Her first and only dreamwalk.
Kifah tugged her arm as she and Nasir turned to leave, but the Silver Witch stepped between them and the plank, her cloak blinding in the early sun.
“No one is going back.”
“It’s a bit too late to impart counsel, Sultana,” Kifah said.
Though Zafira thought the Pelusian’s words were harsh, she agreed. The Silver Witch was too late to be frank with them. Even if she had fought on their side.
Even if, without her aid, they would have perished as Benyamin had.
“We can’t lose one more of ours,” Zafira said.
“I don’t intend to lose my son,” the Silver Witch said curtly. Before Nasir could protest, she continued. “You forget I know the Lion more than most. If we want to keep the hearts safe, we cannot fight him here. He has one heart, one of five of what he so terribly desires, but without the Jawarat as a guide, it is useless to him. A vessel of untapped power. He will follow us to the mainland and use Altair as leverage.”
Kifah pursed her lips at this, seeing the sense in the witch’s words.
But Nasir was not yet ready to acquiesce. “Maybe so,” he said, jaw clenched, “but there is no guarantee that Altair will be left whole.”
“That is a risk we have to take,” the witch said, looking to the sea. “I’m not losing both of you in one day.”
“I am not yours to lose,” he said coldly, but Zafira heard the hurt in his voice.
There was a touch of remorse on the Silver Witch’s face before she said, “And you are not yours to lose, either. Like it or not, you belong to the Arawiyan throne.”
Nasir held her gaze, a vein feathering in his jaw before he whirled around and half-limped to the prow of the ship, skeins of black trailing in his wake. He was like the Lion, Zafira realized. A study of darkness, a profile of shadows.
The last time Zafira had stood so close to him, she had pressed a dagger to his neck. Before that, her hands had fisted in his hair, her mouth on his.
She followed him after a moment, and he turned at her approach. His eyes were gray like the world fresh awakened from darkness, but they were shuttered and dim, just like when the Lion had pressed the poker to his skin. When she had tended to his wound and he had bared his soul.
This means nothing.
“Are you all right?” she asked, extending an alliance.
“Define ‘all right,’” he said quietly.
She reached for his arm, expecting him to pull away. He stilled when she tugged up his sleeve, where rivulets of shadow crept up his golden skin, swallowing the words inked upon his arm. His hand was warm in hers. “‘All right’ is when you’re bleeding black but it’s not as bad as bleeding red. When the world crashes but you’re not alone when it does. When the darkness is absolute but you hunt down the smallest flame and coax it brighter. When you carve the good out of every bad and claim it a victory.” She released his arm, but he didn’t move. “If Sharr has taught me anything, it’s that every breath is a victory.”
One side of his lips curled into a smile before he stopped himself. “I suppose I am then. All right.”
Waves crashed upon the side of the ship as the crew readied to set sail. The Silver Witch idled in silence, eyes trained in the distance. Zafira couldn’t imagine how she felt, losing a son she had never claimed, reuniting with a son she had shown a different face. Being used and used and used by the man she loved.
After a moment, Nasir sighed. “I can’t leave him.”
“We’re not leaving him. We’re recouping,” Zafira said, knowing of whom he spoke. “Altair knows we’ll come back for him.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, and he sounded tired. “If our situations were reversed, he would have fought tooth and nail for me. But he knows I was sent to Sharr to kill him. He knows I don’t disobey orders.”
Zafira thought of Altair, in some dank place, imprisoned by the Lion, hopeless. Helpless. He would endure it, he had to. So she said what he would: “We’ll just have to surprise him, then.”
“Optimism suits you.” Nasir smiled then, a true smile.
It looked foreign as they stood before the sea, tumultuous and wild. But like everything that had come to pass on this journey, it was laced in sorrow.
They had lifted the decades-old curse and freed magic from Sharr, even if they had freed the Lion in the process. They had salvaged four hearts, even if they were leaving one behind. They had triumphed over the Lion’s hordes, even if they had lost Benyamin for good and Altair for now. The safi would never be buried with his son, but he would forever rest with the Sisters. Zafira had succeeded in her quest to find the Jawarat, even if she had lost Deen.
They had magic now, even if she no longer felt the rush of it through her veins. And until they returned the hearts to the royal minarets again, she never would. The hearts were merely hearts.