We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

Meaning to search for some sign of the Lion or Altair, he soon found himself in the latter’s rooms. They were ghostly without his riotous laughter and boisterous voice, and an ache began somewhere in Nasir’s chest. He trailed his hand along the table, the vases full of dates and sweets and candy-coated almonds. Every chair was draped with an ostentatious throw, and his gaze softened at the sight of a dallah on a low table. The faint whiff of Altair’s beloved qahwa clung to the air.

Nasir pulled back the curtain and stepped into the bedroom. His ears burned as he remembered the last time he was here.

He had always wondered why Altair’s rooms were different from the rest. Why he had been given first choice—the golden wall latticed in the most ornate of patterns; the sprawling platform bed, twice as wide as Nasir’s own; the circular skywindow cut into the center of the ceiling, providing an unhindered view of the sky.

He knew now that it wasn’t for any reason other than Altair being alive to choose them. How did it feel to live on when the moons rose and fell without end? To see people born and age and wither and die while one still retained one’s youth?

Sad.

That was how it felt to even think it.

It wouldn’t be so foreign a concept for himself, either. Nasir was half si’lah, and though his mortal blood would not allow him to live forever, he would live long enough to be glad of it. Unless he was killed, of course. Always so lively, Altair said in his head.

Nasir tugged his already-lowered sleeve over the words inked on his arm. I once loved. Those years could be endless, or they could be nothing at all depending on how he lived them, and who he lived them with.

He skimmed the bookshelf, four planks of insanity. Each book brimmed with life—random markers, loose sheaves shoved every which way. Nothing was arranged by size or color or any semblance of order.

What can I say? I like my shelves messy and my lovers well fed.

It was what Altair had to say when Nasir had remarked upon them. Before Sharr, when the oaf had been half-dressed and decidedly not alone.

The reed pen rolled off Altair’s desk, and Nasir bent to fetch it, snaring on a bump in the wool rug. He crouched with a frown, tugging his glove free to run his fingers along a palmette the size of his hand in the corner. It was raised.

With care, he peeled off the motif sewn onto the rug.

Large enough to hide a stack of letters.

Nasir paused, glancing from the worn folds of papyrus, earthy and rough-edged, to the doorway.

“I’m becoming a nosy old crone,” he said to himself, and leaned against the bed beneath the night sky. Curiosity made him do this, for Altair was loud and shameless—and smart. He left no trail save for the one in his head. Why hadn’t these been burned? Perhaps there hadn’t been time during the rush of readying for Sharr.

Nasir parted the first fold of papyrus. Then he flicked to the next, and the one after, ears burning hotter and hotter.

They were love letters.

Ours is the most fervent of love …

I yearn for you endlessly …

My days pass in waiting for you, my nights in dreaming of you …

Not all were innocent. Some were scant—Does

your body ache for my touch as mine for yours?—while others were longer and detailed, the words stirring his blood. He was a prince, an assassin, a monster, but in the end he was still a boy.

And that was when he saw it, tucked between the wanton words and indecent declarations.

The road will be secured two days hence.

Tariffs dropped between Pelusia and Demenhur. Validated by Nawal.

Distribution at Dar al-Fawda. Pelusian provisions.

Trade agreements. Treaties. Discussions. These weren’t love letters. These were fragments of Altair’s web, proof of his labors to unify the kingdom. Nasir could see him gathering ordinary people, arming them with bravery and courage, driving them with his wit and charm. Rousing hope in a way very few could, commanding men in an army and hearts of the common folk just the same.

While Nasir murdered them. While he, the prince born with the obligation to care for and ensure their safety, killed them.

The letters trembled in his hands. Wrinkled in his grip.