We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

Her words were followed by a soft keening from Umm’s room. Something propelled Zafira forward—instinct, perhaps—before she remembered Baba’s glassy eyes, blood stretching a horizon across his chest. She clenched her teeth and dug in her heels.

“So much for that.” Oblivious, Lana shoved the blanket away with a scrunch of her nose. “Is the trek to Sharr really the day after tomorrow?”

Zafira looked away. “Yes.”

Lana’s disappointment was a fist to her stomach, and she forced herself to meet those eyes. Baba’s eyes, earnest and ancient.

“I’m sorry, Lana.”

“Will you take someone with you?” she asked, and glanced wistfully at the novel tucked under her blanket before adding, “A safi would be a good ally to have on your side.”

“I don’t know who’s going. I don’t even know if this is real. But you and I both know that safin don’t care about us.”

The so-called great safin—with their pointed ears, heightened abilities, and endless lives—had abandoned Arawiya when the people needed them most. The caliphates had relied on magic the way a drunk man relied on his glass—except for Alderamin. And now that magic was gone, the safin lived as fine a life as they had before, selfishly hoarding their resources and turning their noses from Arawiya’s suffering.

“Maybe they want to help but can’t,” Lana said. “They have the Wastes on one side and the Arz on the other.”

“If they tried hard enough, they would be here.”

Lana considered that, her sweet features twisted in thought. “You’re a good person, Okht. But you can’t do everything you want to do.”

Zafira broke into a soft smile, realizing it had been a long time since she’d given anything the benefit of the doubt.

Lana paused on her way to Umm’s room. “You don’t have to go, though. It’s only an invitation.”

But every time Zafira thought of not going, she felt she was denying herself something she wanted, though she didn’t know how or why she wanted it, except that she did. It felt, somehow, as though she had been waiting for this, and now that the opportunity was finally here, she couldn’t let it pass.

It was Sharr.

It was danger and death in the worst possible way, yet the very idea made her blood hum, and she couldn’t explain that in a way Lana would understand.

So “I do,” was all she said, surprising them both.

Lana looked everywhere but at Zafira. She knew that Lana wouldn’t press, that Lana trusted her, but she still felt a sinking sort of horrible when her sister nodded and said, “Okay.”

“I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to the sooq to … to think.”

Zafira stepped away slowly and then moved quickly. She laced her boots and sheathed Baba’s jambiya at her waist. Baba had taught her many things—how to pull back a bow without a whisper of a sound, how to see with her ears and navigate with her heart. After her first venture into the Arz, he had taught her how to protect herself, how the Arz was hers to tame. But never remain unarmed was what he stressed the most.

What would Baba say now, about her desire to keep pretending to be a man, which Yasmine called foolish? Which Baba himself had once urged her not to do? Would he want her to venture to Sharr if he knew magic was to be gained?

Zafira lifted the latch.

“Okht.” Lana ducked her head and held out a small parcel of food. “To help you think.”

Zafira dropped it in her bag. Then she touched a finger to Lana’s nose and brushed a kiss to her forehead with a smile, leaving her sister with the mother Zafira refused to see.

CHAPTER 8

When Nasir and Altair approached the towering doors of the palace together, the guards couldn’t mask their wide-eyed surprise quickly enough. Nasir still didn’t believe it, either. He had gone to a tavern with Altair of all people, for a glass of water and a pot of coffee.

“Sleep well, Prince,” Altair murmured as he retreated down another corridor. “Try not to dream of me.”

Nasir ignored him and dragged himself up the dark stairs. Sharr. Sharr. Sharr. It was as if the word had somehow made him drunk on the arak he refused to drink.

Yet when he stepped into his chambers, he froze, Sharr forgotten.

Someone blocked the air to his right, barely holding back hushed breathing. He flicked his wrist before he remembered that his gauntlet blades were stored uselessly in his bedside drawer, and he almost laughed at his luck. He unsheathed his jambiya with a tug of its onyx hilt and loosed a breath as he took one slow step to his right. Then another. Inhale. Two more steps. Exhale.