We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(69)

The ruins were scattered throughout the distance. Whole sections had been covered entirely by sand, dunes rising and falling in waves. She spotted the large oasis they had seen from the minaret yesterday, a patch of green and blue rippling beneath the sun.

“Spy anything of interest?” Benyamin asked.

She leaped down and dusted off her hands. Sand stuck to her palms.

She still could not believe she had met safin—and killed one, she recalled like a fist to her stomach. He smiled at her scrutiny. To call him handsome would have been a lie, for he was utterly beautiful, with sculpted features and flawless golden skin accented by an artistic beard. The kohl surrounding his umber eyes was pristine, and the two golden rings piercing the top of his right ear winked. Skies, the Alder probably spent entire mornings in front of a looking glass.

“There’s an oasis not too far from here,” she said, averting her eyes.

“We’ll head there next,” he said with a nod, and tilted his head at her. “I never thought the Demenhune Hunter was a Huntress.”

She slanted her mouth. “Must have been hard trying to get a spider close enough.”

“Oh, I had a spider on you, Huntress. I merely underestimated the loyalty of those around you.”

Her throat constricted—there was only one newcomer to her circle in Demenhur. Only one who could have learned of her identity, had the sister of her heart shared the knowledge. Had Deen shared the secret with his new friend.

Misk.

She wouldn’t let Benyamin see her come undone. “Did you truly cross the path of the Zaramese Fallen?”

“Indeed,” he said, regarding her. “I was lucky to have Kifah with me.”

Her eyes strayed to his tattoo, the bronzed ink shimmering in the early light. It was Safaitic, she realized. A simple word of two letters, the curvature of the ha framing his eye while the qaf rounded off smoothly, its two i’jam like birds in flight.

Haqq. Old tongue for “truth.”

With his umber eyes and utter grace, the safi reminded her of a large cat. He slunk away before she could ask any more, cloak molding to his slender frame.

He gestured for everyone to draw near, and Zafira’s eyes flared when Nasir stalked to them, confident in his stride, lithe in his step. Altair inclined his head toward him, whispering before sliding a furtive glance at her.

Well, then.

They were stronger than she was, the girl who hunted in the dark for rabbits and deer. Even the dead safin had been better fighters.

But she had a mission. She had her bow and her jambiya and a chance.

She would make it count.





CHAPTER 43


Nasir understood now why the sultan wanted Altair dead. He was Benyamin’s spider, but he’d spun his own web of secrets in Sultan’s Keep. Just how many secrets, Nasir did not know. He knew only that General al-Badawi had arrived here on Sharr with more than the knowledge of being Nasir’s next kill.

He had thought, more than once, that the Huntress would flee. Her eyes would dart to the stone outcropping, the upper half of her body angling toward the jagged tops, her body at war with itself. She would take one side of her lower lip into her mouth, deep in thought.

She would toy with the ring around her neck and slip it over her pale finger, once, twice, icy eyes pinched in torment.

“I see you ogling,” Altair had sung beneath his breath yesterday.

Nasir had ignored him. It was his job to notice such things.

He told himself he watched to ensure she wouldn’t escape. But even when instinct told him she wouldn’t, he still found himself looking for her, studying her. The Huntress.

The proud curve of her shoulders, daring him. The cut of her mouth, lips dark from her constant chewing on them.

As if hearing his thoughts, she glanced up, eyes drifting past Kifah’s gold-tipped spear, past Altair’s bare arms, and alighting on him. She lifted her chin, barely, and it took a moment for Nasir to place the slight tilt for what it was: a show of courage.

He knew, then, why he favored Altair’s company. Why his gaze sought her. Because neither of them looked at him through a veil of fear that deemed him a monster the way everyone else in Arawiya did.

“All right, zumra—”

A scream in the distance cut off Benyamin’s words. It wasn’t one of despair, or anguish. It was a roar of rage, promising vengeance. A reminder of the island—its vastness, its otherness. And that here on Sharr, Nasir was prey, not threat. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Very few of the desert creatures we know remain on Sharr.”

Altair made a sound. “Here I thought the growling prince was terrifying.”

Nasir ignored him, and Kifah asked, “Zumra?”

“It’s old tongue for gang,” Nasir said.

“I can handle schoolroom Safaitic, shukrun,” she bit out.

As he slid on his gloves, Nasir wondered, for the umpteenth time, why he ever bothered speaking.

“I’m not joining any gang,” the Huntress said. “I work alone, and I will continue to—”

“Trust, Huntress,” Benyamin said softly.

Something shattered in her gaze. Remembrance. A memory. Her fingers drifted to the ring, and Nasir looked away.

“We’ve all arrived on different counts,” the safi went on. “You, with a silver letter; the prince and the general, each with their orders; Kifah and I, with the notion of setting all accords right. You were told to hunt down the lost Jawarat, and here you are, like moths hunting a flame, blindly reaching for a mirage to break the decades-long curse over our lands.”