We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

A raven’s coo drew Zafira’s attention as the Pelusian calipha strode down the farthest row in a turban of liquid gold, her abaya wide and sweeping. The dark bird assessed the room from her shoulder, as alert as a hashashin. Ghada’s daughter followed, as dark as the night and her mother, her purple abaya clinging to her generous curves, hair tucked beneath a red turban. There was a playfulness to her eyes and the quirk of her mouth.

She was one of the young women Nasir would choose from by the night’s end.

“Is that Nawal?” Lana asked quietly.

Kifah nodded. “Ghada’s daughter was the closest I had to a friend, and now she’s the only reason I’m being tolerated at all.”

Eight more followed the calipha: their heads shorn, outfits of red rimmed in purple depicting the colors of Pelusia, arms bare except for their golden cuffs. Not one of them was tattooed, and they were all notably calmer than Kifah was. Or maybe Zafira had gotten

so used to Kifah’s restless demeanor that it only looked like the rest of the Nine Elite moved like slugs.

“Do you regret it?” Zafira asked.

“Do I regret wanting revenge, you mean?” Kifah snorted. “Never. I just need to decide if it’s still worth it.”

The deep voice rang out again: “Caliph Rayyan bin Jafar min Zaram, where the mighty forged a path through the cursed forest, and none could stop them!”

Perhaps it was because of what she knew of the Zaramese—that they were brutes who tamed the seas, who fought in arenas and reveled in blood—that Zafira expected their caliph to be a brawny, callous man.

Caliph Rayyan bin Jafar looked like a reed swaying at the water’s edge, his wiry build folding beneath the weight of his jeweled cloak. He was followed by his daughter in a headdress made of shells, more regal than the caliph himself, and his three sons.

“The esteemed Calipha Rania and daughter Leila min Alderamin, where the safin idle in elegance, immortal to the bone!”

No one outside of Alderamin had seen the royal Alder family in nearly a century, and the silence was instant.

Every head swiveled to witness Benyamin’s mother. Safin were always pushing the boundaries of Arawiyan tradition, and the calipha’s appearance was no exception. She was average in height, her long hair unbound and uncovered, crowned with a gold circlet at her temple. Her elongated ears were wrapped in gold, her black abaya studded with rosy pearls. Vanity shrouded her like a cloak, and she carried her beauty with a sharp-edged cruelty.

By her side was another safi, taller by a hand, a tattoo circling her left eye. The neckline of her abaya was cut deeper than modesty would ever allow, and Zafira quickly lifted her gaze from the plunging seams. Her face, unexpectedly, was kind, her eyes a familiar umber.

“Benyamin’s sister,” Kifah murmured. Did Leila know her brother was dead? That her sister-in-law had joined the forces of the Lion? “Bleeding Guljul, that calipha. Can you imagine what would happen if our prince was fool enough to ask her daughter to be his wife?”

“Chaos?” Lana asked.

Kifah nodded. “Bloodbath.”

Zafira didn’t doubt it. Wearing the crown of sultana held no merit if it meant sitting beside a mostly mortal husband. Even if he was half si’lah.

“You can’t let him do it, Okhti. You can’t let him marry anyone else,” Lana murmured, gripping her arm. Anyone else, as if she were a contender in a roster of royal women. She, a peasant from the poorest village of Demenhur.

Zafira shushed her.

Like the rest, the calipha, her daughter, and their circle remained standing. No one smiled. Their ears were in full display as if to say Look at my immortality and bow.

“Caliph Ayman al-Ziya min Demenhur!”

Ice flooded Zafira’s veins. Her caliph strode down the row with his hunched shoulders and fading hair. Lana made a sound akin to a growl. Haytham was close at the caliph’s heels, wearing a checkered keffiyah held by a black rope, a sword sheathed by his side with a brilliant moonstone pommel. He was the picture of a dutiful wazir, except for his haunted eyes, hollow circles beneath them.

Zafira remembered his sorrow from when they’d stood before the missing Arz, how terrible it had been. What his face showed now was infinitely worse, and she couldn’t understand what would cause it. Death? More secrets?

He had known all along that Zafira was a girl, and never said a word. He had recognized in her what he had instilled in the caliph’s daughter, discarded for her gender. If not for Haytham, the girl would have lacked the tutelage of an heir.

White-hot rage shot through Zafira’s skull as she recalled that no one in Arawiya, aside from Haytham and herself, even knew that the caliph of Demenhune had a daughter.

Kifah gripped her arm. “Oi, stay calm.”

Zafira swayed back with a low breath and ran her gaze across the gathered crowd.

She hated Ayman. She hated how angry he made her feel, rekindling the rage born from her bond with the Jawarat. The surrounding noise blurred into one, her blood rushing through her ears. The burning rage seared her gaze.