We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

The guard stepped aside. “The sultan awaits the amir’s presence.”

Nasir lifted his brows at the semblance of respect. “The sultan, or the Lion?”

Aya stiffened. The guard only blinked. “The sultan, sayyidi. We were told the amir’s party would be larger.”

“Is that why he sent armed men to greet us?” Nasir asked, and the man grew flustered.

Aya took pity on him. “The rest of our party did not wish to come.”

Five pairs of eyes assessed her and her tattoo. Very few knew of the High Circle, and Nasir wondered if they could tell she was not human despite the ivory shawl shrouding her ears. Their scrutiny dropped to the staff in her hand.

“For my balance,” she said.

The guard nodded, appeased by her dreamy smile, and led them across the foyer, up the twenty-three steps of the winding staircase, and across six paces to the wide double doors carved from alabaster and framed in polished limestone. Nasir knew the layout of the palace as well as the back of his hand—better, perhaps. He never inspected the hands he used for killing.

They paused before the doors and Nasir glanced back at Lana. “All right?”

She nodded, fear flaring her eyes, and Nasir regretted his decision to bring her. He should have left her down in the kitchens, where mopping the floors would be the worst of it.

Too soon, the guards heaved open the groaning doors.

Nasir blinked back against the unexpected spill of brightness. Nearly every dark curtain in the throne room was open, light carving ominous shadows into the ornate walls. The windows were designed to illuminate the Gilded Throne, and illuminate they did, framing the Sultan of Arawiya in an ironic halo.

Five hooded men stood to the right of the dais, another five to the left. They were fitted with gauntlets and contoured robes, as unmoving as statues. Hashashins.

Nasir entered. His steps were whisper-soft along the black carpet that cut a swath of darkness across the alabaster, and he was painfully aware of Ghameq watching his every breath. Aya and Lana flanked him, the rhythmic tap of the safi’s staff a pounding in his skull.

At the foot of the white dais, he stopped. A faint whiff of bakhour rose to his senses, the musk and jasmine familiar. Three steps up, and he would stand at throne level.

Sultan Ghameq stared at him down the bridge of his nose. The gray eyes Nasir had inherited were full of scorn, distaste furrowing his mouth.

It’s not him, Nasir reminded himself.

Two men shared the throne: one mortal, one ancient. One who had fathered him, and one who had stolen Altair. Laa, the Lion had stolen far more than that.

“I did not think you would come,” Ghameq said.

No greetings. No smirk. Nothing at all. The medallion hung between the folds of his gold-edged cloak, the leash by which the Lion held him. Nasir knew how to fix this. How to ensure the dignitaries’ safety.

He lifted his gaze back to his father’s.

Sultans don’t wear turbans, his mother had once teased.

I am Sarasin first, sultan second, his father had replied. A keffiyah and a circlet might make for a royal display, but never a pragmatic one. The exchange was forever ago, when those gray eyes hadn’t hidden amber ones. When his father still carried the pride of his heritage like a bannerman in war.

“I suppose I should be flattered you invited me,” Nasir replied.

The derision that rolled from his father’s throat was so familiar that he could have mimicked it. But for once, he didn’t feel the overwhelming desire to rein in his words. He would not cower before the Lion.

“Sharr gave you a tongue.” Ghameq stood. “Or was it the girl?”

Nasir stilled.

He heard the hitch of Aya’s breath. Felt the distress rolling off Lana in waves.

“You forget, boy. I am your father.”

Even Ghameq’s laugh was poised to belittle, and a roaring started in Nasir’s head.