We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

Zafira’s slow blink turned to a scowl when she realized what Kifah was implying.

“She’s married,” she deadpanned. “And Altair killed her brother.”

Kifah only shrugged again as they turned down the hall. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Zafira?” Yasmine stepped from one of the rooms as if summoned by their conversation, a shawl clutched in her hand. Her hair fell in freshly washed curls, kissing her cheeks.

Kifah lifted her brows.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Yasmine said. She looked between them, gaze narrowing to slits.

“I was,” Zafira replied, wanting to step close. Fear held her in place. “I’m going to see Lana.”

A door slammed down the adjacent hall, and a laugh echoed, boisterous and free. The dread coiling in Zafira’s stomach was instant and girdling.

“You should have seen your face, habibi.”

It’s fine, she told herself. Yasmine didn’t know Altair by the tone of his voice. Only by name.

“Always happy to be the source of your amusement, Altair,” came Nasir’s exasperated reply.

Zafira looked at Kifah, and Kifah looked at Yasmine.

Perhaps, if they hadn’t been here, Yasmine would have thought nothing of it. But their pause gave Yasmine pause. She stiffened, and Zafira saw the moment recognition dawned, her features morphing into anger and rage, eyes bright and livid.

Khara.

“You know,” Kifah said lightly, “maybe Yasmine can take you to Lana, eh? I—I have to go.”

“Go where?” Yasmine snapped, but Kifah was already jogging backward with a two-fingered salute. Yasmine hoisted her abaya and ran after her.

Now both of them were leaving her.

“Wait!” Zafira called. “What about me?”

Kifah turned down the hall, disappearing from view. Yasmine didn’t look back.

Do something, you fool. Zafira winced and shoved her fingers against her wound, crying out at the sudden pain. Yasmine slowed but didn’t stop.

“Akhh, One of Nine, why the rush?” Altair exclaimed, moving closer.

Zafira hissed again, just for good measure.

Yasmine looked back at her. “Now what is it?”

“Lana,” Zafira gasped, clutching her chest as blood blossomed across her wrappings. Perhaps this was a little too good an act. “I think my wound broke again.”

Yasmine wavered, torn between going after Altair or helping her bleeding friend. Zafira nearly scowled, doubling over and throwing a hand against the wall instead.

“Yasmine!”

“All right,” she snarled. “I’m coming.”

Zafira heaved a relieved sigh. Altair deserved the brunt of Yasmine’s anger, but not now. Later, when everything was through, she would make the introductions herself.

Yasmine grumbled all the way to Lana’s door and abandoned her immediately, but Zafira didn’t mind. She’d done her job. She stepped into a room with shelves upon shelves of little bottles—a regular arsenal of healing supplies—and Lana, almost invisible in the shapely rays of evening light.

It was much like the rest of the palace: carved white shadowed by gray, accented in silver that complemented the deep blue furnishings, but this space smelled of so many herbs that Zafira’s nose couldn’t decipher a single one aside from rosemary, which she had never liked but Lana had always loved.