We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(92)

Zafira scoffed. “Don’t tell me you believe the prince has the capacity for good.”

He held her gaze. “Everyone has a turning point. A breaking point, too.”

Those black scars flashed in Zafira’s mind.

“You know him well,” she said, softer this time.

“My knowledge comes from a mutual acquaintance.”

Altair. She doubted there was anyone else so close to the prince. Not by the way they acted around each other.

“In that vein,” Benyamin continued, “Alderamin is no better than the Sarasins in Sultan’s Keep. Neither sends delegations or attempts alliances. It isn’t merely the Arz that keeps us apart. Alderamin views the rest of Arawiya as a disease, so we’ve quarantined ourselves. Sarasin sees the world through the eyes of a vulture, as a feast of land to be had.”

“Ah, but vultures feast on the dead for a reason,” Zafira pointed out with a twist of her lips. “Sarasin has the greatest army in Arawiya. I wouldn’t call them vultures.”

He nodded. “And now all of Sarasin’s strength lies in the hands of the sultan. A teetering shift in the balance of power.”

Zafira studied him. “You know why this is happening. Why a supposedly good sultan is now going mad, controlling a caliphate he shouldn’t be able to touch.”

“Indeed. I also know the caliphate with the second-greatest army is next on his list. Or was. I’ve been gone far too long to know,” he said callously.

Demenhur. Zafira’s pulse quickened. Yasmine, Lana, Umm, Misk. Skies. Bakdash, even. She was struck again with that terrible feeling she’d had on the witch’s ship, when the Arz had erupted between her and Demenhur. A wall keeping her out. A wall keeping them in.

A bird’s cry broke the hushed churning of the waves.

Benyamin studied her, brown eyes softening. “It is futile to worry. A shadow stirs, sinking its claws into every hold of power, one of which is the sultan. The Jawarat is the only way to bring this madness to an end.”

Futile to worry? She almost laughed. Or sobbed. She felt like the very heart of her was being torn from her chest. She forced herself to breathe.

“What shadow? Is it the master of Sharr?” she asked, struggling against her closing throat.

“The master of Sharr,” Benyamin repeated in a murmur, as if speaking aloud in even a dream would wake the monster he feared. “He is the reason for the Silver Witch’s obscurity. The reason I came to the island. The reason you came as well.”

Zafira ran a shaky finger across the railing.

“We can strengthen our bodies and fortify our minds, but the heart is a monster of its own. The Silver Witch was free of ill intent, once. Pure of heart—”

Zafira snapped her eyes to his. No one can be that pure. The Silver Witch had been puzzled, then. As if the very idea of doing something for nothing was unseemly.

“What is it?” Benyamin asked, studying her.

She shook her head. “What happened to her?” she asked. “What happened to her pure heart?”

“The Lion of the Night happened,” he said. “I always thought it strange he showed his hand so boldly when he had vied for the throne, all but allowing the Sisters to cut him down so effortlessly. But he did nothing without a plan—he wanted to be sent to Sharr, where he could rally the creatures of the island to his side. He was a maestro of words, and he preyed on the Silver Witch. He told her the Sisters stationed her on Sharr because they feared her immense power. He spun lies of love and loneliness, feeding on the insecurities she had not even revealed to herself.

“He wiled her into loving him. Into believing he reciprocated her love. Together, they drew the Sisters to Sharr and trapped them. Drained them of their magic. And by the time she realized her mistake—”

“Mistake?” Zafira scoffed. Any sympathy she held for the witch vanished. “She’s just as monstrous as I thought.”

Along with her anger, she felt a sense of relief, for she had always known that the Sisters hadn’t stolen magic. Now she had confirmation—they had protected Arawiya with the final beats of their hearts, despite how the Caliph of Demenhur had twisted it.

Benyamin continued holding her gaze. “I was there when she returned from Sharr. She was not a monster.”

“Does living past a century dull your head?” Zafira was beyond keeping her voice level now. “She’s a witch. She’s one of the Sisters of Old. If she can’t fake a look of remorse, skies, then I don’t know how she managed to keep an entire metropolis in order. If she escaped from Sharr all those years ago, then what has she been doing all this time? Sleeping?”

“Some secrets are not mine to give.”

“And until I hear of these secrets or see the amends you think she seeks to make, I won’t believe her.”

“She sowed enough seeds to ensure I would know to follow you. To assist you. Sharr is a dangerous place for a mortal to venture alone.”

“Are you trying to give me reasons to doubt you, too?”

He shook his head. “I want you to trust me. Allow me to assist you.”

This was the trust Deen had spoken of. Had he known Zafira would face this choice?

She ran her gaze over the word curling around his eye. Truth. One of the two values he treasured most. He had given her enough of the truth to gain her trust, hadn’t he? And she did trust him, she realized. Enough to turn her back on him without fear of a blade through her heart, a tremendous feat on a place like Sharr.