We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(80)

Zafira sensed years of resentment behind that line.

The Silver Witch was dark, powerful, something else. But Zafira didn’t know if she was evil.

When she said as much, Kifah gave her a look. “I don’t know what rock you live beneath in Demenhur, but the witch convenes with the sultan far too much not to be influential. Look what’s become of him, Huntress.”

There was an edge to Benyamin’s voice when he responded. “We are all flesh and blood, soul and heart. Capable of malevolence, just as much as benevolence. One wrong does not make evil.”

It could, though. Zafira was wholly aware that Benyamin didn’t answer Kifah’s implication. She supposed every creature that could not lie was adept at doling half-truths. Answering questions with more questions.

He had given them only a slice of the entire truth. Barely a page of a hefty tome stored in the library of his thoughts.

“If she isn’t evil, and she was here when it happened, why won’t she get the Jawarat herself?” Zafira asked. “She said she was trying to make things right. Why isn’t she helping us?”

“Sharr contains magic only because it drained the Sisters of theirs during the battle with the Lion of the Night. If she sets foot upon these sands, she will share the fate of the other Sisters. She escaped the first instance only because her power exceeded theirs, allowing her time.” Benyamin canted his head. “Then again, if she knew where the Jawarat was, she could merely materialize for a trifle, grab it, and disappear. But I don’t believe that is how the Jawarat works.”

Zafira blinked.

“That is where you come in, dearest Demenhune, and the rest of us. We are stronger as one, more likely to succeed as one. As a zumra. You might have already perished had I left you to your own accord.”

“Shukrun for your vote of confidence,” Kifah said dryly.

“So once magic is free from Sharr, the Arz will fall?” Zafira asked.

Benyamin nodded.

Zafira continued, “Then chaos will break out across the kingdom. Only a few know of the quest.”

“Once the curse lifts and the Arz disappears, my runners will take to the streets, sending notice to the caliphs and their wazirs. Order will remain. See, I like to plan ahead,” Benyamin said with a smug smile, and Altair shot him a look.

Zafira was too impressed not to show it.

Altair interrupted. “Tell me something, One of Nine. How do you know of the silver woman?”

Zafira had wondered the same. She hadn’t known of the Silver Witch’s existence until the woman materialized before her.

“It’s not common knowledge, but I’m one of the Pelusian calipha’s trusted Nine Elite, no?” Kifah answered.

Zafira’s eyes strayed to the trees, where she swore she was being watched. Come, come, come, the trees seemed to chant, the call curling around her cheeks. It was as if the darkness had reached a frenzy when it heard of the Silver Witch’s identity. When it learned the woman who had controlled them still lived.

Or maybe it was magic. Zafira didn’t know. The island was rife with magic and darkness, entwined.

Skies, Zafira had met one of the Six Sisters of Old.

Somehow, the revelation allowed her to breathe a little easier. She had more questions, and she still didn’t know how or why Benyamin had come, but she felt her purpose had been reinstated somehow. That the Jawarat had been made more real.

The others dispersed into their own corners of the ruins. Altair hummed some ridiculous ballad, and Kifah dusted off her bedroll. Zafira remained by the fire, breathing in the soft rustles of the night and something else … water? The faint trickle of it sang in her ears, but because no one else pointed it out, she judged it to be farther away. She had been eating with hands smudged in dirt for days now. Getting clean would be nice.

A shadow slanted over her, obscuring the moonlight. Kifah. Her turban had been tied around her neck, and the solemn plains of her face glowed in the embers. She carried three velvet bags that Zafira had seen Altair eating from earlier: one full of dates, another of dried goat meat, and the third with candy-coated almonds in pastel hues that didn’t belong in Sharr.

The Pelusian asked something around a mouthful of food, and Zafira raised her eyebrows, mindlessly tossing grains of sand into the fire, irritating it. Benyamin and Altair discussed something tiredly.

Kifah swallowed and held out her velvet bags. “Would you like some?”

Zafira eyed the pouches. One blue, one red, one green. Deep, dark colors, probably made with cloth spun in Demenhur. Every caliphate needed the other, yet they still wielded their differences like swords, their bitterness like walls.

“Why?” Zafira asked.

Kifah blinked. “Why what?”

“Why are you offering me your food?”

She shrugged. “You look like you could use some.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Zafira said, and Kifah knew it. She had been the one eager to spear Zafira to the ground.

The flames reached fists of fury to the sky, trapped as they were on an island they couldn’t comprehend. Zafira could tell Kifah was carefully stringing words together in the silence.

“I always thought the Demenhune Hunter was a fabrication. Not because I doubted you could venture and return, but because you had no name. You claimed no glory, no fame. People aren’t like that anymore,” Kifah said. “Then you saved my life. Honor meant something in this world once.” The fire drew her attention for a long moment, and Zafira had the sense that Kifah was elsewhere.