The people were not jubilant.
They whispered of the strange tree that had sprouted out of stone. They whispered of him. They were not bursting with love for the assassin turned sultan, and how could they? The Prince of Death had touched upon countless lives—if not directly, then indirectly. Displayed like the sultan’s prize dog, used to instate fear and obedience.
Nasir was no stranger to the way people reacted to him, but now that he had done so much, changed so much, their whispers were a thousand and one stones upon his back. He lifted his chin, determined.
Their hesitance meant there was work to be done and barriers to tear down, and Nasir reminded himself that he would not have to do any of it alone.
“Ready, brother boy?” Altair asked as the announcer finished his spiel.
Kifah was unable to stand still. “He was born for this.”
The Silver Witch smiled, for it was she who had taught him how to rule, she who had ensured he was ready.
Zafira was still not here.
A plinth held the royal crown in a shroud of gossamer. Nasir had asked them to remove the small onyx in its center, which had been set to represent his father’s Sarasin lineage. Now the crown would stand with a rare polished amber, untethered to any caliphate.
A reminder of all that they had vanquished.
The announcer returned to the shadowed alcove with a dip of his head.
“Yalla,” Altair crowed. “The food will get cold.”
“He means the belly dancers,” Kifah said.
Nasir drew a careful breath, everything muffled as he met his mother’s eyes, and went forward into the light. The crowd fell silent. He saw their fear. Their reluctance. Their curiosity.
And when he opened his mouth, every last word he had prepared disappeared.
Honesty, Zafira whispered in his skull. Honesty was easier when people expected little of you.
“My mother once said I was born to hold a crown on my head and death in my fist,” Nasir said. He was far more quiet than the announcer had been, but the balcony had been designed to carry his voice across the courtyard and into the streets. “I excelled at the latter. I killed fathers, mothers. Lovers and dignitaries. Each left their mark, in more ways than one.”
Murmurs swept through the people. His people.
“I am not—” He stopped, clenched his jaw, and started again. “I am not going to ask for forgiveness; I am going to ask for trust. In me, in the throne. Trust that Arawiya will be restored to greatness. Trust that our trade will flourish, and our cities will shine, and that one day your children will speak of these dark days as ones we overcame.”
His eyes searched the crowd until he alighted on a young woman shoving her way through the crowd. A profile of ice, a study of angles.
She had come. Her eyes were lit with pride. Her smile was bittersweet.
Honor before heart, she had said. All that she did, she did for love. For honor. For what was right.
Like that, he knew what he needed to do.
CHAPTER 104
By the time Zafira fetched Lana from Thalj, reunited with Yasmine, and returned to the Sultan’s Palace, the throngs of people that had gathered for the coronation were impenetrable. The hushed whispers and curiosity made it clear Arawiya still feared him, the Prince of Death, but if Nasir could change her heart, she knew he could change countless more.
She dragged Lana through the thick of the crowd. “This is all your fault.”
Zafira had left Sukkar behind for the very reason of trading horses and riding hard, and still they had managed to arrive late.
“It’s not my fault you never taught me how to ride as well as you,” Lana whined. She was smart enough to know that now was not the time to bring up the fact that having to restitch parts of Zafira’s wound had delayed them, too.
“She has a point,” Yasmine said.
Near the black tree, Zafira paused to lift her head to the