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Fingers brushed her hood.
Snow pulsed beneath her boots.
The cold caught in her chest.
“Enough,” the caliph thundered. Zafira flinched. “Haytham, rid me of these men. Respect is earned, Pelusian, and you certainly have none of it.”
No one moved. No one breathed.
Zafira exhaled, and the world spun back into motion. Her fingers twitched to throw down her hood. Be proud, Yasmine had said time and time again. But she couldn’t be. She wasn’t proud. She was afraid.
She was afraid of being a woman. Yasmine’s disappointment settled heavily on her back.
Sweet snow below. A soldier had just ordered her to drop her hood, and the caliph had snapped at him on her behalf. Zafira watched from the corners of her eyes as Haytham led the group of soldiers away, shouting the entire time. His final command was followed by a reply of which Zafira caught a hiss: “He looks like a daama nisa.” Indeed, she was a “bloody woman,” and it was the Pelusian’s loss for not knowing any better.
“When the time is right, Hunter, you will know it. Until then, a hooded boy is fine by me,” the caliph said softly. Kindly.
She drew in a breath. She hated the rare moments when she had to speak, and now, in the presence of so many, she found it even harder. Even more so because Deen, Yasmine, and Lana were here, too.
“Shukrun, sayyidi,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could. It rumbled from her throat, barely decipherable.
He stopped her before she could kneel again. Everyone knew the caliph had no royal blood in his veins—none of them did. Not even Sultan Ghameq, with whom the sultana had fallen in love and to whom she had handed the crown of Arawiya. The Sisters had never expected to die, and there was no one in line to succeed to their thrones when they had all but vanished.
Humans were nowhere near as powerful as the Sisters, and a council in Sultan’s Keep wasn’t enough. So in each caliphate, the people turned to the Sisters’ most trusted men. Here, it had been Ayman’s father. It was love for the old caliph that kept Ayman on the throne.
“Our minarets may light once again,” the caliph said, his voice low, the words meant for her alone. “We might finally be free of this curse. Do you assent to the silver invitation, Hunter?”
Laughter bubbled to Zafira’s lips and she swallowed it down. Why did she always want to laugh at the least opportune times? Her heart began rising to her throat.
Say yes. Yes meant undulating waves. Magic for the future. Every tale of Baba’s a reality. Vengeance upon the forest that stole him away.
My life forfeit.
A quiver began at Zafira’s fingertips. A tic in her neck danced to some frenzied tune. The upper half of her body tipped forward in assent, but the rest of her held back. The people that had gathered from the villages watched, not knowing what was happening, but Haytham’s gaze weighed upon her heavily from his place beside the caliph.
Conquering the Arz wasn’t enough. Skies. This—this was what she had been waiting for.
Zafira inhaled deep and felt the crash of her heart. She nodded. Sealing her life to a miserable cause. For the future of her people. For magic.
Haytham’s sigh of relief echoed the caliph’s.
She was going to do what no man had done before. It meant the people of Arawiya had a chance at survival. A chance to outlive the Arz, to feel magic roar through their veins.
But then.
Boots she knew as well as her own shuffled to her side, filling her with foreboding. She looked to her right as he looked to his left.
Deen.
CHAPTER 17
Zafira tried to straighten her shoulders, but she was stuck. Like the little birds she sometimes found in the snow. It’s strange what I’ll remember with a spoon of cocoa and an empty vial of honey.
Yasmine knew.
“Deen Ra’ad?” Haytham asked.
The question jerked Zafira from her thoughts. She didn’t know Haytham knew of Deen.
