We Hunt the Flame

by Hafsah Faizal

“If magic exists on Sharr,” Altair started, and Zafira had the distinct feeling he was hurrying to mask something, “then we should be able to wield it.”

  “Through dum sihr at least,” Kifah said.

  “No!” Benyamin looked as if someone had slit his palm and forced him to use it. “Blood magic is forbidden. Strictly forbidden. There’s no reprieve for the one who commands it. The price is always great.”

  “Is that why it’s only done in Safai—”

  “Superstition. Blood magic is forbidden because it’s uncontrollable. The price is a sampling of blood, nothing more,” Nasir said boredly.

  “We are not going to discuss blood magic any further,” Benyamin said harshly before turning to Zafira.

  By the look in his eyes, she suspected there was something more to Benyamin’s fear of dum sihr. Something personal.

  “Altair was referring to the affinities we were born with,” the safi continued tranquilly, though Zafira heard the slight undercurrent of unrest. “Particularly the specialty you were born with, dearest Demenhune.”

  Zafira narrowed her eyes. Nasir stiffened.

  “I have magic,” she said. Her words were hesitant. Unbelieving.

  “You have an affinity,” Benyamin corrected with a tilt of his head. “Much like everyone else. Without fuel from the magic that once lit the royal minarets, our affinities fell dormant. Constantly hungering.

  “That’s what makes the Arz so alluring—it’s an extension of Sharr. The very same island that contains the magic Arawiya once did. When we near the Arz, our affinities claw their way out, spurring us into the cursed forest. Many succumbed to its whispers, stepping within for the chance to unleash the affinities we’ve pent up for so long. They may have wielded power. They may have called fire and summoned water, but the Arz is such that they could never return. On the contrary, you, Huntress: Your affinity itself is what allowed you to return time and time again.”

  You will always find your way. The Silver Witch’s words during their first meeting. She had come to see if Zafira really did return from the Arz in one piece.

  A breeze fanned the leaves of the palm tree, cooling her skin, and a bird took to the skies with a sweep of its wings.

  Benyamin looked at the others. “Here on Sharr, free from the entrapment of the Arz, we can all wield our powers. The Huntress’s only disparity is that she has been in control of her affinity for years.”

  Thanks to the Arz. Skies. That cursed forest was a land humming with magic. A place she had ventured within for years.

  “What’s my affinity?” she asked. It was becoming harder to breathe.

  Benyamin considered her, brown eyes intent. “You could ask our prince here. He and Altair had the right idea.”

  Neither Sarasin was even the slightest bit surprised. She looked wildly between them and scrambled to her feet, nearly stumbling in the sand. She dropped her eyes to Benyamin, who sat calmly on his gold-fringed rug.

  “Tell me,” she breathed. “What am I?”

  “A da’ira.”

  “A what?” she said softly, feeling the edges of her sanity coming undone.

  “You are the compass in the storm, the guide in the dark. You will always find your way, Zafira bint Iskandar.”

  His words became a drum in her head.

  No—she was a gazelle in the desert, vulnerable before a horde of lions. She shrank away, eyes darting to the prince and his general. Then to Kifah and Benyamin.

  And she did what a gazelle does best. She ran.

  CHAPTER 45

  Zafira ran across the verdure of the oasis, ignoring their calls, ignoring the way Arawiya’s crown prince regarded her with unflinching eyes, scorching her blood.

  “Let her go,” he said softly, and she paused. “She needs time.”

  Zafira didn’t wait to hear what Altair said to that. She tucked herself between a host of date palms, pressing her back against a prickly trunk as she caught her breath. The trees welcomed her, whispering as they cocooned. Stay a while. Rest.

  The shadows mimicked her distress. The date palms wilted when she sank to her knees.

  She blinked, and they righted again.

  A da’ira. She turned the old Safaitic word over her tongue. A compass.

  That was why she’d never thought twice about how to find the Jawarat on this forsaken island. Because her affinity had always been leading her somewhere. It had been leading her for years.

