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Benyamin looked at the others. “Here on Sharr, free from the entrapment of the Arz, we can all wield our powers. The Huntress’s only disparity is that she has been in control of her affinity for years.”
Thanks to the Arz. Skies. That cursed forest was a land humming with magic. A place she had ventured within for years.
“What’s my affinity?” she asked. It was becoming harder to breathe.
Benyamin considered her, brown eyes intent. “You could ask our prince here. He and Altair had the right idea.”
Neither Sarasin was even the slightest bit surprised. She looked wildly between them and scrambled to her feet, nearly stumbling in the sand. She dropped her eyes to Benyamin, who sat calmly on his gold-fringed rug.
“Tell me,” she breathed. “What am I?”
“A da’ira.”
“A what?” she said softly, feeling the edges of her sanity coming undone.
“You are the compass in the storm, the guide in the dark. You will always find your way, Zafira bint Iskandar.”
His words became a drum in her head.
No—she was a gazelle in the desert, vulnerable before a horde of lions. She shrank away, eyes darting to the prince and his general. Then to Kifah and Benyamin.
And she did what a gazelle does best. She ran.
CHAPTER 45
Zafira ran across the verdure of the oasis, ignoring their calls, ignoring the way Arawiya’s crown prince regarded her with unflinching eyes, scorching her blood.
“Let her go,” he said softly, and she paused. “She needs time.”
Zafira didn’t wait to hear what Altair said to that. She tucked herself between a host of date palms, pressing her back against a prickly trunk as she caught her breath. The trees welcomed her, whispering as they cocooned. Stay a while. Rest.
The shadows mimicked her distress. The date palms wilted when she sank to her knees.
She blinked, and they righted again.
A da’ira. She turned the old Safaitic word over her tongue. A compass.
That was why she’d never thought twice about how to find the Jawarat on this forsaken island. Because her affinity had always been leading her somewhere. It had been leading her for years.
Her sense of direction wasn’t a feeling or a wild notion. She hunted in the Arz, void of sight, because of it. She stepped free of the Arz because of it.
Baba.
Skies, every time Baba had gone into the Arz, he had been with her. Guiding her aim, sighting their kills, following her lead. Until his very last one. The venture that had driven him mad, twisted his ideals.
If only she had known.
“Oh, sweet snow below,” she breathed, recalling that frenzied hum in her bloodstream as it steered her on the right path.
Of everything she could have wielded from the tips of her fingers—fire, darkness, illusions—she had been gifted with direction. She hadn’t even known that direction was an affinity.
A hysterical laugh echoed from the trees and Zafira had her bow drawn before she realized the laugh had clawed its way out of her own broken self. A sob slipped past her lips. This weakness wasn’t her. It disoriented as it tugged at the pieces of her heart.
Everything suddenly made sense. Why the Sarasins had tried to kidnap her in Demenhur. Why Altair and the prince had “allied” with her: so they could use her to find the Jawarat. She shivered as she remembered Nasir’s gray eyes tracking her every moment. She understood now why he watched her, why he had saved her from the ifrit.
He had been protecting an asset.
He had known all along, which meant the sultan knew, too. Or, at least, the sultan had an assumption and the power to act upon it.
