I felt the djinn magic answer my rage, simmer in my veins like a low fire.
Blackness darkened the edges of my vision, and a hot tingle ran through my hands. I looked down at my twitching fingers to find a single black vein curling from the tip of my index finger to the knuckle. It looked like a dark vine winding its way under my skin, responding to the unseen magic thrumming through me. I stared at it, more in confusion than anything, then a spike of panic lodged in my throat. Was this a byproduct of the zoraat? I pressed my hand to my side, hiding the black mark.
I widened my stance, planting my feet on the ground—a fighting stance.
Noor nudged me with her shoulder, her mouth pressed into a firm line as she shook her head. Clearly Noor was aware I was about to throw all our plans out the window and commit murder right here in the middle of Casildo’s hall. I shot her a venomous look but moved my hand away from my dagger.
She was right. I didn’t want to lose my head now, not when we’d come all this way. I curled my fingers in on themselves, making a mental note to ask her about the strange black vein spiraling down my hand. But it wouldn’t detract from what we had come here for.
“Revenge.”
That same whispered voice shot through me. But I couldn’t tell anymore if it was my own.
My father deserved more retribution than Casildo’s slit throat. I exhaled a long breath and felt the anger draining out of me, replaced by resolve.
We came to a large room, lit by various torches affixed to the stone wall. Glass cases surrounded us, filigreed gold lining each one, the contents gleaming in the flickering light. The cases were filled not with art, but weapons.
Swords. Daggers. Knives of all kinds.
It was a swordfighter’s haven.
I looked from one case to the next, nearly forgetting what I was doing here at the sight of such a magnificent collection of blades.
I stood in front of a large case filled with straight-edged saifs, the intricately notched handles gleaming in the torchlight. Then my eyes flickered to a display of sabers, their lightly curved steel blades beckoning my fingers to pick them up. All around me were jeweled daggers, carved khopeshes, wickedly curved talwars, kirpans sheathed in golden lace—enough knives and swords and daggers that I could take down hundreds of my enemies if I wanted.
I exhaled at the breadth of them.
Then that breath caught in my throat as I turned my head toward the wall at the end of the room. Swords I was familiar with stared back at me, swords that I knew better than my own hands. From floor to ceiling, blades of every type and design filled the space, but all with one thing in common—they had been made by the same swordsmith.
Casildo had an entire wall filled with the weapons he had stolen from my father.
I took a step forward involuntarily, as if I was stepping toward Baba and he was still alive, breathing, smiling, right in front of me. This was his life’s work. And it was sitting in the house of the man who had murdered him.
My heart pounded furiously and I pressed my hand hard to my chest as if I could rip it out, as if I could stop the rage and sorrow from threatening to take over.
“I see I have surprised you, sahiba. I thought you might enjoy the collection I have here, being someone with an avid interest in weaponry such as yourself.”
“I am speechless,” I managed to grit out. I lifted my lips in an attempt at a smile, but I was sure it was a twisted grimace.
Casildo gestured to refill our chai, and more steaming liquid was poured into the tall glass in my hand. Dried rose petals floated to the top, and not even the familiar scent of hot cardamon and crushed pistachio comforted me. My fingers clenched the glass tightly, and I could have shattered it into a thousand pieces if I loosed the rage crackling through me. That black vine on my hand grew thicker and curled down to my wrist. I lifted the glass to my lips, relieved that the liquid remained steady, and I managed to swallow the scalding tea.
The door to the gallery creaked open behind us, but I didn’t bother to turn my head. I still stared at the row of immaculately polished blades glistening in the torchlight, wishing that instead of them, I had my father again.
In every knife hilt I saw his weathered hands focused on the detail of his artistry, in the glow of each blade I pictured him bent over his forge, forming the metal with precision. This was him, and it was not. It was everything he valued and worked for, but he wasn’t here anymore for it to matter. The only person left that could still stand up for him was me, and I needed to right the wrong that was done to him.
“Ah, you’ve finally joined us.” Casildo greeted someone, and footsteps approached. Still, I didn’t turn. If I tried to speak I would not be able to mask the fury blazing inside me.
“Meet Sanaya Khara, daughter of the Khara Chieftain, and new to Basral. Sahiba Khara, please let me introduce you to theHawk.”
Someone gave a short laugh, and it had the effect of a bucket of ice water being thrown over me.
I knew that laugh.
I remembered that laugh.
I used to take delight in being the one to make it happen.
“Please, I am trying very hard to bury that nickname,” a deep voice responded, like the rumble of a boulder falling from a mountain.
