,” Nasir said, realizing his mistake too late.
“How many times have I told you not to think?”
Nasir clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Do you wish for me to change?”
“I don’t care what you wear, boy,” the sultan said.
I don’t care echoed in Nasir’s eardrums.
“Fetch something to eat and meet me in my rooms. Make quick.”
For the briefest of moments, Nasir couldn’t move. The sultan had just told him to eat.
His surprise must have been evident on his face, because the sultan scoffed. “Your hunger is pinching your face. I need you clearheaded so that you can remember what I tell you in that ineffective head of yours.”
Of course. How could he think, for even a moment, that his father actually cared?
* * *
This time, he shoved his silver circlet on his head, and when a guard let him into the sultan’s chambers, Nasir’s pulse quickened. The room looked exactly as it had the day before. Even that wretched poker stood as it had after their meeting with Haytham.
He pulled the curtain to the side and entered a smaller room, where Sultan Ghameq lounged on his majlis, legs crossed and a hand on the medallion at his neck. Nasir pulled his gaze away, and his eyes fell on another doorway, beyond which was a bed curtained in ivory, adorned with silver flowers. Nasir froze.
“What?” the sultan asked.
Nasir did not want to answer. “I haven’t been here since—”
“Since she died,” the sultan enunciated, voice hard.
Nasir released a breath and stared back at his father, waiting. Wishing. Searching. And there it was, the tiniest fissure in the gray stone of the sultan’s eyes, gone before Nasir could grasp it.
He knelt, and the moment shattered.
We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya) Page 9