  Her sense of direction wasn’t a feeling or a wild notion. She hunted in the Arz, void of sight, because of it. She stepped free of the Arz because of it.

  Baba.

  Skies, every time Baba had gone into the Arz, he had been with her. Guiding her aim, sighting their kills, following her lead. Until his very last one. The venture that had driven him mad, twisted his ideals.

  If only she had known.

  “Oh, sweet snow below,” she breathed, recalling that frenzied hum in her bloodstream as it steered her on the right path.

  Of everything she could have wielded from the tips of her fingers—fire, darkness, illusions—she had been gifted with direction. She hadn’t even known that direction was an affinity.

  A hysterical laugh echoed from the trees and Zafira had her bow drawn before she realized the laugh had clawed its way out of her own broken self. A sob slipped past her lips. This weakness wasn’t her. It disoriented as it tugged at the pieces of her heart.

  Everything suddenly made sense. Why the Sarasins had tried to kidnap her in Demenhur. Why Altair and the prince had “allied” with her: so they could use her to find the Jawarat. She shivered as she remembered Nasir’s gray eyes tracking her every moment. She understood now why he watched her, why he had saved her from the ifrit.

  He had been protecting an asset.

  He had known all along, which meant the sultan knew, too. Or, at least, the sultan had an assumption and the power to act upon it.

  They were all loyal to the same kingdom, yet the Silver Witch and the sultan seemed to be at odds with each other. There were two sides, here. A hostility Zafira didn’t understand. She couldn’t even understand why the prince and general had tried to kill her.

  Perhaps neither side favored her.

  She didn’t top the Silver Witch’s list of hunters—she was the list. The only known hunter who could find the Jawarat, and if she had never set foot in the Arz, if she had never made her accomplishments known, the Silver Witch would never have known. The sultan would be unaware. The Jawarat would remain lost until some other da’ira exposed their affinity. If more existed.

  Skies. Affinities, powers. Magic that had ceased to exist.

  She needed to lie down. What was she, an old man? She didn’t need to lie down.

  Glorious slants of gold shone on the green foliage ahead of her, where a path unfurled in the stillness. Colorful flowers spread petals, coaxing her near with soft chimes. Be free, Huntress.

  She didn’t need the others, the shadows reminded her. She could make her own way from oasis to oasis, ruin to ruin, and find that wretched book. She could single-handedly restore magic to Arawiya without worrying about who had allied with whom and which of the others were plotting her death.

  But.

  She remembered the gentle stroke of that cloth on her skin. The sorrow in the prince’s eyes. Altair’s laugh. Benyamin’s persistence. The shadow haunting Kifah’s dark eyes.

  She needed answers. Answers that Benyamin had.

  She turned back, hoping this wasn’t a decision she would come to regret.

  CHAPTER 46

  Nasir stared into the trees, waiting—hoping—for her to return. A rare thing, for him. Hope.

  As much as it was Benyamin’s fault, Nasir had … learned something from their little chat. The safi had given him answers to questions he could never bring himself to ask.

  “All this tension is making me old,” Altair said, flexing his arms, blades in hand. It was alarming how jovial and deadly he could be at once.

  “Age ty
pically leads to wisdom,” Kifah pointed out, the look on her face suggesting Altair was anything but wise.

  “Says the girl who tagged along with a chattering safi. Why’d you come, anyway?” Altair asked, turning to her. She didn’t flinch from his extended blades.

  Kifah studied him a moment and then shrugged. “Magic. Revenge. The usual.”

  Altair laughed, and Nasir tried to stop his own lips from quirking up. Rimaal. He’d never had to stifle so many smiles before. Benyamin paced along the oasis, brow furrowed.

  At last, the Huntress emerged, looking upon everything with an eerie stillness. Unease stirred in Nasir’s stomach. Her shoulders curled forward before she came aware of it and straightened, lifting her chin.

  Benyamin leaped to attention, relief casting his eyes in burnished gold. “I wanted to offer an apology,” he said to her slowly. “Safin tend to overlook human sentiment. I should have ruminated before depositing such a hefty revelation upon you.”

