“Oh, he’s even funnier after he’s had a proper breakfast,” Altair offered.
Something played at the corners of the Huntress’s lips before she looked at Benyamin. “We can get to the shelter of the oasis. Then I expect to know everything.”
The safi flourished a bow. “But of course, sayyida.”
CHAPTER 44
Beneath the draping shadows of the palm trees, Zafira refilled her goatskin after Kifah reassured her that the water was safe. Sand drifted into her boots and pooled in the folds of her sash. She tasted its bland weight on her tongue and felt the grit of it against her cheeks. It was everywhere.
A breeze whistled through the trees, and she reached for her hood before she remembered that her cloak was in her bag. Deen’s fingers ghosted her chin before she could fold into herself.
Altair found a lone peach tree, where he gathered a slew of the fuzzy fruit and distributed it among the five of them.
Kifah drummed a rhythm with her spear, and Zafira steered clear of the Pelusian, watching as she tugged a small black blade from one of the several sheaths along her arm. A lightning blade, Zafira realized. Forged by nature’s wrath, with balance matched by none. Blood sharpened it; age strengthened it. The blades were rare, for blacksmiths had to lie in wait until lightning struck a mountain before rushing to collect the black ore beneath the roar of thunder and pelting rain.
There were benefits to being one of the calipha’s Nine Elite, it seemed.
Benyamin pulled a fold of cloth from his bag. Zafira knew safin were vain, but enough to bring a rug to Sharr? He carefully smoothed out the creases and gently brushed aside a beetle before sitting cross-legged in the center of the red weave, trickling sand from his fists as he waited for everyone. Nasir crossed his arms and leaned against a jutting stone, making it clear he wasn’t going to be a happy participant.
“Magic did not disappear, zumra. It was relocated,” Benyamin started, skipping a peach pit across the blue waters. He called them “zumra” as if they were a horde of children, not a number of mismatched people wielding weapons against his thin, unarmed self.
“When the warden of Sharr called for aid during the second battle against the Lion of the Night, the Sisters brought magic here. And with their demise, magic did not disappear, but it fell to Sharr, which happily bore the burden.
“It swallowed the creatures of the prison—humans, safin, ifrit, bashmu—everything that stood in its path, and still, the island’s hunger could not be sated. It tainted the Baransea, it birthed the Arz. And the longer Sharr remains in control of magic, the farther the Arz will grow, and the worse our lands will become.”
“For what?” Zafira asked. “What does Sharr want?”
There was a glint in Benyamin’s eyes. “You, Huntress, are too smart for your own good.”
She shrank back and nearly missed the look Altair and Benyamin shared.
“If magic exists on Sharr,” Altair started, and Zafira had the distinct feeling he was hurrying to mask something, “then we should be able to wield it.”
“Through dum sihr at least,” Kifah said.
“No!” Benyamin looked as if someone had slit his palm and forced him to use it. “Blood magic is forbidden. Strictly forbidden. There’s no reprieve for the one who commands it. The price is always great.”
“Is that why it’s only done in Safai—”
“Superstition. Blood magic is forbidden because it’s uncontrollable. The price is a sampling of blood, nothing more,” Nasir said boredly.
“We are not going to discuss blood magic any further,” Benyamin said harshly before turning to Zafira.
By the look in his eyes, she suspected there was something more to Benyamin’s fear of dum sihr. Something personal.
“Altair was referring to the affinities we were born with,” the safi continued tranquilly, though Zafira heard the slight undercurrent of unrest. “Particularly the specialty you were born with, dearest Demenhune.”
Zafira narrowed her eyes. Nasir stiffened.
“I have magic,” she said. Her words were hesitant. Unbelieving.
“You have an affinity,” Benyamin corrected with a tilt of his head. “Much like everyone else. Without fuel from the magic that once lit the royal minarets, our affinities fell dormant. Constantly hungering.
“That’s what makes the Arz so alluring—it’s an extension of Sharr. The very same island that contains the magic Arawiya once did. When we near the Arz, our affinities claw their way out, spurring us into the cursed forest. Many succumbed to its whispers, stepping within for the chance to unleash the affinities we’ve pent up for so long. They may have wielded power. They may have called fire and summoned water, but the Arz is such that they could never return. On the contrary, you, Huntress: Your affinity itself is what allowed you to return time and time again.”
You will always find your way. The Silver Witch’s words during their first meeting. She had come to see if Zafira really did return from the Arz in one piece.
A breeze fanned the leaves of the palm tree, cooling her skin, and a bird took to the skies with a sweep of its wings.