We Hunt the Flame(51)

People had done this. They had defied the sands and defied the suns. All to bring towering edifices of magnificence to life.

The warden hadn’t kept them locked in cells—she had given the banished creatures a place to live, to work, to be.

“I’ve never seen anything so illustriously tormented,” Deen murmured in awe. A breeze tousled the end of his turban and billowed her cloak. She still felt the echo of his lips against her neck every time she looked at him. “They lived here, Zafira.”

She felt the rushing need to quiet him, for she discerned the prickling sense of being watched. The desert was too still; the stone held its breath. Every shadowy slant twisted and beckoned. “I don’t think we should stay in one place for long.”

“There’s no one around for leagues.”

“Where do you think the monsters went?”

They may have roamed free on the island, but that didn’t mean they were any less evil. And if the whispered tales of her childhood were true, Sharr had been full of them. Ifrit, who could take the shape of anyone. Shadows that killed. Sirens known as naddaha. The bashmu, which put other snakes to shame. And other things she couldn’t remember the names of.

The very land was to be feared. It breathed dark magic, for when the Sisters of Old came to defeat the Lion of the Night, they brought magic with them, and Sharr had swallowed them all. Zafira unhooked her bow and nocked an arrow.

“Akhh, I don’t even know where to go,” Deen said.

She gave him a funny look. “The plan is to head to the center,” she said, and steered him toward a path that careened downward and veered in two different directions. That thrumming in her veins smiled at her choice. It was happy she listened to it.

“The center? I don’t even know where we came in from—the south? The north? And who says the Jawarat is in this center we’re supposedly heading toward?”

“It’s like the Arz; the more you think about it, the madder you’ll become. But I have a feeling it will be in the center.” She stepped into the shadows, sweat beading above her lip. The world became warmer. Hotter. The shadows warned of danger.

“Zafira,” Deen said.

She had to stop and turn because, male that he was, he wouldn’t continue until she did. She saw him slide a compass behind his back.

“This is Sharr. We don’t have a map. We don’t know of a way out. Are we really going to head deeper inside this place based on a notion of yours? A feeling?”

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. His features flattened and she hurried to add, “You can check your compass as we go. Unless you have a better idea.”

His face gave way to a rare expression of exasperation. It made her smile.

“No, no, I don’t,” he said.



* * *



They had awakened Sharr from its slumber. She knew this from the groan of the stone as they whispered past. From the debris skittering to the shadows and the wall’s inhale as they brushed against it, sand coating their parting fingers.

She could only hope it awoke on a more favorable side.

They emerged from the alcove to a barren wilderness. The ruins appeared even more haunted up close, and dust swirled, uncaring of the magnificence it defiled.

But the heat.

It besieged her, laved dryness against her skin in a way she never thought possible. How could someone feel such dryness? It was a weight. A sweltering thing, rippling in the distance.

“Only in the desert can you see the heat,” Deen said, following her gaze.

“If these weren’t ruins, I don’t think I would mind,” Zafira said, running a hand along the dusty stone. She pulled at her collar. Desolation roamed everywhere.

“No one will judge you.” He gestured to her cloak.

She looked away. “Give me time.”

He nodded and they pressed onward, climbing over run-down steps and wood that had long since petrified. Zafira stared at the columns they passed. Had magic created this? Or labor? The stories never spoke of Sharr being lived upon, just used as a prison.

She heard movement and saw the curl of a scorpion’s tail as it scuttled beneath a slab of stone. Zafira’s eyes widened as she hurried forward, barely suppressing a shiver.

When she could no longer summon saliva for her parched throat, she spotted a shimmer of blue a stretch from their course and stumbled forward, ignoring the goatskin at her side.

Deen grabbed her arm. “A mirage, Zafira.” He nodded to their right. “There’s an oasis this way.”

“How would you know?” Zafira had only heard of mirages in stories. They were always magical, miraculous. Now it seemed like a taunt. A way to draw the thirsty forward so the sands could devour them.

He pointed to the sky, where a trio of birds circled. Then below, where a date palm curved. “Life.”

Zafira was surprised by the greenery when they reached the small pool. Wild ferns and bright shrubs. The water was so clear, it reflected the clouds as pristinely as a mirror. But when Deen cupped his palms and bent down for a drink, Zafira glimpsed black stones glittering beneath the glowing waters, reminding her of the Silver Witch.

“Well, Huntress? What say you?” he teased, letting the water trickle through his fingers.

“I wouldn’t drink it,” she said, lips twisting back. She handed him the goatskin hanging by her side.