We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(97)

“Yes, Sultani.”

—which failed to arrive.

Zafira shook her head, his acceptance bombarding her calmness. Laa, laa, laa. She pulled free from Altair’s grasp and took a step back without thinking.

Something snapped beneath her boots. The Nasir she knew came back to life, tossing something into the fire, ending it without a spark before he turned to the shadows.

To where she and Altair stood.

She drew a sharp breath.

Altair grabbed her hand and they were off. She didn’t look back because she knew she wouldn’t be able to see or hear the prince. Hashashins defied senses.

At the camp, Altair threw her a glare that said it was all her fault before he hastily settled into his bedroll and she into her makeshift bed, Kifah nowhere to be seen. Not two breaths later, Nasir crashed into the camp.

His face was flushed, hair standing on end. His mask was gone—in its place, despair and red-rimmed eyes. He scrambled among the bedrolls, and Zafira closed her eyes, slowed her breathing.

Or tried to. Failing, she held it instead, her wild heartbeat a drum in the night.

The prince didn’t even pause on her.



* * *



Nasir didn’t bother with sleep. He climbed to the remnants of the minaret and sat upon the crumbling stone. Dunes disappeared into the dark horizon. He was angry with himself and the things he allowed himself to feel.

Kill. Kill. Kill. How had his father known of Benyamin and Kifah? The sultan had been uncertain during his briefing in Sultan’s Keep.

A shadow fell over him as Benyamin sauntered into view, settling beside him with his legs crossed. One push and the immortal safi would careen to his death.

Death. Did he think of nothing else? He almost laughed.

“Your father was meritorious, once,” Benyamin said, but Nasir could only think of Benyamin’s harsh words after the kaftar ambush, stripping him bare.

“He’s my father. I know what he was and what he is,” Nasir said wearily. Now get out, he wanted to add, but he was tired of fighting. He was tired of everything.

“His love still lives,” Benyamin insisted.

Any more and Nasir would give the safi the fatal push he was begging for. He kept his eyes on the deep sky and said, “And let me guess: you know what ails him.”

“The very thing that sank its claws in Sharr. With each day that comes to pass, Ghameq loses more of himself to what festers within him. Before long, the Sultan of Arawiya will be a puppet to an ancient evil.”

He was nearly there. There was no other reason for him to seize Sarasin. For him to gas Demenhur. Nasir just couldn’t understand what this evil wanted.

“I’m not wrong, am I? You’ve seen it. Glimpses of the man he once was,” Benyamin said.

Nasir saw it that day beside the gossamer curtains of his father’s bed. His curiosity opened his mouth. “What is it? What grows in him?”

“The moon wanes, but the night waxes, steeped in a desperate black from which most of us will never emerge. I would tell you of what stirs in the shadows, but we need your strength.”

Nasir met the safi’s eyes, but Benyamin wasn’t finished.

“For if he were to learn of it, not even the Prince of Death could summon the courage to go on.”





CHAPTER 63


Zafira woke early. Or merely decided to rise early. She had barely slept, tossing and turning, plagued by the image of a haunted Nasir and the Sultan of Arawiya.

How long would it be before the prince succumbed to his father’s demands and ran her through with his glinting scimitar? Zafira had thought he was changing, that he was becoming an … ally. Or something more. But it was clear she was a means to an end.

She tugged on her chain, loosening its cutting hold on her neck, and sat up.

The crown prince stood before her. Scimitar in hand.

She looked to his blade and then slowly latched her gaze on his with a lift of her chin.

He breathed a soft laugh. “I knew it was you.”

She didn’t like when this Nasir arrived. The one who let his mask slip, who could venture to laugh, to look at her with something other than that stoic coolness. It made her uneasy. Uncertain.

It lit her aflame.

“Get it over with,” she challenged before she could stop herself. But every part of her hoped there was another reason for him to be standing there.

He blinked. Looked to his scimitar. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t going to kill you,” he said, then grimaced, scar undulating, as if he had swallowed something bitter when he said the word “kill.”

“I was completing another drill.” He twirled his scimitar, considering it before he frowned. “It helps me think.”

Mimicking the act of killing helped him think. Zafira almost laughed.

The sleeves of his coat had been tugged up his forearms, lean muscles flexing with his movements. She glimpsed his tattoo, and when he saw that she did, he sheathed the scimitar and tugged his sleeves back down.

“It’s only a matter of when you’ll do as you promised,” she said, her voice tremoring in anger. She wanted to add like the coward that you are, but he’d had enough insults from his father to last a lifetime.

She pitied him. The silence he kept. The power at his fingertips, useless because of his tether to the sultan. She did not think he had ever gone against his father.