Traitor to the Throne (Rebel of the Sands, #2)(24)

‘Because fortune is a funny thing.’ I waited, but it seemed that was all the explanation I was going to get for how she’d wound up in Saramotai. ‘Though I must admit I didn’t think it was going to lead me to being imprisoned by a revolutionary who wanted to overturn the world order.’

‘Malik wasn’t ours,’ I argued, wincing against the pressure of her fingers on my collarbone.

‘Do you hand pick all your followers?’ She pressed a little harder on my wound than she needed to. ‘He did things in your prince’s name; that’s enough for me. He nearly killed me doing it, too. You know, some of this desert didn’t ask for a rebellion that might get us killed.’ She pulled away from me, wiping her fingers on a cloth. ‘But I suppose, as the Holy Father in Dustwalk would have said, Fortune and Fate.’

Three words and I was standing back in the prayer house in Dustwalk all over again, being preached to. That was an old expression the Holy Father used when times were hard. Fortune and Fate. It meant that fortune and fate weren’t always the same.

I understood that better than anyone.

‘Here.’ My aunt Safiyah dusted her hands off quickly, pulling out another of the bottles from the Holy Father’s chest. ‘Take this for the pain. It’ll help you sleep.’

It was her accent, mingled with those words, talk of sleep and medicines, that drew the memory out of the corner of my mind.

Tamid.

It hit me like a blow to the chest.

I’d pushed down all thoughts of him for months now. But it was as if she’d summoned him here, with her Dustwalk accent, the tiny bottle of medicine in the dim light, the sick longing for people I used to know. He was the only friend I had before this place and the Rebellion. Who used to stitch me up and sneak me things until the pain went away.

Who I left to die in the sand.

Was this how truth-telling myself to my aunt would twist around on me? Reminding me of who I was before Ahmed’s rebellion? Of the people who’d suffered and died because of things I did?

All of a sudden, taking something that would send me to sleep and away from that memory seemed awful tempting.

But before I could take the bottle, the entrance to the tent flapped open violently. My head snapped around. My first thought was that Jin had followed me here. But through the lingering haze of drink I saw two figures silhouetted in the light of the lamp, against the backdrop of the dark outside. Jin would have come after me alone. And they were tangled together like two drunk wedding revellers looking for some privacy, stumbling into the wrong tent.

Then they shifted, and the light caught the knife.

I was on my feet in a heartbeat even as I heard a voice I knew well choke out my name.

It was Delila.





Chapter 9

The figures staggered backwards out from the tent. But it was too late to run. I was already on my feet.

‘Stay here,’ I ordered Safiyah, swiping up a knife as I went.

‘Stop!’ The order came at me as I burst out of the sick tent after them. Before I could see clearly. Before I even recognised the second figure holding Delila hostage. Dark hair flopping over his proud brow, his eyes panicked in a way I’d never seen before. Surprise staggered the strength in my voice. ‘Mahdi?’

He was holding Delila around her waist. A knife was pressed across her throat so hard he’d already drawn blood. I could see it running in a fresh trickle down her skin and under her khalat, staining it.

‘Don’t come any further!’ He was shaking hard.

‘Mahdi.’ I kept my voice level, even though my mind was making a mad dash for an explanation. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m saving her.’ Mahdi’s voice rose frantically. I checked how far we were from the wedding. Too far for anyone to hear him, no matter how loud he got. ‘I’m saving Sayyida. Raise your hands where I can see them!’

I kept eye contact with Delila as I did what he said, desperately trying to tell her it was going to be all right. I was not going to let her die here.

‘What’s in your hand?’ he called out, urgently.

The knife.

‘I’m letting it go,’ I said, keeping my voice level. I unclenched my fist and let it drop. It planted blade-down in the sand. ‘I’m unarmed now.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Mahdi pulled at Delila, and she whimpered. He was frantic, manic – and that knife was awfully close to her throat. ‘You’ve got an entire desert around you.’

He wasn’t wrong. I could have him down in a handful of seconds if I wanted. But I couldn’t make sure that knife didn’t go through Delila as he fell.

‘Mahdi.’ I spoke carefully, the same voice I’d use to soothe a skittish horse. ‘How exactly do you think sticking a knife to Delila’s throat is going to help Sayyida?’

‘She’s a Demdji!’ He spat out the words like it was obvious. ‘Some people think that it’s having part of a Demdji that cures ills. But they’re wrong. That’s just peasant superstition. A few pieces of purple hair aren’t going to bring my Sayyida back.’ He was unbalanced. He was desperate. He had a knife to Delila’s throat. I’d never wished more that I could move the desert without needing to move my body. I tried anyway, tugging at the edge of the sand with just my mind. It crept along reluctantly before sagging back down. I needed help. ‘I’ve read books. Whosoever takes the life of a Demdji shall have their life in equal measure.’ He recited like it was holy text even though I knew it wasn’t anything I’d ever heard preached.