We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

Seif barked a laugh. “You bound yourself to a hilya?”

Zafira had no notion of what a hilya was, but the look on the safi’s face was enough to make her resolve waver.

He drew a breath, ready to spew more, but Aya spoke first. “That is enough. Protect it well, Huntress.”

Zafira nodded once, uncertain if her smug triumph was her own or prompted by the book sitting gleefully relieved in her hands.

Seif looked as if he had more to say, and from the way his pale gaze flicked to Aya, Zafira guessed it involved twistedly pinning the blame on Benyamin, the fallen safi who had spent the past nine decades blaming himself for the Lion’s betrayal, doing all he could to make up for the tragedy of his good intentions. It was clear he had even fronted Altair’s gossamer web to protect hi

m, for it couldn’t have been easy being a spymaster and the sultan’s right-hand general at once.

Aya gripped Seif’s arm and drew him away.

“There is one more thing,” Nasir said slowly, halting them, and Zafira could tell that whatever it was cost precious dignity. “The Lion controls my … father. If you’ve safin we can trust, it would be ideal to station them across the city. Near the palace, the Great Library, everywhere of importance.”

Zafira’s heart stuttered at the mention of yet another place Baba had longed to see. It was history incarnate, scrolls and parchment preserving every last bit of knowledge that ever meant anything. She wondered if the Lion had made use of it through his control of Ghameq. It was likely. Greed had no limit.

Seif pursed his mouth and spoke to Aya in low tones that not even Zafira could catch. Then he sauntered away without a backward glance.

Kifah lifted an eyebrow. “Bleeding Guljul, if I thought Benyamin was vain, this one can’t even keep his clothes on.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to look,” Zafira returned, and Kifah shot her a murderous glare.

“Seif is captain of Alderamin’s royal guard and will take care of everything. I am sorry he is not the most affable of us,” Aya said. She gestured to the crate with the hearts, clutched in Nasir’s hands. “Until we determine the best course of action, we will keep the hearts close and in constant movement. Change hands every half day. Never leave them unattended.” She paused. “Benyamin thought highly of you. He and Altair had done as much to keep Arawiya from crumbling as the sultana did, though it was never enough. He always said the world was meant to be salvaged by the ones it had wronged. Life makes a mockery of us, does it not?”

Death, Zafira corrected in her head because she was mortal. Death makes a mockery of us.

Aya pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, but not before a murmur slipped free. Roohi.

Outside, the final stretch of the sun washed the world in deep gold. No one knew what to say in the silence. What was it like to be burdened by an eternity of sadness? They mourned Benyamin, but none of them could begin to understand how much his wife mourned him.

Was that how Zafira was to live the rest of her days, burdened by the death of her loved ones?

“Okhti?”

Zafira went still. Now I’m hearing things. But Nasir looked past her, then Kifah.

“The kingdom is indeed a small place,” Aya said with a soft smile.

But Lana couldn’t be here; she was in Demenhur, with Yasmine and Umm and Misk. Where she would be safe. Zafira held her breath as she turned, as if by breathing she might lose the delicate cadence of her sister’s voice.

A girl, too small for fourteen years, stood frozen in the doorway, her shawl sliding back from her dark hair. She was freckled and slight, soft brown eyes wide and disbelieving, features Zafira could have painted blind.

Lana.

Zafira ran, bow and quiver falling to the polished stone as she threw her arms around her sister, burying her nose into her hair with a broken sob. “Ya, sweet one.”

Lana laughed as tears streaked her cheeks. Zafira wiped them away with her thumbs. Pressed a kiss to her brow. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Lana said with a shy smile as the others continued to stare. “I missed you, Okhti. I’ve been so alone.”

“Liar,” Zafira teased, and she didn’t think she’d ever been so happy to see her. “I left you in good hands. You had Yasmine and Misk, and I’m sure Ummi kept you busy. I was the one who—”

Zafira stopped when the color drained from Lana’s face. She pulled back, dread coiling in her stomach at the weight clinging to her sister, a prudence she should not have had to bear. “What is it? Lana, what happened?”

“Ummi,” she said, almost soundlessly. “She’s dead. She died the day you left.”

CHAPTER 8