“He died because you can’t command an arrow,” she whispered to Altair. “Because you—” She bit her knuckles against another sob. “He died because of an accident.”
Her labored breathing was a boulder on Nasir’s shoulders. Altair couldn’t hide his own shattered face.
“If I could go back and put myself in his place, Huntress, I would,” Altair said finally. “If I could sell my arm to make him breathe again, I would. He did not deserve such a death.”
Nasir waited for her response. For her angry lash. The bite of her words. Anything beyond silence and the burn in her eyes as she looked between them.
She only turned away.
* * *
She needed time, Benyamin had said, and neither Nasir nor Altair went close. Selfish as he was, Nasir wondered what Deen had done to be loved so much.
Kifah returned and Altair, despite his wounded leg, leaped to help, grateful when the Pelusian didn’t ask what had transpired in her absence. Benyamin retreated into his book, guilt weighing his features.
Nasir strayed to the stream, climbing the stones that overlooked Sharr’s ruins. He kept his gaze pointedly away from the Lion’s den far to their right. Everywhere he looked, the dunes glittered beneath the blanket of darkness, shrouding them, pressing closer and closer.
He could see, now, as clear as day. His affinity was very much like the Lion’s, he realized. Maybe even the same. He was one with the shadows, like the wisps that curled from his fingers.
At once, he knew he wasn’t alone.
A flash of silver caught his eye and he leaped from the stone and drew his scimitar, the outcropping cutting him off from the others.
The Silver Witch.
The only living Sister of Old, warden of Sharr. Her bone-white hair gleamed in the darkness, and he felt the weight of her compass in his pocket.
“Your blades can’t hurt me,” she said. She sounded tired, almost sad.
“Run away, witch,” he said, unafraid. “Or was that another lie and Sharr won’t drain you of your magic?”
“It is the truth—it drains me now. I only want to speak.”
“About what? About how much you enjoyed watching my father disappear into himself every day you roamed the palace halls?” He stopped and reined in his anger. What had she come to speak of, knowing full well the risks?
“About you,” she said, and she seemed to be struggling for words.
An act. It has to be.
“This is not the time nor place, but Arawiya worsens and I may never again have the chance.”
“For what?” He did not sheathe his sword. He might be powerless against her, but with a blade, he had some semblance of control.
She dropped her gaze to the dark water. “Did you bury the sultana by a stream that night?”
Nasir narrowed his eyes. “That’s an odd thing to bring up.”
“I’m merely curious,” she said, a hint of remorse simmering her tone. “I wanted to know who you buried and who you mourned, given that your mother is still very much alive.”
“My mother was the Sultana of Arawiya. If she were alive, you would know it.”
“I do know it, Nasir,” she said.
He paused at the way she said his name. It reminded him of another time, another place.
“I know how the people bowed to her, not out of fear but out of respect. How her son smiled at her, not out of duty but out of love. I remember the way he fit into the crook of her arm as a babe, and the ferocity of his eyes when he bested her on the training grounds. I remember the way he mourned me, as no son should have to mourn his mother.”
She wavered before him like a mirage. There was a clawing in his throat that he thought he had long ago trounced.