We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

The caliph was silent.

Zafira felt she had overstepped. Skies, Zafira. Thalj? She worried her lip and flicked her gaze to Haytham, but he was a picture of nervous emotion now, looking into the distance as if he were expecting someone. Zafira looked away, before his jittery stance could transfer to her.

“Granting your families residence in the palace of Thalj is the very least I could do for saviors with the hearts of lions,” the caliph said finally. “And finding a nurse for an ill mother is a simple matter.”

She jerked a nod, tamping down her relief before it could twitch her lips into a smile. “There is one more thing. Without my hunts, the western villages won’t—”

“We will take care of that, too,” he said. “It will not be easy, but we will provide more grain from our stores, and venison when possible.”

Zafira exhaled.

“Rest assured, my fearless, we will take care of everything,” the caliph promised.

Everything. All she needed to do was get through the Baransea, venture across Sharr, and return with the book. Or die. Simple enough.

Zafira’s chest constricted. Deen returned to the others and bumped noses with Misk in farewell, then lingered in a fierce embrace with Yasmine, the look on her face crushing a weight against Zafira’s chest. He drew Lana into a hug, straightened her shawl, and gave them some last-minute instructions on caring for Sukkar and Lemun.

Zafira watched from afar, because she couldn’t step closer. She might never see them again. She might never grip Lana’s hands or hear Yasmine’s voice. But she didn’t know how to say goodbye. So she looked her fill and closed her eyes and breathed deep.

The caliph smiled, and Zafira wanted to tell him, laa, they weren’t fearless.

“Whether you return as heroes or succumb as martyrs, you will forever be in our souls.” His next words were directed at her. “May Arawiya be with you, lionheart.”

It was a kind dismissal. A farewell offered to a soldier not expected to return.

A plank connected the ship to the pebbled shore. Zafira looked back at Yasmine gripping Lana’s shoulders, Misk behind them. He held her gaze, despite her heavy hood, and gave her a small nod, the tassels of his turban fluttering in the cold breeze. There was a strange look on his face, as if he was just now seeing her for the first time. He knows who I am.

“Farewell,” she whispered, before carefully crossing the stones, entering what used to be the Arz. They slid beneath her boots, clattering like fresh bones. Even a quarter of the way across, they were surprisingly clean. Not even a leaf lay on them.

After what felt like forever, she reached the shore, Deen trailing her in silence. She leaned down as if to touch the water, but he guided her to the ship, eyes wide at her antics, and she jerked from his touch. The plank creaked beneath her weight, moaning a goodbye as she furthered from the place she called home.

The ship bobbed in welcome, and though she knew what it was like to be atop a beast that moved of its own accord, this felt different. Like her stomach had come untethered. She gripped the railing.

From the snow in the distance, dozens watched her and Deen. She was too far away to make out the glimmer of tears that shone in Yasmine’s eyes. Too far from her family already. She looked away, to the gleaming ship, unnaturally perfect. Zafira knew whom she had to thank.

That woman with a smile of ice, limitless in her power, effortless in her command.

A man carrying a trunk passed in front of them, and Deen nodded in his direction. “There’s something wrong with them. I mean, this ship can’t be real. It was the Silver Witch’s doing. Maybe the men aren’t real, either. We don’t have a reason for trunks and whatever else they’re carrying around. They’re moving about, doing nothing, and I have a feeling this ship will sail itself.”

Zafira didn’t like the idea of a mirage taking them across the Baransea. An illusion full of illusionary men. She suppressed a shudder, but she was still too angry to feel anything else.

Deen sighed after a moment. “You have no right to be angry at me. You decided to do this just as I did.”

“No, dolt. You decided to do this because I did!” she shouted.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, tensed breaths clouding the chilled air. Her eyes burned, tracing the curve of his mouth, always so quick to smile. The shadow of a beard, darkening his skin. The crease between his brows, now furrowed in anger. Those rogue bronze curls, slipping from his turban to catch the light.

He looked different without a thobe and the bulk of the coat he always wore. His loose trousers were tucked into his calfskin boots. A dark linen shirt complemented the indigo turban loose around his head.

An ax lay against his back—it had been a long time since Zafira had

seen him with his weapon of choice. He once prided himself in having been trained by a Zaramese fighter, for only they were skilled with the tabar. But that was before. The past Deen.

He was here now because of her. He had set aside his fears and pledged his daama life because of her. It was her fault.

The fight rushed out of her. “Don’t come.”

His answering question was immediate. “Why not?”