We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(40)

“Who is that man?” Zafira asked, leaning toward Deen.

Something flickered in his gaze. “Haytham. The caliph’s advisor. He was one of Demenhur’s best falconers before his father, the late advisor, introduced him to the caliph.”

“Oh.” Zafira couldn’t imagine a life in which she did anything for fun and sport, let alone rely on a bird to win something for her.

An older man in a dusky blue turban descended from a traditional howdah—a small, tented seat atop the camel. His layered gray thobe darkened as it trailed the snow, making him seem even more ancient than he was. People dropped to their knees, drenching themselves in snow. Others lifted two fingers to their brows, heads low.

The caliph. The cause of her dress, of hatred toward the Sisters, and of oppression against the hundreds of women in Demenhur.

He was nonplussed by the missing Arz, and she wondered if the Silver Witch had discussed more with him than she had with Zafira. His hooded gaze drifted over the small crowd, pausing on her. The Hunter. She clutched Yasmine’s arm.

“Since the loss of magic, you are our one source of light,” he called. “At last. Come here, boy.”

He knows me, she thought, before her brain reminded her that this was the old nut responsible for the imbalance between men and women. Lana clasped her hand, but Yasmine jerked her head. Yalla, her glare shouted. Deen pursed his lips, sharing Zafira’s worry tenfold. Misk watched curiously.

Zafira rocked forward on her toes. The ice crackled beneath her boots. The air hung still. Dozens of eyes bored into her cloak, and her heart might as well have hopped into her hands; she felt its thrum in her fingers.

The awkward silence was broken by a group of soldiers dismounting camels. At the distinct lilt of another caliphate’s dialect, Zafira jerked her head to a dark-skinned man laughing with his fellows. A Pelusian, though he wore the Demenhune uniform. How had a man born to Pelusia, a half-month’s journey away, ended up in Demenhur?

Zafira had a deep respect for the Pelusians. Though their fertile lands were faltering, they nourished all of Arawiya. Without them, the kingdom would lack the mechanical advancements they had, too. Like the chandeliers the rich owned, or the Nimrud lens for magnifying texts and lighting fires.

Zafira stopped. The caliph, the caliph, the caliph.

“Sayyidi,” she murmured, clearing her throat when she realized she hadn’t lowered her voice. Her skin burned and she dropped to one knee, gritting her teeth when the cold seeped through.

The caliph laughed, a low rumbling filled with warmth. It reminded her of that precious vial of honey Deen had brought from Zaram. Try as she might, she couldn’t summon her rage.

“Please, rise,” Ayman al-Ziya, the Caliph of Demenhur, said.

Zafira stood carefully, hands at her sides, hood throbbing against her scalp. From the confines of it, she studied the caliph without shame. His face sagged with wrinkles, but his brown eyes shone like those of a child’s, thrilled at a game. A long beard wound from his chin, wisping at the ends.

“And show some respect.” The words were said in that clipped accent—the Pelusian from that group of soldiers. All of Arawiya spoke the same language, with slight variations to each tongue, but Zafira didn’t need help reading between the words.

Drop your hood was what he meant.

Silence fell with the sharpness of a blade. Eyes fell upon her, watching, waiting, burning. Countless. Blood roared in her ears.

When she didn’t move, the Pelusian grunted and shuffled.

Fingers brushed her hood.

Snow pulsed beneath her boots.

The cold caught in her chest.

“Enough,” the caliph thundered. Zafira flinched. “Haytham, rid me of these men. Respect is earned, Pelusian, and you certainly have none of it.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

Zafira exhaled, and the world spun back into motion. Her fingers twitched to throw down her hood. Be proud, Yasmine had said time and time again. But she couldn’t be. She wasn’t proud. She was afraid.

She was afraid of being a woman. Yasmine’s disappointment settled heavily on her back.

Sweet snow below. A soldier had just ordered her to drop her hood, and the caliph had snapped at him on her behalf. Zafira watched from the corners of her eyes as Haytham led the group of soldiers away, shouting the entire time. His final command was followed by a reply of which Zafira caught a hiss: “He looks like a daama nisa.” Indeed, she was a “bloody woman,” and it was the Pelusian’s loss for not knowing any better.

“When the time is right, Hunter, you will know it. Until then, a hooded boy is fine by me,” the caliph said softly. Kindly.

She drew in a breath. She hated the rare moments when she had to speak, and now, in the presence of so many, she found it even harder. Even more so because Deen, Yasmine, and Lana were here, too.

“Shukrun, sayyidi,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could. It rumbled from her throat, barely decipherable.

He stopped her before she could kneel again. Everyone knew the caliph had no royal blood in his veins—none of them did. Not even Sultan Ghameq, with whom the sultana had fallen in love and to whom she had handed the crown of Arawiya. The Sisters had never expected to die, and there was no one in line to succeed to their thrones when they had all but vanished.

Humans were nowhere near as powerful as the Sisters, and a council in Sultan’s Keep wasn’t enough. So in each caliphate, the people turned to the Sisters’ most trusted men. Here, it had been Ayman’s father. It was love for the old caliph that kept Ayman on the throne.