We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

Steam curled from the roasted venison in the center of each low table, and the smell of rosemary, cinnamon, bay leaves, and garlic reached Zafira’s nose even from her distance. Her mouth watered, despite her dislike for garlic. Surrounding the large platters were smaller ones: oily dolma stuffed with onions and roasted eggplants, rounds of baked kibbeh garnished with mint, the flattest of manakish laden with tangy zataar and olive oil.

It had taken many dinars, helping hands, and days of hunting to gather it all, but the look on Yasmine’s face when she knew it would feed so many starving stomachs had been worth the tiring effort.

“Lana is alone,” Yasmine said, ever watchful from her seat. There was an empty space beside Yasmine for her husband. Husband. That was going to take some getting used to.

A little ways away, Lana sat like a queen in a gown of midnight bedazzled with tiny mirrors, her shawl clutched in nervous fingers. A plate of aish el-saraya, half eaten, was balanced on her lap. Zafira had hoped the wedding would be a distraction for her sister, but it seemed more of a reminder of Lana’s loneliness as a group of girls her age whispered among themselves right in front of her.

As Zafira watched, someone settled beside Lana in a close-fitting thobe, so finely spun it shimmered in the waning light, offsetting his bronze curls. Deen. Only he was as watchful as Yasmine. Only he could coax a smile so true on Lana’s face.

“Not anymore,” Zafira said to Yasmine, trying to make sense of the sudden barge of emotion climbing up her throat. Leave it to Deen to love someone else’s sister as much as his own.

A young man sauntered up to the dais, his embroidered thobe as vain as the smirk on his face. He dragged his gaze down Yasmine’s curves, and Zafira wanted to pluck his eyeballs out.

“Settling for second best because the Hunter kicked you out of his bed?” he asked the bride.

Yasmine only smiled, a picture of elegance with her hands folded in her lap. “Come close. Let me tell you a secret.”

He lifted an eyebrow before latching onto his chance to near the beauty.

“I kicked him out of mine, actually,” Yasmine said, ever pleasant. “He got a little boring, you know? And I’ll happily kick you out of my wedding, if it’s so hard for you to be polite.”

He opened his mouth, but Yasmine wasn’t finished.

“Or, the next time little Bishr comes for classes, I could tell him all about his older brother’s exciting endeavors. Wait until that makes its way to your parents, hmm?”

He jerked back as if she had slapped him and awkwardly hurried away.

Yasmine lifted an eyebrow at Zafira. “And that is how you take care of them. Without getting your hands dirty—I could see you readying to rip his head off.”

“My solutions don’t involve me being insulted, but by all means, please continue,” Zafira drawled.

The Hunter’s secrecy had given the Ra’ad siblings a sort of prominence, for there was no better way to learn about him than through the two people who knew him—her.

There should never have been enough to feed the roughly three hundred people of the western villages, but there always was. Some said it was the Arz that created abundance in the small morsels, that the animals held a little bit of otherness, making their meat seem more. Zafira decided it was Deen’s expert distribution skills, ensuring everyone was fed at least once every few days.

Of course, Demenhur had livestock, but the sheep and cattle were rarely enough. And for the ones better off, nothing was more special than game from the dangerous Arz. Some traveled from around the caliphate for a piece of the Hunter’s prize. They were the ones who disgusted her the most.

“Stop looking at my guests like you’re about to shoot them. There’s no bow in your hands and you’re wearing a dress,” Yasmine reminded her.

Zafira looked at her friend’s laughing eyes, stunned once again by her ethereal beauty. Her pale gold bell-sleeved dress shimmered with iridescent beads, bronze hair pinned behind her skull. A lace shawl and a weave of white flowers sat regally atop her head. The pink brushed onto her cheeks and the dark kohl lining her eyes made her look older than her seventeen years.

“Sorry, Yasmine. There are so many eyeballs turning my way,” she teased. And a silver letter on my mind.

Her pulse quickened. Against reason, she wanted to go on the quest. To claim this victory for herself. At the very least, she wanted answers. Could a book really bring back magic? Was the caliph involved? He wasn’t bad. If, somehow, he found out she was a woman, she would find her way around. He wouldn’t chop off her head.

At least, she didn’t think he would.

Yet who would feed her people if she went? She could ask the silver-cloaked woman for venison, or money. If that mysterious woman wanted Zafira on this quest, she would need to do more than drop a letter in her bag. Then Yasmine and Deen could—

“Zafira, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Zafira asked, feigning innocence.

“I can see you thinking about something you don’t need to think about.” Yasmine sighed when Zafira didn’t answer, and changed the subject. “You look nice today.”

Zafira chortled and a woman nearby stared, taken aback. Nosy dunce. “Today, hmm? Maybe because I’m seated beside the bride and stuffed in a dress that happens to be a little too tight.”

Yasmine snorted and the woman’s eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets at the girls’ rogue behavior.