We Hunt the Flame(18)
“Sorry, Yasmine. There are so many eyeballs turning my way,” she teased. And a silver letter on my mind.
Her pulse quickened. Against reason, she wanted to go on the quest. To claim this victory for herself. At the very least, she wanted answers. Could a book really bring back magic? Was the caliph involved? He wasn’t bad. If, somehow, he found out she was a woman, she would find her way around. He wouldn’t chop off her head.
At least, she didn’t think he would.
Yet who would feed her people if she went? She could ask the silver-cloaked woman for venison, or money. If that mysterious woman wanted Zafira on this quest, she would need to do more than drop a letter in her bag. Then Yasmine and Deen could—
“Zafira, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Zafira asked, feigning innocence.
“I can see you thinking about something you don’t need to think about.” Yasmine sighed when Zafira didn’t answer, and changed the subject. “You look nice today.”
Zafira chortled and a woman nearby stared, taken aback. Nosy dunce. “Today, hmm? Maybe because I’m seated beside the bride and stuffed in a dress that happens to be a little too tight.”
Yasmine snorted and the woman’s eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets at the girls’ rogue behavior.
“I knew we should have bought you a new gown,” Yasmine said. But Zafira’s dress, though older, was one of her favorites. The sweeping hem was black, the fabric lightening to deep blue as it neared the neckline, which was laced with black filigree. Bold strokes of gold capped and wound down the shoulders, each swirl ending in fine points. The design was why she had spent the extra dinars on it—it reminded her of her arrows. Sleek, fierce, and beautiful.
Zafira opened her mouth to argue, but Yasmine continued. “And with that hair of yours done up the way it is, I’m being overlooked.”
Zafira touched her hair with a careful hand. She liked the way the women had put it up in a crown, forcing her to leave her shawl at home. It made her feel pretty for once, regal even. To call Yasmine either word, however, would be a sore understatement. “Not even the moon will dare to rise tonight. How could she, in the face of such beauty?”
Yasmine dipped her head, oddly shy. She fiddled with the moonstone in her hands, the Demenhune gem she would gift Misk when the ceremony was complete. The heady scent of bakhour and the aroma of food carried on the slow breeze. Fresh snow began to fall, dusting the sooq around them, though the heated stone and flames surrounding the jumu’a kept the ground snow-free and warm.
Steam no longer rose from the platters and the venison shrank as people ate. Zafira’s heart sank. It was merely food, she knew. But proof, too, that nothing good ever lasted long.
After a long moment, Yasmine said, “What if … tonight…? I don’t know.”
Zafira thought about how lucky Misk was and shook her head. “You’ll be perfect. He loves you, Yasmine, and you love him, and you both know it. Nothing can go wrong.”
Yasmine traced a finger over the floral swirls and geometric patterns of henna offsetting her skin. Somewhere in the design, Misk’s name could be pieced together. “Love. What a silly thing.”
Zafira met Yasmine’s eyes, and another name rose unspoken between them. Deen. He had given her everything, and still would, but she couldn’t hand over her heart. Not after what had happened to Umm because of Baba.
“There he is!” someone shouted, and Zafira jolted, half expecting Deen to materialize before her. But the crowds were parting for Misk, dressed in a trim black thobe and deep blue turban, tassels swaying with his steps. His eyes were on Yasmine, and Zafira averted her own from the intensity in that heated look.
“You won’t lose me, you know,” Yasmine said softly. “I’ll still be yours.”
Yasmine wasn’t supposed to be looking at Zafira when Misk was giving her a look like that.
“I know. I’m just being selfish.”
Yasmine’s lips quirked up. “You’ve got a lot to compete with. He is devilishly handsome.”
Zafira’s insides warmed, glad for the change in conversation. Misk was handsome. More so because he was different. His mother hailed from Sarasin, so with his ink-black hair and darker skin, he stood out among the Demenhune. It was a good thing he hadn’t inherited the more notorious Sarasin qualities, too.
“Heart of my heart. Moon of my soul,” Misk said to Yasmine, and Zafira took her friend’s answering smile and locked it between her ribs. Despite their penchant for violence, Sarasins had a more soothing lilt to their tongue than the Demenhune did. Throatier and silvery at once.
Deen stepped to the other side of Misk, the shimmer of his thobe dazzling in the light. A rust-colored turban obscured almost all of his rogue curls, the fringed edge feathering his neck.
He caught her looking, and his lips curved into a hesitant smile, obscuring the haunted look in his eyes. Zafira offered a tentative smile back and wondered if he had told Yasmine about his dream, and if his dream and the letter were connected.
A pair of guards in the gray-and-blue livery of Demenhur gently parted the crowds. Heavy cloaks shrouded outfits made for the ease of running, warmth, and quick mounting. Their belts bore the seal of Demenhur—a sharp-edged snowflake in antique silver—and two sheaths. One for a jambiya, and another for a scimitar.