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Silence fell, and she felt the weight of eyes like countless stones pelted upon her back. Black pebbles lay uneven beneath her boots. Zafira blinked and tried to make sense of the ache in her chest, the racing of her pulse. That whisper.
Yasmine looked as if roots were about to sprout out of the ground and swallow Zafira whole. It’s safe, Zafira wanted to say, but she did not doubt the Silver Witch’s smile. That flicker of darkness she felt whenever the woman was near.
She was saved from an explanation when a horn disrupted the silence; ululating and chanting soon followed as a caravan approached with half a dozen camels draped in wool, tan coats spotted with snow.
Zafira made sense of the chanting: Sayyidi. Sayyidi. Sayyidi.
The Caliph of Demenhur had come.
Yasmine yanked Zafira to the front of the crowd. A boy tried to look beneath her hood, but she tugged on the fabric, further shrouding her face. She clenched and unclenched her fists by her sides, the smooth leather of her gloves contouring around her fingers. She threw a discreet glance at Deen.
He was already watching her, eyes dark in thought.
Commotion surrounded the caravan as a man hopped down from one of the camels. He wore a red-and-white-checkered keffiyah atop his head. A small beard framed his chin. A slender nose, chiseled cheekbones—he was a good-looking man.
His eyes, however, made the air catch in her throat. Had that same haunted look not been in Lana’s eyes, Zafira wouldn’t have understood the utter despair. Who hadn’t the curse touched? Even the ones better off than she were suffering.
“Who is that man?” Zafira asked, leaning toward Deen.
Something flickered in his gaze. “Haytham. The caliph’s advisor. He was one of Demenhur’s best falconers before his father, the late advisor, introduced him to the caliph.”
“Oh.” Zafira couldn’t imagine a life in which she did anything for fun and sport, let alone rely on a bird to win something for her.
An older man in a dusky blue turban descended from a traditional howdah—a small, tented seat atop the camel. His layered gray thobe darkened as it trailed the snow, making him seem even more ancient than he was. People dropped to their knees, drenching themselves in snow. Others lifted two fingers to their brows, heads low.
The caliph. The cause of her dress, of hatred toward the Sisters, and of oppression against the hundreds of women in Demenhur.
He was nonplussed by the missing Arz, and she wondered if the Silver Witch had discussed more with him than she had with Zafira. His hooded gaze drifted over the small crowd, pausing on her. The Hunter. She clutched Yasmine’s arm.
“Since the loss of magic, you are our one source of light,” he called. “At last. Come here, boy.”
He knows me, she thought, before her brain reminded her that this was the old nut responsible for the imbalance between men and women. Lana clasped her hand, but Yasmine jerked her head. Yalla, her glare shouted. Deen pursed his lips, sharing Zafira’s worry tenfold. Misk watched curiously.
Zafira rocked forward on her toes. The ice crackled beneath her boots. The air hung still. Dozens of eyes bored into her cloak, and her heart might as well have hopped into her hands; she felt its thrum in her fingers.
The awkward silence was broken by a group of soldiers dismounting camels. At the distinct lilt of another caliphate’s dialect, Zafira jerked her head to a dark-skinned man laughing with his fellows. A Pelusian, though he wore the Demenhune unif
orm. How had a man born to Pelusia, a half-month’s journey away, ended up in Demenhur?
Zafira had a deep respect for the Pelusians. Though their fertile lands were faltering, they nourished all of Arawiya. Without them, the kingdom would lack the mechanical advancements they had, too. Like the chandeliers the rich owned, or the Nimrud lens for magnifying texts and lighting fires.
Zafira stopped. The caliph, the caliph, the caliph.
“Sayyidi,” she murmured, clearing her throat when she realized she hadn’t lowered her voice. Her skin burned and she dropped to one knee, gritting her teeth when the cold seeped through.
The caliph laughed, a low rumbling filled with warmth. It reminded her of that precious vial of honey Deen had brought from Zaram. Try as she might, she couldn’t summon her rage.
“Please, rise,” Ayman al-Ziya, the Caliph of Demenhur, said.
Zafira stood carefully, hands at her sides, hood throbbing against her scalp. From the confines of it, she studied the caliph without shame. His face sagged with wrinkles, but his brown eyes shone like those of a child’s, thrilled at a game. A long beard wound from his chin, wisping at the ends.
“And show some respect.” The words were said in that clipped accent—the Pelusian from that group of soldiers. All of Arawiya spoke the same language, with slight variations to each tongue, but Zafira didn’t need help reading between the words.
Drop your hood was what he meant.
Silence fell with the sharpness of a blade. Eyes fell upon her, watching, waiting, burning. Countless. Blood roared in her ears.
When she didn’t move, the Pelusian grunted and shuffled.
