Some fates were made easier with acceptance.
Yet here lay Benyamin. An immortal safi, vain by nature, embittered by knowledge. Nasir’s hands shook as he regarded the wound. There was so much blood he didn’t know where it began and where it ended. Altair dropped beside him. Kifah shouted out as she fought back to back with the kaftar, but she was too far, too overwhelmed by ifrit, to be of assistance.
Nasir found the point of impact. He sat back on his heels, hope leaching.
“It is fatal,” he said, hands drenched in red.
Dark steam wafted from the stave.
Benyamin spoke lightly. “Now I know what it is like to live as a mortal. Death”—he pressed his lips together against the pain, his brown eyes soft—“is a welcome truth.”
His white keffiyah was smeared with blood. It slipped from his head and Nasir righted it, perfected it as the safi would. Altair clasped Benyamin’s hand, drawing him close. “Oh, akhi, akhi, akhi.”
My brother, my brother, my brother. By a bond stronger than blood.
Nasir had never seen Altair cry. His raw sobs racked his whole body, desolate in the din. Nasir had never thought someone else’s tears could hurt him so much.
“Why? Why did you do this?” Nasir whispered. Something fisted in his throat, hindering his speech.
Altair kept murmuring the word “akhi” over and over, anger and pain shattering his voice.
“Sacrifice,” Ben
yamin bit out.
Nasir knew sacrifice, but for him, the Prince of Death?
“For you. For her. For the ones who deserve to see another day. Your story remains unfinished, Prince.”
Something cleaved in Nasir. The children in the camel races. The rebels in Sarasin. Zafira. Kifah. They deserved to see another day. They deserved sacrifice. Not Nasir, whose hands had felt the last breath of countless souls. Not the Silver Witch, who had made her mistakes.
“Remember me, eh? Say hello to my beloved, but not my sister,” Benyamin whispered.
Altair sobbed a laugh.
Benyamin struggled to smile. He cupped Altair’s face. “I seized it, brother. Strength was mine. But it turns out”—he coughed and more blood spurted from his wound—“the price of dum sihr is always great.”
A tremor shook his body. Benyamin did not shed a tear. He did not cry out in pain. He entwined his fingers upon his stomach, posture at ease.
Nasir watched the light fade from his eyes, a death that wasn’t his doing, a final breath he hadn’t captured. A sacrifice. He couldn’t move, even as the sounds of battle wound around him.
Slowly, he closed Benyamin’s eyes. Skeins of black leached from his fingers, bidding farewell. He pulled a feather from his robes and touched it to Benyamin’s blood before tucking it between the folds of the safi’s thobe. The black vane glittered red. One last gift from the Prince of Death.
“Be at peace, Benyamin Haadi min Alderamin.”
Altair clasped Nasir’s hand and helped him to his feet. Never had Nasir seen the general so weary, so shattered, streaks of grief staining his golden skin.
Together, they faced the Lion of the Night.
“You have dealt your hand upon one of ours. There will be retribution.” Nasir’s voice was cold. Low. The Prince of Death drew his scimitar, a hiss through the sands, echoed by Altair’s own swords.
Again, Nasir saw that flicker of remorse. A sorrow the Lion did not deserve.
“You’ve come a long way, Prince. But you will always serve the dark,” said the Lion.
The ifrit swarmed, fortified by the shadows Nasir had unleashed.
CHAPTER 87