We Hunt the Flame(24)

But every time Zafira thought of not going, she felt she was denying herself something she wanted, though she didn’t know how or why she wanted it, except that she did. It felt, somehow, as though she had been waiting for this, and now that the opportunity was finally here, she couldn’t let it pass.

It was Sharr.

It was danger and death in the worst possible way, yet the very idea made her blood hum, and she couldn’t explain that in a way Lana would understand.

So “I do,” was all she said, surprising them both.

Lana looked everywhere but at Zafira. She knew that Lana wouldn’t press, that Lana trusted her, but she still felt a sinking sort of horrible when her sister nodded and said, “Okay.”

“I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to the sooq to … to think.”

Zafira stepped away slowly and then moved quickly. She laced her boots and sheathed Baba’s jambiya at her waist. Baba had taught her many things—how to pull back a bow without a whisper of a sound, how to see with her ears and navigate with her heart. After her first venture into the Arz, he had taught her how to protect herself, how the Arz was hers to tame. But never remain unarmed was what he stressed the most.

What would Baba say now, about her desire to keep pretending to be a man, which Yasmine called foolish? Which Baba himself had once urged her not to do? Would he want her to venture to Sharr if he knew magic was to be gained?

Zafira lifted the latch.

“Okht.” Lana ducked her head and held out a small parcel of food. “To help you think.”

Zafira dropped it in her bag. Then she touched a finger to Lana’s nose and brushed a kiss to her forehead with a smile, leaving her sister with the mother Zafira refused to see.





CHAPTER 8


When Nasir and Altair approached the towering doors of the palace together, the guards couldn’t mask their wide-eyed surprise quickly enough. Nasir still didn’t believe it, either. He had gone to a tavern with Altair of all people, for a glass of water and a pot of coffee.

“Sleep well, Prince,” Altair murmured as he retreated down another corridor. “Try not to dream of me.”

Nasir ignored him and dragged himself up the dark stairs. Sharr. Sharr. Sharr. It was as if the word had somehow made him drunk on the arak he refused to drink.

Yet when he stepped into his chambers, he froze, Sharr forgotten.

Someone blocked the air to his right, barely holding back hushed breathing. He flicked his wrist before he remembered that his gauntlet blades were stored uselessly in his bedside drawer, and he almost laughed at his luck. He unsheathed his jambiya with a tug of its onyx hilt and loosed a breath as he took one slow step to his right. Then another. Inhale. Two more steps. Exhale.

Inhale. He pivoted on his heel, tightened his grip on the blade, and shoved the intruder into a silver beam of moonlight. Exhale.

Raven hair, golden skin, depthless eyes. The soft curve of dark lips.

“Kulsum,” Nasir breathed. His jambiya clattered to the ground. His hands slid to her face, and he cupped her smooth skin between his palms. He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks and the tension across his shoulders uncoiled. She stared back with the same hunger Nasir had seen when Altair’s eyes followed the server girl.

Maybe it was the dark. Or the desire on her face, which he hadn’t seen closely in so many months. Or maybe it was the mess in his mind and the way Altair had asked about her.

He didn’t stop to consider why she was in his rooms while he had been away with Altair.

No—he kissed her.

His lips slanted down to her mouth, his hands went to her hair, and his body pressed against hers. She kissed him back just as greedily, her hands reaching for his cloak and pulling him closer. In that moment, they weren’t a prince and a servant; they were two people, equal and one.

Rimaal, he had missed her. This girl, his mother’s servant who had become so much more after the sultana’s death. His shard of a heart raced and heat rushed through him. But when her lips parted with his, her hands lost in his hair, he froze. He remembered.

He remembered everything.

He stepped back, and Kulsum stared with wide, unreadable eyes. He wished the moon would reveal more than what he saw.

“Leave,” he whispered hoarsely.

She didn’t move. Neither of them breathed. This was pain worse than a sword. This was forgetting and then remembering everything afresh, the curse of memories.

“Get. Out.” This time, his words were a blade.

Altair was right: some people didn’t deserve to forget.

Kulsum tipped her head. She reached up, slowly, as if he might back away, and when he didn’t, she trailed her fingers across his right cheek, as she had done so many times before. His eyes fluttered for the briefest moment, and then she left without a word, dress billowing. What could she say?

She no longer had a tongue, and it was because of him that she did not.





CHAPTER 9


Night had fallen heavily across Demenhur, bringing a phantom silence with it. Snow swirled in wheezing gasps, and Zafira drew her scarf over her face. She was hooded and shrouded, yet it was easy to discern the Hunter, for chances of finding a man in the western villages with a sling of arrows across his back were impossible—she couldn’t even count herself. She smirked at her own joke. Yasmine would have snorted. Skies, she isn’t dead.