We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

Zafira didn’t know when Aya had lost the ability to hope.

“If the archer had been even half as skilled as you are, you wouldn’t have stood a chance. You’re lucky you had Lana on the journey with you to stanch the bleeding and keep you alive until they got you here to the supplies she needed. She knitted you back together, commanding everyone like a little general. Poor thing collapsed from fatigue a little while ago.”

Of course it was Lana. Zafira felt a swell of pride, until Yasmine pulled away and she caught sight of the familiar walls. The basin in the corner with its chipped edge. The mirror with its fissure that always stretched her eyes too far apart.

This wasn’t the palace in Thalj. It was no palace at all—laa, it was a poor man’s house.

It was her room. She was home.

“Why are we here?” she breathed.

“Apparently there was only one way to save you, and it was in your umm’s cabinet.”

Or in Alderamin, Zafira didn’t say. Aya was bound to have tenfold of their mother’s collection. Ya, Ummi. Before, Zafira had lived with the guilt of not seeing her. Now every glimpse filled her with an aching, numbing emptiness.

The reminder that she was an orphan was a wound opened afresh.

“It’s strange being back, isn’t it?” Yasmine asked, misinterpreting her silence. “Like wearing an old dress washed one too many times.”

It was true. Now that Zafira had seen the palace’s smooth walls and the sheen on its floors, she was painfully aware of her home’s every blemish. The dark veins of rot creeping from the broken windowpane she never had enough coins to repair. The armoire with its doors that didn’t sit right, cutting a shadowy gap that Lana refused to look at for fear of nightmares. The doorway that Baba would lean against as he wished his daughters good night.

Zafira cleared her closed throat. “Was it Kifah who brought me in?”

“If she’s one of the Nine Elite, then yes. They brought you here in one of those fancy Pelusian carriages that travel unnaturally fast. She’s the only one who stuck around, though.”

“And the others,” Zafira ventured. “Are they … are they here?”

“Others? It’s just us. I left Thalj to come here as soon as Lana’s missive arrived, and that was before Caliph Ayman returned from Sultan’s Keep. So I don’t know if he’s alive.”

No, not the old fool.

Altair, who had materialized in a halo of light to help them at the doomed feast after turning his back on them.

Seif, who wielded scythes like the silks of a dancer.

Nasir.

Nasir. Nasir.

Yasmine canted her head, her shawl sliding from her shoulder. “And here I thought I’d never see color on your cheeks. Are you all right?”

Zafira nodded meekly, unable to meet her eyes for more reasons than one.

“The snow’s still here, if you’re wondering.” Yasmine looked at her hands.

No, Zafira hadn’t been wondering. She was thinking of Deen now, which meant Yasmine was, too.

“It’s falling less. The elders hope the

change will be gradual, or the caliphate could flood.”

Deen’s name rolled to the edge of Zafira’s tongue.

She lifted her eyes and met Yasmine’s gaze that was every bit Deen’s. Sorrow stirred her stomach.

“I know.” Yasmine’s voice was flat, the stiff line of her shoulders cutting. “I’ve known.”

Zafira held still, trapped in a case made of glass. How dare you feel sorry, guilt demanded. How dare she, when it was her fault?