We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

No matter. For now, she and the others could enjoy themselves. Soon enough, he would get back to the task of killing them off.

But a voice whispered a tendril of a word in his ear, the same voice that had made his credence waver when he had leveled his scimitar at Altair.

Liar, it said.

* * *

After the meal, Zafira turned to Benyamin and opened her mouth, but he only held up his hand, silencing her before he moved his stupid red rug closer. Altair stretched himself upon his bedroll, bare arms crossed beneath his head, ever shameless.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk,” Kifah said, rubbing a salve on the still-healing gash across her arm. “Whatever happened to ‘the shadows have a master’?”

Benyamin released a lengthy breath. “That was the plan, but Sharr has shown its hand. I see no reason for caution now.”

An uneasy silence weighed upon them. Beneath a sudden gust of dry air, the fire crackled like footsteps on the sand-studded stone.

“What a poetic way of saying one of us is going to die,” Kifah said.

“Are all Pelusians so bitter?” Altair asked, voice strained as he looked to the open skies above them.

“I’m not bitter. I’m realistic, and I see no reason for unnecessary optimism.”

“Akhh, Nasir might have finally found his soulmate,” Altair drawled.

Was the prince listening to their conversation? Was he plotting his next kill? Was he watching her? Zafira, you vain oaf.

“Where should I begin?” Benyamin asked, tucking his book aside.

“With you.” Zafira stretched, trying to will away her exhaustion and the ache in her back from their endless walking.

“I was born on—”

“I don’t think anyone wants to know about you, safi,” said Altair, and Kifah mumbled her agreement.

Benyamin sighed and straightened his keffiyah. “One day, my person will find esteem and all of Arawiya will desire my humble history. They will scribe poetry in my name and sing ballads of my triumphs. Mark my words, dear friends.”

Altair snorted, but Zafira couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m here,” Benyamin went on, “because, though she may not be able to lie, the Silver Witch can’t be trusted.”

“You came a long way to say something I already know,” Zafira said.

His lips quirked. “Oh, but I came a long way to tell you something no one knows.”

“Go on,” Kifah said.

That surprised her. Zafira had thought the Pelusian warrior knew everything. But it seemed she, too, had joined the quest with minimal knowledge.

“Have you ever wondered why the Silver Witch wields magic on a land where there is none?” he asked. “Have you ever wondered why the sultan keeps her close?”

“You sound like a merchant trying to sell trash,” Altair groaned, a hand over his face.

Benyamin held Zafira’s gaze. The fire crackled and the darkness settled in, waiting for his response as intently as she was. “Think, Huntress. There were only six beings who wielded magic from within. Who were vessels of magic as much as wielders.”

Six beings. Vessels of magic who imbued the five royal minarets with their limitless power. Only five minarets, because one of those beings had been here on Sharr, guarding the prison she created with her own power, born from the good of her own pure heart.

Zafira broke away from his gaze. Her heart was a drum.

No one can be that pure.