We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

spun.

She would get her answers, even if she had to hold her jambiya to the safi’s perfect neck. Someone’s getting violent, Yasmine sang in her head.

She must have dozed off at some point, because soon, light was skittering through the sparse clouds, the early sun’s miserly heat sending a warm shiver through her.

It reminded her of chilly mornings in Demenhur, when Lana would place steaming harsha in her hands, buttery and grainy, the cake melting in her mouth as she readied for another day of hunting. She missed food that wasn’t dried dates and bread hard enough to knock a man senseless. She missed her sleepy village.

The Prince of daama Death leaned against the outcrop on the other end, one leg folded, arms crossed. His head was tipped to the sky, eyes closed. He hadn’t attempted to kill anyone overnight, which likely meant he was scheming. He could easily slip into the ruins beyond and vanish, but more than once she caught him on full alert, scanning the jumu’a until he settled on her and his stance grew lazy again.

Why would the Prince of Death seek her out if not to kill her?

She rolled her shoulders and downed a trickle of water before climbing the stone. She pressed the cool metal of Deen’s ring to her lips and surveyed the terrain, quelling the grief bubbling up her throat.

The ruins were scattered throughout the distance. Whole sections had been covered entirely by sand, dunes rising and falling in waves. She spotted the large oasis they had seen from the minaret yesterday, a patch of green and blue rippling beneath the sun.

“Spy anything of interest?” Benyamin asked.

She leaped down and dusted off her hands. Sand stuck to her palms.

She still could not believe she had met safin—and killed one, she recalled like a fist to her stomach. He smiled at her scrutiny. To call him handsome would have been a lie, for he was utterly beautiful, with sculpted features and flawless golden skin accented by an artistic beard. The kohl surrounding his umber eyes was pristine, and the two golden rings piercing the top of his right ear winked. Skies, the Alder probably spent entire mornings in front of a looking glass.

“There’s an oasis not too far from here,” she said, averting her eyes.

“We’ll head there next,” he said with a nod, and tilted his head at her. “I never thought the Demenhune Hunter was a Huntress.”

She slanted her mouth. “Must have been hard trying to get a spider close enough.”

“Oh, I had a spider on you, Huntress. I merely underestimated the loyalty of those around you.”

Her throat constricted—there was only one newcomer to her circle in Demenhur. Only one who could have learned of her identity, had the sister of her heart shared the knowledge. Had Deen shared the secret with his new friend.

Misk.

She wouldn’t let Benyamin see her come undone. “Did you truly cross the path of the Zaramese Fallen?”

“Indeed,” he said, regarding her. “I was lucky to have Kifah with me.”

Her eyes strayed to his tattoo, the bronzed ink shimmering in the early light. It was Safaitic, she realized. A simple word of two letters, the curvature of the ha framing his eye while the qaf rounded off smoothly, its two i’jam like birds in flight.

Haqq. Old tongue for “truth.”

With his umber eyes and utter grace, the safi reminded her of a large cat. He slunk away before she could ask any more, cloak molding to his slender frame.

He gestured for everyone to draw near, and Zafira’s eyes flared when Nasir stalked to them, confident in his stride, lithe in his step. Altair inclined his head toward him, whispering before sliding a furtive glance at her.

Well, then.

They were stronger than she was, the girl who hunted in the dark for rabbits and deer. Even the dead safin had been better fighters.

But she had a mission. She had her bow and her jambiya and a chance.

She would make it count.

CHAPTER 43

Nasir understood now why the sultan wanted Altair dead. He was Benyamin’s spider, but he’d spun his own web of secrets in Sultan’s Keep. Just how many secrets, Nasir did not know. He knew only that General al-Badawi had arrived here on Sharr with more than the knowledge of being Nasir’s next kill.

He had thought, more than once, that the Huntress would flee. Her eyes would dart to the stone outcropping, the upper half of her body angling toward the jagged tops, her body at war with itself. She would take one side of her lower lip into her mouth, deep in thought.