We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

She couldn’t care less that she was here, standing before the Sultan’s Palace, a place she had seen through Baba’s tales and never expected to witness herself.

The ornate gates swung inward, granting them entrance. Each of the guards swept a bow as Nasir passed. Zafira tried to ignore their scrutiny, at once insignificant and powerful. The path to the palace was set with interlacing stones that swelled and tapered like the scales on a marid’s tail, umber glittering gold. Under the watchful gaze of the stone lion fountain in the center, Nasir told them he had broken the sultan’s medallion.

“And you presumed it something to boast about?” Seif dismissed with no shortage of scorn. “Merely removing a chain while we were out there neck to neck with death?”

Zafira knew no one else understood Nasir’s pride. It wasn’t for what he’d done, but that he’d done it at all: Taken control. Acted of his own accord.

She opened her mouth, blood burning, but Kifah beat her to it, spear flashing in the early light.

“Enough,” Kifah snapped. “Did it work?” she asked Nasir, ever practical.

“I tho—I think—” Nasir stopped.

Seif scoffed. “You think.”

Zafira knew no one saw his bare flinch either. The world could be remade, but abuse could never be undone.

“He suspects we’ll use dum sihr to find the Lion, and he was not pleased. He’s forbidden it. The man I killed—”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Nasir didn’t respond, and Zafira saw the exact moment when his mask fitted back into place. His back steeled, his jaw hardened. The Prince of Death.

“I’m hungry,” she said suddenly.

The tension snapped like a bowstring. Kifah snorted. The palace doors groaned open beyond the arched entrances.

“Mortals,” Seif muttered, crossing his arms as Aya joined them in a flutter of lilac.

“You need this mortal, safi,” Zafira bit out. She felt Nasir watching her, now that she wasn’t watching him. “And if I’m to slit my hand and find Altair and the heart, I need to eat.”

Oblivious, Aya ushered them inside the palace as confident as if she were its queen. She took one glance at the vial of blood hanging from Zafira’s neck and beamed, quickly hiding a warble of her lips. “We must mark this occasion, my loves. Every victory must be celebrated, however small.”

Zafira couldn’t smile back, not when the sheath at her thigh hung achingly empty. Why was it that victories were forever riddled with loss?

That, and the palace made her feel out of place. The halls were bathed in golden light, heaving with shadows that danced, eager for the Lion. She saw extravagance at her every glance, dripping from the suspended lanterns, gilding the intricate, arching walls. Columns twisting with interlacing florals, pots overflowing with greenery too lush to be real, gossamer curtains fluttering shyly in the dry breeze of the wide windows, and beckoning balconies.

People filed in and out of the great double doors, dignitaries arriving for the ominous feast. Servants polished the ornate floors to a shine, and majlis after majlis was readied by nimble-fingered needlewomen. Chandeliers were brought down and lined with fresh oil wicks, and goats bleated from deeper inside where she presumed the kitchens would be, oblivious to their impending slaughter.

Servants led Zafira away from the others, and like a fool, she glanced at him, to see if he’d turn. Look at her. Acknowledge her.

He continued on, deep in conversation with Kifah. And it was as if, suddenly, they were strangers again. The cloaked Hunter, the aloof Prince of Death.

She didn’t think it was possible to stand footsteps away and miss him even more.

Zafira hurried after the servants to her quarters, as large as her and Yasmine’s houses combined, spacious enough to host an entire village for a feast. The ornaments alone could feed them for a year. There was a mirror wider than any she’d seen, an assortment of vials in front of it that Zafira deemed useless because she never understood what ointment was meant to accentuate which part of her face and in which order. Another low table held lidded bowls, one with almonds, another with pistachio-studded nougat, and the third with dates.

She stepped farther into the room and knelt to touch the stupendously large platform bed, softer than the fur of the supplest of rabbits. Her mind flashed to the Lion wearing Nasir’s face and her head spun, weariness tugging at her eyelids. But she was too guilty to climb beneath the covers knowing he was out there and that she could find him, the Jawarat, the heart, Altair—daama everything by losing yet another part of herself.

Sweet snow, she was tired. She lowered her cheek to the sheets, and didn’t think she had ever felt something so glorious in her life.

“Huntress.”

Zafira turned. The room was dark, unfamiliar.

The Silver Witch greeted her with a twist of her lips. “The first time is always the hardest.”

Umm had once said that about something far more mundane than what she was going to do. Ah, right. To Yasmine, when she’d snuck away with a boy once. A pang ripped through her heart.