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That was the one part of history Zafira refused to believe. The Six Sisters wouldn’t—couldn’t—rule steady and just for years upon years and then simply disappear, leaving their people and the land to ruin. None of that made sense.
“Despite this, we persevere,” the za’eem continued. “Today’s ceremony will unite not only two hearts, but, in their own small way, two caliphates, as well. Mabrook, young souls. May your hearts remain entwined beyond death.”
Others echoed his congratulations, and with one last nod, the za’eem stepped away with his guards.
“Not bad, for a biased cow,” Zafira said, and Deen murmured his agreement.
But instead of being inspired by the za’eem’s speech, the people settled into the same small talk, as if the man had interrupted to say they would serve mint tea at the end.
They had accepted their fate of endless cold and creeping darkness. They didn’t desire anything more than what they had. What life would remain to maintain if the Arz swallowed them all?
A village elder stepped forward to perform the marriage ceremony, and a hush fell over the guests when the man raised his arms. A baby cooed, and a mother quieted the little one’s happiness.
Yasmine passed the moonstone to Misk, whose eyes never left hers. Deen’s fingers brushed Zafira’s, and she stiffened, but he merely looped his smallest finger with hers, settling the tide rapidly rising in her chest.
The elder continued, droning with slow, stretched words. Yasmine caught Zafira’s gaze across the distance and rolled her eyes. Zafira cut her a glare and smothered a laugh.
“Will marriage change that, you think?” Deen asked.
She canted her head. “What?”
“Her. Her silliness. Her knack for mischief. That unbreakable stubbornness.”
Zafira chose her words carefully. “He loves her as she is. Why would she need to be any different?”
“I don’t know,” he said, tightening his grip around her finger. “I just think that once you’re bound to another, you change. That for the happiness of the one you love, and for your own, you change without knowing it.”
Like Umm. Like Baba.
The elder was nearly finished. Lanterns flickered to life as the sun dipped away, the musty odor of oil clogging the air. Zafira tilted her head, wanting and not wanting to know more. “How?”
He looked at her, but she couldn’t turn her face to his, because now, there were other words involved. Questions and pleas. Thoughts and futures. Invitations and denials.
His answer was soft, a brush of words against the small hairs at the shell of her ear as ululations and song permeated the still air. “I wish I knew.”
CHAPTER 6
When night fell, Nasir did not expect to find the lanterns lit and the curtains parted, a late breeze chilling his chambers. Nor did he expect to find Altair lounging on his bed, calfskin sandals resting on his sheets.
The filthy scum.
“What are you doing in my rooms?” Nasir growled. “Who l
et you in? Don’t you have some poor soul to seduce?”
Altair opened his mouth and paused, lifting a finger. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”
He took his time sitting up, fluffing up the pillows behind his back, making Nasir feel like he was the one trespassing.
The general was dressed in a deep blue turban and a russet thobe, the cuffs embroidered in gold. He caught Nasir surveying his attire. “There’s a party flourishing in the Daama Faris, and I’ve come to ask you to join me.”
You. No respect, no etiquette, no princely titles. Just you.
“I will not dabble in debauchery, let alone set foot in a tent full of drunkards,” Nasir said as calmly as he could. “Now get off my bed.”
Altair swept off the bed with dramatic movements and a heavy sigh. “It will be fun, Nasir. You could use some fun. Why, all that killing must be making you an old man. What are you now, anyway? Two hundred, two hundred and one?”
His voice was cheerful, always loud and carefree, whereas Nasir’s was quiet. Too quiet, his mother used to say.
