We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

The stable boy stumbled at the force of his command and brought the horse forward, handing Nasir the reins with hushed respect before turning to her. “Another horse, sayyida?”

Zafira merely shook her head, her attention riveted on Nasir. At the happiness he could barely contain. He ran a gentle hand down the mare’s flank and murmured sweet words in her ear, his face breaking into a tenderness too fleeting to memorize. He pressed his brow to her nose, and she nuzzled him back just as gently.

She was melting inside. There was no other way to describe how she felt. This was the same boy who had tended to her their first day on Sharr. The same boy she had healed when the Lion had seared him with the poker. When he forgot to carry the burden of the Prince of Death and allowed himself to be.

He turned to her and his smile disappeared. He dropped his gaze and led the horse outside. Zafira couldn’t help it: hurt flared through her.

Lana laughed. “You made him shy.”

“Him. Shy,” Zafira bit out.

Lana tilted her head. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, but for someone so brave and smart, you are terribly daft sometimes.”

“I’m glad you don’t mean that in a bad way.”

Lana bit her lip. “Be safe.”

“What, no imploring me to stay this time?”

“I tried, Okhti. I’m not stronger than that book, but maybe your prince is. Do you remember that day you took so long in the Arz that it was evening by the time you returned? Deen kept telling us not to worry. ‘She has a penchant for punching death in the face,’ he said.”

Zafira didn’t reply. She recalled Deen using those very words with her as they headed to Sharr.

“I believe it now,” Lana said.

Nasir’s shadow fell across the entrance. “Shall we?”

Zafira looked back at Lana. “Keep Yasmine away from Altair.”

Something flickered in Lana’s eyes, but she nodded. Contending with Yasmine’s wrath was as terrifying as disturbing the Lion’s repose.

“And talk to Qismah,” Zafira added.

“She lied,” Lana protested, “when she pretended to be something she wasn’t.”

As did I.

“The repercussions for her are tenfold of what they were for me.” Zafira touched the back of two fingers to Lana’s cheek, guilt gripping her. “I don’t know if she knows the truth of how her father was killed, or how she’s taken the news, or what will happen to her now. She needs allies. People who will fight for her.”

“I wasn’t born to fight.”

“No,” Zafira agreed. “Neither of us were. We were not born to fight, but our cradles were built from struggles and hardship. Pens, swords, sticks—weapons shoved into our fists as soon as we’re old enough to grasp them. So we fight, because the world will cut our throats otherwise. We fight, because we won’t go down without one. Do you understand?”

In answer, Lana threw her arms around her.

“I can’t breathe,” Zafira gasped, and Lana pulled away sheepishly.

Outside, Zafira paused, the cold biting the backs of her hands. Nasir waited with Afya, and the guards waited by the gates. Perhaps she shouldn’t leave without telling the others.

A humming rose from the Jawarat, lulling her wayward thoughts.

We are winning them back. This is what we must do.

Again, she was jolted by its uncertainty, but it was right.

Noon was just deepening the sky when she tugged her cloak closer and used the stool to mount Nasir’s horse like a frail old man. She shivered at a sudden gust of wind, and every part of her warmed when Nasir mounted behind her.

Skies.