We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(79)

Nasir watched as the Huntress laughed at Altair’s words, the harsh lines of her face softening. He watched as the general’s eyes dropped to her lips and followed the curve of her smile. How did Altair feel, knowing he was the first to coax a genuine smile across her cold-hard features after the death of her companion?

She had molded too much of herself into cool marble, and he did not want her to shatter.

She withdrew into her own thoughts and her gaze drifted up, meandering across the slabs of stone until she found him. He remembered the softness of her body, the way she met his eyes as no one but Altair did, dismantling him as no one did. Fearlessly. Effortlessly. As if, perhaps, beneath every death and monstrous act he had committed, he was only flesh and bone—a human, nothing more.

He hadn’t been seen as a human in years.

He looked away, despite the fire between them. Why did she seek him out? Did she regret her decision to save him?

No matter. For now, she and the others could enjoy themselves. Soon enough, he would get back to the task of killing them off.

But a voice whispered a tendril of a word in his ear, the same voice that had made his credence waver when he had leveled his scimitar at Altair.

Liar, it said.



* * *



After the meal, Zafira turned to Benyamin and opened her mouth, but he only held up his hand, silencing her before he moved his stupid red rug closer. Altair stretched himself upon his bedroll, bare arms crossed beneath his head, ever shameless.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk,” Kifah said, rubbing a salve on the still-healing gash across her arm. “Whatever happened to ‘the shadows have a master’?”

Benyamin released a lengthy breath. “That was the plan, but Sharr has shown its hand. I see no reason for caution now.”

An uneasy silence weighed upon them. Beneath a sudden gust of dry air, the fire crackled like footsteps on the sand-studded stone.

“What a poetic way of saying one of us is going to die,” Kifah said.

“Are all Pelusians so bitter?” Altair asked, voice strained as he looked to the open skies above them.

“I’m not bitter. I’m realistic, and I see no reason for unnecessary optimism.”

“Akhh, Nasir might have finally found his soulmate,” Altair drawled.

Was the prince listening to their conversation? Was he plotting his next kill? Was he watching her? Zafira, you vain oaf.

“Where should I begin?” Benyamin asked, tucking his book aside.

“With you.” Zafira stretched, trying to will away her exhaustion and the ache in her back from their endless walking.

“I was born on—”

“I don’t think anyone wants to know about you, safi,” said Altair, and Kifah mumbled her agreement.

Benyamin sighed and straightened his keffiyah. “One day, my person will find esteem and all of Arawiya will desire my humble history. They will scribe poetry in my name and sing ballads of my triumphs. Mark my words, dear friends.”

Altair snorted, but Zafira couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m here,” Benyamin went on, “because, though she may not be able to lie, the Silver Witch can’t be trusted.”

“You came a long way to say something I already know,” Zafira said.

His lips quirked. “Oh, but I came a long way to tell you something no one knows.”

“Go on,” Kifah said.

That surprised her. Zafira had thought the Pelusian warrior knew everything. But it seemed she, too, had joined the quest with minimal knowledge.

“Have you ever wondered why the Silver Witch wields magic on a land where there is none?” he asked. “Have you ever wondered why the sultan keeps her close?”

“You sound like a merchant trying to sell trash,” Altair groaned, a hand over his face.

Benyamin held Zafira’s gaze. The fire crackled and the darkness settled in, waiting for his response as intently as she was. “Think, Huntress. There were only six beings who wielded magic from within. Who were vessels of magic as much as wielders.”

Six beings. Vessels of magic who imbued the five royal minarets with their limitless power. Only five minarets, because one of those beings had been here on Sharr, guarding the prison she created with her own power, born from the good of her own pure heart.

Zafira broke away from his gaze. Her heart was a drum.

No one can be that pure.

“Then—that means only five Sisters perished that day,” she whispered.

He nodded. She thought of Sukkar and Lemun, frozen solid. She thought of the Arz disappearing, and the phantom men aboard that unnatural ship. Magic when no magic should exist. Powerful magic.

Skies.

“The Silver Witch—she was Sharr’s warden. She’s … she’s the sixth Sister.”

Benyamin’s silence was the only confirmation she needed.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Altair’s shaky laugh broke the heavy quiet, mimicking how Zafira felt.

“I’ve dropped many revelations in my day, but that, safi, tops all,” he said, but he sounded far off, as if this revelation struck him deeper than it did the rest of them.

“It is truth,” Benyamin said, spreading his hands.

“So the greatest of the Sisters turned evil,” Kifah said with a sigh. “Why am I not surprised? The best are always the worst.”