“In Alderamin,” Altair replied. “We lost the Alder calipha, Benyamin’s mother, and without Aya as his charge, Seif’s place is there. He’ll protect the Alder heart and aid Benyamin’s sister, Leila, in claiming her throne.” He heaved a sigh at that. “What’s worse in all this is that no dignitary will divulge the massacre. For good reason, of course, but it means no one outside of the feast will question or fear the Lion.”
Zafira was only now beginning to understand the repercussions of the feast. The sultan was dead, a self-proclaimed king in his place, but the caliphates had always been, to an extent, independent. The bloodbath had toppled that system, bringing with it a swell of fear and uncertainty that no leader would rightly impart to their people.
“No point lamenting,” Kifah said with force, crossing her arms as Nasir tossed wood into the hearth, discreetly glancing at Zafira’s wound. “We need that heart. And if the Lion was in a big enough hurry to leave you unsecured”—she gave Altair a pointed glance, to which he feigned hurt—“there’s bound to be something else he’s missed.”
Altair’s mouth widened into a grin. “There is this.”
Bint Iskandar.
Not now, she snapped in her head. Altair closed his fingers around the black hilt of a dagger sheathed around his leg and pulled it free. It was black down to the tip of its blade.
Zafira had seen that wicked knife before. In the hands of the Lion. In midair. Striking the Silver Witch.
“The Lion’s black dagger,” she marveled.
“The one and only,” Altair said, flipping it over in his hands with a faraway look.
She studied him. “And the reason you went back.”
Altair smiled, and she didn’t miss the flicker of relief in his eye. “Ever perceptive, Huntress. It was indeed why I went back, when Nasir told me our mother was unable to heal herself. It just so happens that black ore strips one of magic. You saw how little your arrow affected him. There are spells that protect those who speak them, making the enchanted impossible to overpower. So long as the heart provides him with magic, wounding him will be impossible. Yet, until we wound him, we won’t be able to retrieve the heart. Akhh, I love conundrums.”
“And with the black dagger, we have a chance of stripping him of his power,” Kifah reasoned, foot tapping a beat. “Should have asked me.” She flourished a hand across the lightning blades sheathed along her arm. “I’ve got black ore to spare.”
Altair peered at them. “Pure black ore, One of Nine. See that silver sheen? They’ve been mixed with steel.”
Kifah didn’t look surprised. “I should have known anything of my father’s would be rubbish. Now, don’t lose that thing.”
“I don’t make a habit of handing important artifacts over to the Lion,” Altair said lightly. “I’ll keep it safe. In my own rooms.”
Zafira ducked her head.
“Using the dagger requires getting close,” said Nasir, ignoring the gibe.
“Oi, Zafira went and felt his pulse,” Kifah said, waving away his concern, and Zafira stared at her empty teacup.
“No one said it would be easy,” Altair said, sheathing the dagger. “But we have a chance now where we didn’t before, and it’s time we take back what’s ours. And yours, Nasir. Worry not—I’ll even polish your throne for you.”
Nasir gave him a look.
Heed us, bint Iskandar. The heart fights him, yet it will soon be tainted by him.
The Jawarat waited for its words to register. Zafira’s hands fell to the cover, confusion giving way to horrible understanding.
Once it is tainted, it cannot sit within a minaret.
The others stopped talking. Kifah and Nasir frowned at the book. Altair stared.
“What can’t sit within a minaret?” Nasir asked, jaw set.
“The heart,” Zafira whispered, too hollow, too anguished to care that the book had used her again. “We’re running out of time.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Kifah asked with the same dread suddenly cloaking the room. She had gone still as a bird trapped beneath snow.
“It’s a si’lah heart. Meant to live within the si’lah themselves or the minarets of their making. It was never intended for the body of someone half ifrit, half safin.”
Her first thought was not to trust the Jawarat, not after she’d seen how capable it was of manipulating, stealing memories and exploiting others. But it made sense, didn’t it? It was the same as placing a fish in an empty bowl and expecting it to survive.
“That means—skies, we need to get it back now,” she said, “or all that we’ve done will have been for nothing. The Baransea, Sharr. Finding the Jawarat.”