We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(62)

“The silver woman cannot lie, Huntress. She would have worded that a little differently.”

“Why? Why did she send you?” She needed to make sense of what was happening.

“She didn’t.” Altair shrugged as the prince came into view. Skies. The prince. Prince Nasir Ghameq, whose name shared the same meaning as hers. Whose hands were stained red.

Whose touch on her forehead had been gentle.

He met her eyes with the ashes of his own. The end of his turban was torn, but she couldn’t summon satisfaction at the sight.

Altair nudged her forward, and she stomped down the steps again.

She would not bow. She wouldn’t treat them any differently than if they were her servants. She turned back to him. To the daama prince. “If the Silver Witch didn’t send you, who did?”

“The sultan,” he said matter-of-factly. “He learned of your quest, and because no one trusts witches, he sent me.”

Zafira had trusted the witch. Not entirely, but enough to board her daama ship. Before she could ask For what? Altair interrupted, “And me. So the next time you think of killing him, just know you’re supposed to get rid of the less important one first.”

“How did you cross the Arz?”

The prince tipped his head. “Ghameq counted on her knowing. She helped us cross the Arz and gifted us with a ship, much like she did for you, I assume.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she said. Why would the Silver Witch favor the crown prince if she wanted to keep the journey from the sultan? Zafira doubted quite a bit when it came to the Silver Witch, but there was no reason to stay clear of the sultan and then aid his son in the same breath.

No, whatever her reason, it had to do with the prince and Altair themselves.

“No one asked you to make sense of it,” he said in that same monotone, and Altair pushed her down the stairs again.

“Where are we going?”

“To the next oasis,” the prince said with a sardonic twist to his mouth.

“And then?” she asked.

“And then we’ll find the Jawarat.”

“And then?” Will you kill me?

Mirth touched his voice. “Fate only knows.”

“Are you always this insufferable?” she fumed, straightening her scarf.

“He’s twice as bad when hungry,” Altair offered.

Zafira bit back a snarl. They were both insufferable children. With death counts.





CHAPTER 36


Murder burned in the Huntress’s gaze, but she turned and continued with graceful prowess, allowing Nasir to breathe. It was proving difficult to think when she looked at him.

Laa, more of him decided to think.

She was right to be confused. The sultan had sent him and Altair because he didn’t trust the Silver Witch, but then the witch herself had turned and aided them. Not only with the Arz and the ship, but with the compass in his pocket. Those parting words.

He was missing something. Something important.

When they left the confines of the minaret, the Huntress rounded the tower and slipped past the ruined quarters surrounding it. Her movements were always precise, calculated without calculations. Her entire form knew where to move before she did, and she waded the sands as if she had lived her entire life within them.

“If you stare too hard, she might disappear,” Altair mock-whispered in his ear.

“If you talk too much, you might disappear, too,” Nasir retorted, pleased with how quickly he thought of that one, and he left Altair behind to catch up to her.

She pursed her lips when he neared, and he didn’t know why he opened his mouth.

“Being an eminent killer doesn’t make me the only one.”

“You’re the worst there is,” she said with a wheeze.

Nasir felt the sting of something he didn’t welcome.

“You killed Deen.”

He didn’t deny it. Intentions are akin to action.

“You led those Sarasins to their deaths,” he countered. Surprise widened her eyes. “Not even one week past.”

“That was an act of defense, not deliberation.” Ah, there it is. The fissure he expected, the break in her voice before she collected herself. “I don’t go murdering people on a whim.”

“Neither do I. Hashashins don’t uphold the brutality of murder. We are poets of the kill, working from the shadows. A mark rarely knows his fate until he falls.” There had once been respect in the hashashin’s creed. A level of esteem.

Unlike the Zaramese, who reveled in torture and torment. In their caliphate, they hosted tournaments where contestants were pitted in an arena, the crowds full of cheering people, even young children.

Still, he supposed he deserved the disgust she directed at him and the detest in her voice when she said, “No. Death is death, Sultani.”

Never had he loathed princedom more.

“Do you hear that?” Altair called before the wind rose to a sudden howl.

Sand whipped across Nasir’s vision, and he rewrapped his turban cowl-like around his neck and head. He would have thought it odd that a storm had appeared without warning, but this was Sharr. And then, through the rain of umber, he saw them.

Five silhouettes prowled with the calculation of men. Nasir squinted. No, worse than men—gold rings glinted from their elongated ears. Safin.