  It was easy to forget that Benyamin wasn’t human. Like the Silver Witch. Like half of Nasir’s self.

  “I’m no hashashin, but in my humble observations, it seems you can’t take your eyes off her,” Altair drawled in Nasir’s ear.

  “Jealous?” Nasir asked. The torn end of his turban flickered in the gentle breeze, the cloth soft against his neck.

  “I would be, if I didn’t know you stare at me just as much.”

  Nasir’s brows flattened. “I need her.”

  “Which is what every man says when it comes to—”

  “Close your mouth or put it to use elsewhere,” Nasir growled. He marveled at why he even bothered talking to the oaf.

  Altair mimed sealing his lips shut, but his silence lasted no longer than a dying insect. “Oi, whatever you were thinking, I wasn’t.”

  “Shut up,” the Huntress snapped when she drew near.

  Altair flinched, to Nasir’s satisfaction.

  “I came back only because I know you’ll follow me otherwise, and I’m tired of the two of you breathing down my neck.”

  “Do you even know what it feels like to have a man breathing down your neck?” Nasir asked. What did you just say, idiot? He was spending too much time with Altair.

  Even the general looked surprised. Kifah snorted, and Benyamin prayed to the skies for patience.

  The Huntress paused, and Nasir saw the exact moment when she recalled a memory. How hard was life when your very thoughts played out on your face? Her fingers drifted to the ring, telling him the rest.

  Realizing her mistake, she met his eyes defiantly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “With your stupid mockery of pity.”

  He laughed, a dry sound. “Did you think yourself in love with him?”

  She didn’t answer, and her silence made him push harder, for the others watched. For he was his father’s son.

  He stepped closer. “Let me tell you a secret, Huntress: The dead man loved you, but you did not.”

  “Bleeding Guljul, leave her be,” Kifah said, hand against her bald head.

  “Death is the one thing certain in human life. Why does it still come as a surprise when it happens?” he asked.

  “You know nothing of love or loss,” the Huntress hissed, and Nasir flinched from her gaze, so cold it burned. “You’re likely among the privileged who tumble a different woman every night, only to kill her by sunrise.”

  Nasir donned a wolfish smile. “Fancy yourself Shahrazad, then?”

  The strangest look crossed her face before she spun to Altair. “Give me that.”

  “Me? What?” Altair bumbled, eyes wide. She stalked to him and reached for one of his scimitars. He was taller, but she was tall enough. She stood on her toes and pulled his blade free with a slow hiss, nicking his shoulder.

  Kifah lifted an eyebrow at Altair’s bewilderment. “This will be interesting.”

  The Huntress leveled her stance. Something in her gaze gave Nasir pause. Something more convoluted than anger, for anger he knew how to defeat.

  Something feral.

  He dropped his hand to his sword, body humming, blood racing, grateful for the challenge. Benyamin rushed between them, stirring sand, but Nasir had settled into a fighting calm, and he wasn’t about to stop.

  “Step aside, Alder. She’s a woman, not a decrepit old man. She doesn’t need your protection.”

  Benyamin canted his head. “What makes you think she needs protecting?”

  CHAPTER 47

  Zafira hadn’t the faintest clue how to use a scimitar. But how hard could it be? It was just double the length of her jambiya.

  All right. Maybe triple.

  It winked like spun gold with the reflection of the sand. She had sparred with Deen often enough to know she was good with a blade. She just hoped the wretched prince wouldn’t call her bluff, despite the better half of her brain saying he would. But if her heart led to her hunt in the Arz, couldn’t she charm a blade into his heart?

  She blinked at her dark thoughts. Emotion was a terrible thing to act upon. But he had insulted Deen. Worse, he had been right: She had never loved Deen the way Deen had wanted her to.

  When Benyamin stepped away, concern wrought on his brow, Zafira knew her notions were his, too. She tossed her satchels to the sand and held the scimitar a little higher.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea?” Altair asked no one in particular.

  “I don’t know what’s a good idea anymore,” Kifah said dryly. “I’m on Sharr.”

