We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

A hashashin’s garb was made for blending, for appearing unthreatening, despite the numerous weapons obscured along his body. But in typical Altair fashion, there was something to make one glance at him again. He had discarded the obscuring outer robes in favor of flashing more skin. Though leather gauntlets were wrapped tight around his forearms, the rest of his corded arms were bare, and a turban rimmed in red was styled around his head. The traditional sash around his middle was stark red, too, clashing with his ridiculously colored sirwal.

“Ready to ride the night away, Sultani?” he asked suggestively.

“Save your innuendos for your parties, Altair.”

“Ah, so you’re not as dumb as your father makes you seem,” Altair said with a laugh. “I can’t wait until we meet the Hunter. I’ll have to introduce you by saying, ‘He’s not always this grumpy. Then again, he’s one of those people who talks less and murders more.’”

“You’ll be doing a good job of not frightening him,” Nasir said, spurring his stallion forward.

“Shukrun, habibi,” Altair called after him. “Endearing as always.”

The sands glowed like dying embers in the night. Mansions glittered in the moonlight, and the limestone of the slums loomed eerie and desolate.

No one would be around to see them, not now, when the moon had risen and the cold had begun its sweep across the desert. Nasir’s heart stuttered at the thought of crossing the Arz at sunrise, but he didn’t have a choice. Kulsum’s dark eyes flashed in his mind. The soft curve of Haytham’s son’s small shoulders.

He never had a choice.

He would cross the Arz and meet the Baransea at sunrise, in whatever condition he stood.

CHAPTER 14

Zafira woke to a pair of catlike eyes staring into her own. She jerked away. “Yasmine!”

Yasmine answered with a curse. Tears streaked her cheeks, and she looked as though a heavy weight had been set on her shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Zafira asked, voice rough with sleep. “Shouldn’t you be—”

“With my husband? I swear, that’s all you ever say when you see me.”

Zafira sank back into the pillows and cut a glance at the window before jerking upright again. She had to go. “I have to—”

“Go? Kharra, I know. That’s why I came. To see you one last time.” Yasmine dropped her gaze to her hands. The henna from her wedding was already fading, the russet now a bright shade of red. She sat on the edge of Zafira’s bed, the mattress bowing under her weight.

“Remember when my parents died, and Deen left us to go exploring the kingdom? When he joined that caravan across the Wastes? I still have a little bit left in that tin of hot chocolate he

brought back, and I saved the empty vial of honey you licked clean.” Yasmine laughed softly and then sighed. “It’s strange what I’ll remember with a spoon of cocoa and an empty vial of honey, no?”

Zafira tried to puzzle over those words before she swung out of bed.

“Do you think I’ll die?” she asked. She padded to the elevated tub with a shiver. Clumps of snow still floated in the cool water Yasmine had probably brought in.

“Do you expect to live? It’s scary enough when you disappear into the Arz,” Yasmine said, and Zafira heard her recline on the bed.

Zafira glanced at her. “You’re awfully optimistic today.”

Yasmine shrugged. “It’s not every day the sister of your heart settles on a death wish.”

“I don’t have a death wish, Yasmine. We know I have a better chance at getting through the Arz and, because of it, Sharr. It could be completely different, but I have a chance where no one else does. Either way, we won’t even see another year before the Arz swallows us whole.”

Silence screamed between them as Zafira reached for her clothes and froze. This wasn’t the qamis she had left for herself. This was the dress she had worn to Yasmine’s wedding, only a lot shorter. She fingered the sharpened swirls along the deep blue shoulder and looked up.

Yasmine smiled. “I know how much you love that dress, and I also know it’s a tad tight. So, I … shortened it and made it a little looser. If you’re going to save the world, you might as well do it in style.”

Zafira laughed softly and slipped it over her head, the material soft against her skin. It was lighter, but Sharr wasn’t a snowy mess like Demenhur. Her cloak would help her bear the cold until she left.

“Promise me,” Yasmine said softly, “that if you die, you will die fighting to return to me.”

Zafira struggled to smile. “I would kiss you goodbye, but your husband wouldn’t like it.”