We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)
Page 113
“You care for him,” Zafira said, pushing for a reaction.
He raised an eyebrow and studied her before stomping ahead. Wasn’t she supposed to lead?
“I do not,” he said matter-of-factly when she caught up. There was an undertone of warning to his voice. “But careful, Huntress—I’m beginning to think you do.”
The others reached them before she could protest his choice of words.
Benyamin yawned loudly and stretched like a cat, ignoring the prince as if he hadn’t torn him apart. As if hyenas hadn’t shifted into men before their eyes.
“When I’m back in Alderamin, I’m going to say hello to my beloved and maybe my sister, and then I’ll take a very, very long nap. The longest one Arawiya has ever seen,” the safi proclaimed.
“Say hello for me, too,” Altair said. “To the calipha-to-be, not your beloved.”
“My sister does not want your hello,” Benyamin said with a scowl.
“I’m going to visit my father and gloat,” Kifah said, and Zafira knew she hadn’t imagined the bitterness in her tone. “Then I’ll celebrate with the biggest lamb the calipha’s kitchens can find.”
Altair hummed in agreement. “Akhh, have that lamb marinated to perfection with ras el-hanout. Roasted potatoes garnished with basil. Qahwa in the evening with date biscuits.”
“What’s ras el-hanout?” Zafira asked.
“The mother of all spice mixes. It hails from Pelusia,” Kifah replied, “but the Sarasin bastards stole it.”
“You can’t steal something that grows out of the ground. That’s like saying we stole sand,” Altair retorted.
Kifah shrugged.
“I’m going to take my falcon on a hunt. Poor thing probably misses me.” The general looked at Zafira. “What about you, Huntress? What will you do back in Demenhur? Without the Arz, you can finally stop hunting.”
Her step faltered. She hadn’t made that connection, that simple realization. Taking down the Arz that killed her father meant there would no longer be the Arz that made her her.
Skies.
She would no longer be the Demenhune Hunter. She wouldn’t be anyone. Something clawed up her chest. What was Zafira bint Iskandar, if not the Hunter?
Benyamin touched her sleeve.
“This is your chance for the Hunter and Zafira to become one,” he said softly. Her cloak weighed heavily in her bag. “Meld them. Become yourself. The Huntress. The girl who freed magic from the darkness and so freed herself.”
The Huntress. She bit her lip.
But the safi did not understand that freedom was sometimes a burden of its own.
* * *
The others settled into the silence of reminiscence. No one asked Nasir what he planned to do when he returned, making him realize he had never thought beyond this journey. He had no naps or rich meals to look forward to. When he returned to his father, he could not gloat.
He would only await his next summons.
He lived for his orders. For the mistake he made in not heeding them.
No, there was nothing for Nasir after Sharr. Nothing but tears and corpses and the next bleak sunrise.
CHAPTER 59
Zafira woke to the ground swaying beneath her and birds screeching in the distance. Sunlight burned her eyelids and a breeze brushed her skin.
Frowning, she opened her eyes and nearly scrambled off a plank. Her bare hands snagged on splintering wood. Breathe, Zafira. Then assess.