We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

He brushed a hand across the word with a soft smile, followed by a flash of pain he quickly masked. “Each of the safin in my circle have a similar tattoo, a word for what we value most. For me, it is truth followed closely by trust—separate vines of value entwined at the root.”

He had a fondness for zumras, it seemed. Though she didn’t think the one he was trying to form on Sharr could compare to the majesty of a zumra of elegant safin.

A murmur carried from the balcony, the voice rising and falling ever so gently. Singing. It reminded Zafira of laughter beneath a bright sun. Of tears before a still soul. It was beautiful, despondent.

“Who is that?” she asked, repressing a shiver.

Benyamin turned to face the balcony, a rueful smile on his face. “My wife.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”

“I would have invited you to our wedding, but you weren’t alive at the time,” he teased.

The tune changed. The words were rife with sorrow and Benyamin’s shoulders bunched. Zafira heard a rattling before he shook, and she realized he was crying.

She did not think vain safin could cry. It didn’t seem right.

“Don’t cry,” she said quietly, and it sounded like a stupid thing to say, but she didn’t know what else to do. “This is your dream, your memory. Your first dreamwalk in years.”

“There’s no greater curse than memory,” he said finally. He closed his eyes and tried to recollect himself, the tattoo on his face mourning with him. “Tragedies happen once, memories relive them eternally. You understand that, don’t you? You have floundered in loss.”

She had. She didn’t think she would ever stop seeing Baba’s face. His last word before he lunged at her. His final breath gasping from his lungs as he looked at the woman who killed him—and smiled.

“We get to choose which memories to relive. You brought me here to Alderamin without the Arz. You chose to relive a memory without its tainted trees,” she said. “Memories aren’t always bad.”

He shook his head. “My wife is the most beautiful safin Alderamin will ever behold, second only to one other.” She almost laughed at his certainty, but he was wholly serious. “My son. Did you know that until him, I had never seen a coffin so small?”

Zafira froze.

“Safin are immortal, Huntress; we heal quickly and never fear old age. We can die, of course, and though such a thing is rare, I have buried my fair share of safin—battle-hardened safin, fallen in war.

“But never a child—until my son. Whose hands were too small to carry a sword, whose teeth were too small to taste the sweetness of an apple. Whose laugh was the smallest I have witnessed, but the most bountiful sound—” Benyamin choked off.

She had seen small coffins in Demenhur. Umm would always say that no parent should have to bury their child.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and it felt cruel, saying those words.

“I am, too,” he murmured, because he understood.

The Baransea churned in the silence, and the gossamer curtains behind them billowed in the breeze. Birds called to the sun, and the din of the people below filled her lungs. Benyamin’s wife continued to sing for her dead son. It was melancholy. It was sad, but also not.

Benyamin inhaled and turned away, though rivulets of pain still shone in his umber eyes. “You

were never intended to make the journey to Sharr alone, Huntress. The Silver Witch guards her words for reasons you do not understand. We may not trust one another completely, but it is important we carry on as a zumra. It is important to remember that everything and everyone has the capacity for both evil and benevolence.”

Zafira scoffed. “Don’t tell me you believe the prince has the capacity for good.”

He held her gaze. “Everyone has a turning point. A breaking point, too.”

Those black scars flashed in Zafira’s mind.

“You know him well,” she said, softer this time.

“My knowledge comes from a mutual acquaintance.”

Altair. She doubted there was anyone else so close to the prince. Not by the way they acted around each other.

“In that vein,” Benyamin continued, “Alderamin is no better than the Sarasins in Sultan’s Keep. Neither sends delegations or attempts alliances. It isn’t merely the Arz that keeps us apart. Alderamin views the rest of Arawiya as a disease, so we’ve quarantined ourselves. Sarasin sees the world through the eyes of a vulture, as a feast of land to be had.”