  Nasir drew his sword with a flourish, the hilt dancing across his knuckles as it pivoted in the air. A look that claimed Zafira was purely ridiculous flashed across his face. For a prince who preferred secrecy and shadows when she first met him, he seemed to be enjoying the attention now.

  Fear spiked through her, churning with a thrill she welcomed. She knew the stories. She knew exactly how deft the Prince of Death was with a blade.

  He stepped closer.

  And everything

  moved

  quickly.

  She threw up her blade and he did the same, black hilt melding into his gloves. The air was a blur of flashing steel until metal clanged against metal, jarring her teeth, her brain, her idiocy, and—skies, what a fool she was.

  But he wouldn’t kill her. He needed her. They all did. She didn’t need them.

  The one person she needed was dead because of him.

  She put all her weight behind the clashed swords and pushed. Nasir was stronger, taller, broader, but he slid back a hairbreadth. He was the greatest assassin unused to his kills fighting back.

  She pushed again with renewed fervor.

  “How endearing.” He pulled free with a whispered laugh.

  She stumbled, pushing a hand against the rough stone to regain her footing. She growled and lifted her arm before he clashed against her scimitar again, the force rattling her teeth. He isn’t holding back.

  Didn’t he need her?

  Zafira feinted left, but he didn’t react. Then she feinted right, and he raised an amused eyebrow, anticipating her move before she even perceived it. Altair chuckled. Her neck burned.

  They clashed blades again, and he leaned close.

  “You know who I am. Give up, Huntress,” he murmured, his dark voice rumbling straight through her.

  She saw her opportunity the moment he prepared for another strike. For she was the Demenhune Hunter. Quick. Precise. Untrained. She could rival a trained, methodical assassin.

  She darted forward and ducked beneath his arms. His breath swooshed past her skin and she hooked her boot around his leg and pulled. He pitched backward, nostrils flaring. He saw her triumph and growled, locking her legs between his in one last fight before he fell on his back with a muffled thud.

  And she atop him, the breath yanked from her lungs.

  She threw one of her hands on his shoulder to stop her fall, but their legs were a tangle of limbs, sand sinking beneath t
hem. Her torso brushed his, the traitorous ring settling on his heart, rising and falling with his heavy breathing. Their faces were mere breaths apart. Without the shelter of her cloak, every brush of him against her felt as if she were wholly bare. Heartbeats galloped in Zafira’s chest.

  “Any closer and I’d have to close my eyes,” Altair remarked in a loud whisper.

  And the prince had the nerve to grin.

  A lie, said her stuttering mind, for that gaping unhappiness was reflected in his eyes, the color of dead flames and lifeless stone.

  “Go on, end my misery,” he said, voice soft. The cool words caressed her skin. Murderous hashashin weren’t supposed to be gentle.

  Only then did she realize she had the scimitar pressed against his throat, the same way she held her jambiya to the throats of her kills when she hunted.

  Zafira pressed the blade farther into the skin of his neck, watching the smooth column of his throat bob. Goose bumps skittered along his golden skin, and she had the insane urge to smooth her finger down them. To touch her mouth to them.

  She swallowed her gasp and gritted her teeth. Deen’s throat would never bob again. Because of him. Because of this murderer beneath her.

  The trees of the oasis waited with bated breath. But Zafira’s entire focus honed on the gleaming metal against his throat.

  Don’t be an equal to the ones who hurt. Deen’s words, when Zafira had taken it upon herself to challenge the yellow-toothed boy who had broken Deen’s nose during a game of kura years and years ago.

  Zafira stared into those gray eyes, and the ashes inside them scattered beneath her stare. She lifted the blade.

  Not a flicker of surprise shone on his scarred face. Zafira swallowed her scream with a growl.

  “Three things. Wahid, don’t touch me. Ithnayn, don’t look at me. Thalatha, don’t even think about me.” Zafira stood, relishing his hiss of pain as she dug her knees into his legs just for good measure.

  He rose and mock-saluted her with two fingers across his brow. “As you wish.”

  She ran her gaze across the others before pinning him with a look of ice. “If wishes came true, you’d be dead.”