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“No one wants to know about your mouth adventures,” Nasir interrupted.
Altair sighed and sauntered away. “Another time, then. Maybe when the grump’s asleep.”
Zafira found it odd how easily Altair insulted the crown prince. He might be the general, but the prince wasn’t known to have friends. Or admirers. No one liked him, and he liked no one, khalas—the end. And considering how quick he was on the draw, it was surprising Altair had survived this long.
Poets of the kill. The ring against her chest was a reminder: She was never safe.
“Ah, princeling?” Altair called, and Nasir’s features tightened. “As much as I loathe to admit it, I seem to have lost count.” Zafira turned to where Altair stood amid the safin camp. “How many safin did we kill?”
“Five?” Zafira offered, and then she saw what he was seeing.
The safin had created a home for themselves in the ruins. Smoothed-out stones served as beds, tarnished goblets and platters lay to the side. Everything numbered seven. Seven?
Nasir gripped his sword as footfalls sounded ahead of them, where the winds still stirred sand. Zafira tensed, but she could barely summon the will to grab her bow. How many more lives would she end before this was over? She had come here fearing for her life. This was infinitely worse.
The two remaining safin sped toward them, and it was the first time Zafira noticed how agile they were—far faster than she had ever seen humans move.
Altair drew his scimitars from the twin scabbards at his back, but both safin froze mere paces before him, panic widening their eyes.
With twin croaks, they crumpled to the sand, like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Foam trickled from their open mouths.
Death stole their last breaths.
Tendrils of blue glittered in their wake. What sorcery—
Two figures emerged from the dust. The Pelusian from before, her gold-tipped spear gripped at her side. The other was weaponless, elegance marking his steps, a broad grin on his face.
“Well, here I am. What were your other two wishes?”
CHAPTER 40
Night feathered the horizon, painting the skies a blend of charcoal and winterberries, while a smattering of stars winked and danced in shy greeting. It was an odd sky—light enough to discern color, dark enough to host stars. A desert sky.
Amid the tense silence, Zafira was struck with how little control she had. In the face of spears, swords, double scimitars, and … sorcery, she was nothing. She was a blade of grass to be trampled.
Or, worse, cut down.
Where were these people coming from? First a warrior from Pelusia, and now a man dressed in finery that looked awkward among Sharr’s ruination.
Before Zafira could move, Nasir clamped down on her arm and pulled her deeper into the shadows of the ruins. She pulled free with a hiss. “What are you doing?”
“Getting away,” he said simply.
“From what? What about your friend?”
“Friend?” he asked, appearing perplexed at the idea of having such a thing.
She gestured wildly to Altair, who was grinning madly at the newcomer. Nasir stilled, giving her the sense that he was unaware of this acquaintance.
Altair clasped the newcomer on the shoulder. His tone was endearing. “Any longer and you would have found my corpse.”
“A thousand and one apologies. Old age, as you know,” the newcomer replied, though he looked no older than Altair. His voice was lilting and smooth, decadent like that chocolate drink she, Yasmine, Deen, and Lana had drunk on one of Demenhur’s warmer nights beneath endless skies.
“Who is he?” Zafira whispered.
Nasir looked at her. “If I knew, did you think I would tell you?”
