We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

No matter what, though, she was a part of this now. She could not see herself stepping away, not after what she had endured and all she had lost.

“Your advice is unmatched, Huntress,” Kifah drawled.

Zafira laughed. “I can’t be the one to decide which is more important to you. Your place in the Nine, which you joined for vengeance against your father. Or your place in the restoration of magic, which you once decided would be an even bigger blow to your father. Big enough that it was worth leaving Pelusia against your calipha’s wishes.” Zafira stopped to look at her. “If you leave us, you will be missed. If we restore magic without you, it will always be your victory, too.”

Kifah let out a low whistle. “And yet, once magic is restored, who’s to say how Arawiya will be?”

Once, she said, not if. That was Kifah, doubtless and fierce, but Zafira shared her concern. She was no longer the Hunter now that the Arz was gone. She wasn’t even a daughter anymore. What was she to do after magic returned?

She would need to start afresh. She and Lana.

“That’s what makes the future beautiful.” Lana’s voice came from behind them.

Kifah rolled her eyes. “I doubt there’s a fourteen-year-old as ancient as you, little Lana. That’s what makes the future terrifying.”

Zafira stilled.

Lana’s dress was sage, a pale shade of fresh sprigs adorned with tiny pearls. Pleats were set across the length, folds of bronze wound around the middle to accentuate her nimble shape. Brown kohl framed her eyes, and if Baba were here, he would have wept at the sight of his little healer, a woman now.

Lana had always been beautiful; now she was breathtaking.

“What do you think?” she asked shyly after the silence dragged on a beat too long.

Zafira lifted her brows. “I think we ought to hide you away.”

Lana wrinkled her nose dismissively, but she was glowing with pride. Happiness. It was what her sister deserved after what had happened to Aya and Umm, and Zafira decided then that no matter what, she would see this mission through. She would end the Lion with her last breath if it meant a world where Lana could be happy.

She could barely imagine a world such as that. Without the Arz, without the Lion. She wasn’t artless—she knew a world without danger could never exist, but if there was one where death didn’t loom, where a girl didn’t have to fear becoming the woman she once idolized, Zafira would find it.

Before two massive doors, a servant in white garb lowered his head, and the rest of Zafira’s thoughts were lost in a gasp. The audience hall was quite possibly the largest room she had ever seen, flourishing in the latest that art and innovation had to offer.

The floor was exquisite, creamy marble offset with small metallic diamonds lit aflame by the ornate chandeliers. Marble columns supported a domed ceiling inlaid with a mosaic of patterns in an array of deep blues, browns, and rich gold. How odd that something so far out of reach was bedecked with such intricate beauty. Tightly wound swaths of fabric clung to certain angles, rope dangling for a single pull in which the jewel-toned curtains would unfold.

“It’s so neat,” Lana said.

Zafira gave her a look. “You’re making us look uncultured.”

Kifah smirked. “After dinner is when the revelry really starts. The curtains drop, lights dim. Raqs sharqi. Arak.” She lowered her voice, clearly enjoying herself. “Debauchery.”

“Raqs sharqi … Isn’t that belly dancing?” Lana asked, eyes wide.

“Here?” Zafira asked, and Kifah broke out in laughter, making Zafira wonder just how much the Nine Elite had witnessed in the Pelusian palace.

“We’ll make sure you’re tucked into bed by then.”

A man in a white thobe and a russet turban stepped to the forefront of the hall, and Kifah cursed. “We’re late.”

She dragged Zafira and Lana past rows and rows of cushioned majlises set before low ebony tables. People tracked their progress; servants darted to and fro. The air was stifling, heady perfumes stirred with the aroma of the food still to come, and Zafira held her breath at the pungent stench of garlic underlying it all. At the head, steps led to a platform covered in richly dyed cushions and a low table, legs curved like half arches. Behind it, like the centerpiece of a woven rug, was the Gilded Throne.

Zafira could barely imagine how the place would look after the dinner. Was Nasir expected to stay? Her mind raced, imagining him lounging on the dais, eyes hooded as a woman swayed her hips for him, sheer clothes bright as the coy promise on her lips. It wasn’t as if this were his first feast. Skies, he might have attended hundreds of these.

Kifah elbowed her. Zafira spotted Seif on the opposite end of the room, his gold tattoo catching the light of the thousands of flickering flames. He still couldn’t seem to find a shirt, his bold thobe in black and deep gold unbuttoned to his bare torso.

“Calipha Ghada bint Jund min Pelusia, home to Arawiya’s greatest inventions and the Nine Elite!” the man in white announced.

The din settled to a hushed murmur.

“There she is. The source of my worries,” Kifah said, but there was pride high in her voice.