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On the daama island of Sharr, no less.
CHAPTER 7
Zafira’s umm always knew her daughter didn’t fear the Arz the way other children did. She would usher her to bed with whispers of the Sultana’s Guard instead, and Zafira would dream of them chasing after her with their silver hoods and stern faces. Umm was no storyspinner like Baba was, but mothers were always good at spinning fears.
Now the sultana was dead, and Zafira glimpsed a different kind of silver in every slant of shadow.
The letter, and the silver-cloaked woman.
She lay in bed, her skin sore from the tight fit of that infernal dress she had worn at the wedding, just hours before. Yasmine was one house away, as always, but her friend felt somewhere far off and unreachable. You’re selfish, that’s all.
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them with a groan, clearing her head of Yasmine and Misk. And Deen, carrying his bulky satchel as he disappeared down the street with a bittersweet smile, off to stay with a friend for the next few nights until Yasmine moved to Misk’s house.
Sweet snow below.
She had other things to worry about. Like the quest in two days. Through daama Sharr of all places.
The thin mattress did little to muffle the squeak of old wood when she slipped out of bed. She would have to ask Deen to take a look at the creaking bedframe soon. He was always tinkering with random materials, coming up with inventions he dreamed of sharing with the Pelusians two caliphates away.
She threw on a faded tunic and then Baba’s heavy cloak. She swung on her smaller satchel, pushing Baba’s heftier one away. If she made the trek to Sharr, the lumpy thing would be at her back. With extra clothes, her favorite soap, and the kit of rare medicinal items Baba had put together over the years—strips of fabric, tonics, liniments for wounds, resin for burns, and herbs—all from a time when Demenhur wasn’t a cursed chasm of snow, a time Zafira could only dream of.
As she stood with a sigh, she heard the howl of wind and the snap of the front door, but out in the foyer there was only Lana, curled on the majlis, a book in her lap. When Zafira opened her mouth to ask who had come in, she saw what Lana was reading.
Silver glinted in the firelight. Kharra. Kharra, kharra, kharra.
“What are you doing?” Zafira asked sharply.
Lana startled, her eyes snaring on Zafira’s satchel and hunting clothes. A plate of aish el-saraya from the wedding sat beside her, syrup glistening in the firelight.
“Were you going to tell me and Umm?” Lana asked, accusation in her sweet voice. She held up the letter, and the dip in her forehead bothered Zafira more than she liked.
“I only got it today, and then there was the wedding.” And also the little problem of me not really speaking to Umm anymore.
Lana was silent a moment. Accusation on her face gave way to hurt, pulling at the cords in Zafira’s chest. “But were you going to tell us?”
“Maybe. No. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Zafira asked tiredly.
She held out her hand, and Lana folded the invitation before giving it back. The broken seal flashed like the silver-cloaked woman’s smile.
Zafira reached for the old blanket hanging by the front door, her fingers brushing the dusty coat beside it. Baba’s coat. He had the most elaborate sayings for everything, and he used to describe its color as the waters of the Baransea on the calmest of days beneath the cloudiest of skies, even though he had never seen the Baransea.
Skies, if she went on this journey, she would see it.
Baba had been a collector of stories, a weaver of words. He hadn’t been alive before the Sisters fell, but over the years he had gleaned tales from before the Baransea became dangerous, before the Arz sprang up, rimming the caliphates and obscuring the sea from Arawiya. His stories were the reason Zafira knew so much.
Pieces of Baba were scattered throughout their house—his boots, his favorite cup—because Zafira couldn’t bear to get rid of them. Even after so many years, she was methodical in her cleaning every evening. It unnerved her to see anything out of place, but in the case of Baba’s things, she could only ever run her fingers over their surfaces and gasp away an endless sorrow.
It was her fault. It would always be her fault. If only she had been stronger, better.
When Baba had ambled home from the Arz five years ago—months after his disappearance—the first
thing Zafira had noticed was his state. His clothes were torn and tattered, shoulders hunched. By the time she saw the blood and understood the expression on his face, he was already moving for her. Readying to attack the very same daughter he had ventured into the Arz to save.
Moments later, he was dead, killed by—
“Okht?”
Zafira flinched. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” she said to Lana quickly. She tucked the frayed blanket around her sister’s shoulders, stomach clenching at the bones that jutted more sharply than they had one moon ago. “Get some sleep. Umm might start any moment now.”
