We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(45)

“Let me,” Nasir breathed, “tell you a story, General.”

Altair’s eyes flared. Good. It was good to have Altair fear him for once.

“Once, there was a girl in Sultan’s Keep. She sang away her nights beneath the stars with my head in her lap and her fingers in my hair. Until she lost what she prized most. Because I loved her. Because I was selfish.” Nasir spat the last words in his face. “I would have lamented less had she died.”

He pulled away. Altair straightened his clothes, the wind toying with the fringe of his turban. Waves crashed, and somewhere, Kulsum was carrying a tray to the sultan.

“You will always be selfish,” Altair said, voice strangely level. “Do you know why I stand as an equal beside you, princeling? Because I’m untouchable. Because I’m the man no one has hold over. Not only did you say she is of no concern to you, but in your arrogance, you revealed Kulsum’s association with me. You might as well have carried a sign that said Altair cares for the girl.”

Nasir stilled. Whether or not Altair actually cared for Kulsum was irrelevant.

Altair saw the understanding on Nasir’s face. “Good thing she’s of no concern to you, Sultani.”





CHAPTER 19


Zafira had seen snow every day of her seventeen years. Not once had she left her family for longer than the setting of a sun. And now a ship was about to drag her away. From Lana, Yasmine, her mother. Misk, too. There was a searing through her chest. Loss.

Deen squeezed her shoulder. He looked strong and powerful beneath this new sun. Neither was a word she had ever before used to describe him. But today he looked different. Today she felt a fool for not seeing him as she should have.

Funny how eyes worked.

“They’ll be safe. I’ve been to Thalj, remember? The snow is far less and the conditions are better. More food, fewer casualties from the cold. They’ll be cared for in the palace,” Deen soothed. “It was smart of you to ask for that.”

As Demenhur shrank, her heart raced as if she were wading through the Arz. Yasmine and Lana huddled together, Misk behind them. Zafira hadn’t spoken to Yasmine after Deen had stepped forward. She had been angry. She should still be angry, but she was just numb now.

Movement caught her eye—the camels of the caravan and the soldiers in their uniforms of gray and blue. Dastards. None of them had stepped forward when Deen spoke of loyalty and success.

The caliph was nestled safely among them. The man with a twisted notion that only men could save their kingdom. Now Zafira felt something: a rush of anger, a flicker of defiance.

Her gaze crashed upon Haytham, who risked being charged with treason because of another masquerading girl. No wonder he looked so haunted. Yasmine’s words echoed in her mind: What are you waiting for?

A thrum started in her chest, traveled to her fingers. This. This was what she had waited for, all these years.

It was time to make the Hunter and Zafira one and the same.

She had nothing to fear—the caliph couldn’t reach her now. He wasn’t cruel. She didn’t have to worry about her family’s safety. She lifted her hands to her hood.

Wind through her fingers.

Cloth against her skin.

Salt heavy on her tongue.

Zafira bint Iskandar dropped her hood. She shook her hair free, and a mane of black tumbled behind her in waves. Deen’s breath caught.

Her hair gleamed beneath the heat of the sun. The widow’s peak she had inherited from her mother dipped into her forehead. She loosened the clasp, and the cloak she wore to cover her figure fell to the deck.

A small thud of dark cloth, her disguise for years.

Even from her distance, Zafira could see Yasmine’s and Lana’s broad grins. Misk pumped a fist into the air. Others watched in awe—daama awe—and it took everything within her not to hide behind Deen. Relief shook her shoulders, for the news would spread quickly, and a tale was only swayed by its teller. Skies, word could spread as far as Sultan’s Keep.

Haytham saluted two fingers off his brow, the ends of his keffiyah fluttering in the breeze. Zafira almost grinned.

But the caliph.

The blanket upon his shoulders barely concealed the rage contorting his features. Zafira had hunted in the Arz for years. She was proof that a woman’s actions did not draw out malevolence. Yet there he was, unbelieving. Angry.

If she were standing before him, she would have feared for her life.

The men with him were of mixed emotions. Some of them looked overjoyed. Some of them hooted. Other expressions had darkened, with grim set mouths she could see even from her distance.

But the caliph.

With that one display of emotion, every victory of hers—braving the dark, returning from the Arz, feeding her people—had just been stepped upon and cast aside. Because she was a woman. How could he allow such unfairness to root in his bones?

I will show him what a woman can do. She startled herself with that thought, rough and angry. Because conquering the Arz wasn’t enough. Now she was going to Sharr.

She was going to bring her father justice, kings and witches be damned.

And when she returned, magic in her grasp, she would give a calipha her throne. She would give Arawiya magic and make the sultan himself bow before her.

Zafira lifted her chin and met the caliph’s gaze in a farewell of defiance, and the Arz sprang back to life.