She would live in a world with glory akin to that of a century ago. Magic would roar in her veins, hum in her limbs. And it wasn’t only her, but everyone. Arawiya would thrive again.
It had to. She would not let herself think of the alternative.
The night was fading by the time they reached the palace in Leil. They rounded to the royal minaret, and Zafira was surprised to find three safin of the High Circle awaiting their arrival. The zumra neared the glittering tower, anticipation crowding her lungs.
“Akhh,” Altair exclaimed at the sight of the stairs spiraling to the very top of the minaret.
With an exasperated look at him, Nasir disappeared into an alcove and soon enough, the squeak of a rope filled the quiet. Thousands of oil lamps flickered to life, and the floor beneath them began to rise.
No one spoke. Everyone stared at the heart in Zafira’s hands.
“It’s slowing,” Zafira murmured.
The pulley creaked and the floor rose and rose before finally screeching to a stop.
Cool air brushed her skin, winding around her neck with a gentle caress much like the Lion’s darkness, and she held her breath as she stepped into the night. The others followed in hushed silence.
Sarasin unfolded beneath them, a perfect bird’s-eye view of darkness interspersed with flecks of fire like embers in the wind.
Zafira gave it all a passing glance, for her gaze was set much closer: the pedestal in the center of the annular space. Stone hands curved upward in everlasting prayer, the same mottled gray of the ones that had grasped the Jawarat on Sharr.
No one spoke. She did not think anyone dared breathe.
Her footsteps were heartbeats on the tiles. In her lungs was a drum. The Jawarat, too, held its breath, for it had at last learned that it could cling upon hope.
Zafira had only made it halfway when her legs stumbled to a halt, freezing her in place.
“No,” she cried.
As the heart
crumbled
in her hands.
We warned you, the Jawarat said, but not even it could find a way to be smug.
Anguish tore from her in the shape of a sob. The wind rose, winding through her hands, ashes scattering and swirling into the night, leaving her bare.
Empty.
She dropped to her knees with a shattered breath.
She did not care about Kifah’s soft cry. Altair’s croak. Nasir lifting his fingers through the fading dust. The Silver Witch, witness to every broken moment.
No. Zafira thought of Deen, who had died for this. Of Yasmine, who had lost for this. Of Misk and his sacrifice. Of Benyamin and his dreams.
Of Baba, who had taught her the enchantment of magic, parting the cage of her ribs and feeding desire into her very soul. She brushed her knuckles down the ache in her heart.
Never, ever to be sated.
“How?” she whispered.
The zumra remained silent as she wept. No one spoke of hope, for there was none.
CHAPTER 100
Zafira couldn’t stand the sight of those stone palms any longer. Empty. As empty as her chest, her lungs, her heart. She pressed her hands to the floor, dust biting her skin, and her vision clouded with this terrible dream.