We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

CHAPTER 35

Zafira would be an idiot if she wore her cloak and fainted again, so she tucked it away with great reluctance. She straightened the sleeves of her tunic and rewrapped her scarf before adjusting the folds of her sash. She felt bare. Light. Different.

But the world was changing, and she needed to adapt. It continued to change. Ever since Sharr had devoured Deen, the island had been darker, and the farther they ventured, the more it darkened still.

Today’s plan was to reach the small town Altair had spotted from the oasis, where they would survey the terrain from one of the minarets. Zafira studied the Sarasins as she trailed them, slipping between debris and gliding over rubble. The dark-haired one noted far too much—she caught him watching her several times, once to assess her clothes, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She didn’t think either of them realized how synchronized they were, or they wouldn’t bicker as much as they did. Or maybe Altair knew, and the other just had a blatant dislike for anything and everything but himself.

But his touch had been gentle last night, his words almost kind.

When the time came, she would need to avenge Deen’s death. She wasn’t sure which of them had killed him, but Deen couldn’t have been the target—he had jumped in front of the dark arrow whizzing for her heart. And now that the Sarasins had the chance to kill her, they weren’t taking it. They had even saved her yesterday.

The hashashin threw an arm across her stomach, sending a shock of heat through her before he pulled away with a sharp intake of air, as if he hadn’t realized what he had done until he’d done it. Once more, that oddly human sound gave her pause.

Before she realized why he had stopped her.

She gripped the wall nearest her and scrambled back, heart pounding. They had reached the town, it seemed. Climbed the minaret, too, while she was lost in thought.

She teetered at the edge of the tower where the ledge had crumbled, an entire portion chipped away by the wind. One more step and she would have plummeted to her death. Her heart had crammed into her throat, thrummed at her fingertips.

“First, I learn you’re a woman. Then you faint. Now you’re trying to pitch yourself off a tower,” Altair said with a laugh. “The fun never stops.”

Zafira saw red. It flared in her vision and flashed behind her eyelids. Murdering Deen wasn’t enough? Now he was laughing because she had nearly fallen to her death?

She nocked an arrow and turned to them, seething.

Dust swirled in the blue sky, playing to the whistle of the wind. Altair raised his hands with a smirk. The dark-haired hashashin merely lifted his eyebrows a fraction. The stone wall behind him stood intact, shading them from the sun.

“Tell me who you are,” she said to him, her voice surprisingly smooth, “or I will put an arrow through your throat.”

“I thought you knew,” he said, canting his head.

“Don’t think,” she snapped.

Something shattered in his unfeeling eyes before they slid to the arrow, then back to her.

“If I told you my name, would you bow?” His voice was soft. A melancholy caress. He lifted his chin when understanding dawned on her face. “Or would you flee?”

The arrow trembled in her grip.

Hashashin. The silver fletching. The authority in his voice. His name.

Crown Prince Nasir Ghameq. The Prince of Death. The end of his turban fluttered in the breeze.

Sweet snow below.

She loosed the arrow. It caught his turban, pinning him to the stone behind, giving her the moment she needed to dart past him to the stairwell. Each stone step jarred her teeth until she lost her footing and skidded down a trio before hoisting herself against the sandy railing, nearly invisible in the shadowed corridor. Breathe. She doubled over, sweat burning her skin. The shadows curled around her arms and she jerked away from them.

The daama crown prince. Half safin, half human. No wonder he ordered her about as he pleased.

It was said that he tallied his kills on his body, that he had begun with his arms but ran out of room far too soon, for he never left a job unfinished. His body was as black as his heart.

“Kharra, kharra, kharra,” she cursed, taking off again.

Rough hands grabbed her by her middle and pushed her against the stairwell wall.

Altair al-Badawi.