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They were all loyal to the same kingdom, yet the Silver Witch and the sultan seemed to be at odds with each other. There were two sides, here. A hostility Zafira didn’t understand. She couldn’t even understand why the prince and general had tried to kill her.
Perhaps neither side favored her.
She didn’t top the Silver Witch’s list of hunters—she was the list. The only known hunter who could find the Jawarat, and if she had never set foot in the Arz, if she had never made her accomplishments known, the Silver Witch would never have known. The sultan would be unaware. The Jawarat would remain lost until some other da’ira exposed their affinity. If more existed.
Skies. Affinities, powers. Magic that had ceased to exist.
She needed to lie down. What was she, an old man? She didn’t need to lie down.
Glorious slants of gold shone on the green foliage ahead of her, where a path unfurled in the stillness. Colorful flowers spread petals, coaxing her near with soft chimes. Be free, Huntress.
She didn’t need the others, the shadows reminded her. She could make her own way from oasis to oasis, ruin to ruin, and find that wretched book. She could single-handedly restore magic to Arawiya without worrying about who had allied with whom and which of the others were plotting her death.
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sp; But.
She remembered the gentle stroke of that cloth on her skin. The sorrow in the prince’s eyes. Altair’s laugh. Benyamin’s persistence. The shadow haunting Kifah’s dark eyes.
She needed answers. Answers that Benyamin had.
She turned back, hoping this wasn’t a decision she would come to regret.
CHAPTER 46
Nasir stared into the trees, waiting—hoping—for her to return. A rare thing, for him. Hope.
As much as it was Benyamin’s fault, Nasir had … learned something from their little chat. The safi had given him answers to questions he could never bring himself to ask.
“All this tension is making me old,” Altair said, flexing his arms, blades in hand. It was alarming how jovial and deadly he could be at once.
“Age typically leads to wisdom,” Kifah pointed out, the look on her face suggesting Altair was anything but wise.
“Says the girl who tagged along with a chattering safi. Why’d you come, anyway?” Altair asked, turning to her. She didn’t flinch from his extended blades.
Kifah studied him a moment and then shrugged. “Magic. Revenge. The usual.”
Altair laughed, and Nasir tried to stop his own lips from quirking up. Rimaal. He’d never had to stifle so many smiles before. Benyamin paced along the oasis, brow furrowed.
At last, the Huntress emerged, looking upon everything with an eerie stillness. Unease stirred in Nasir’s stomach. Her shoulders curled forward before she came aware of it and straightened, lifting her chin.
Benyamin leaped to attention, relief casting his eyes in burnished gold. “I wanted to offer an apology,” he said to her slowly. “Safin tend to overlook human sentiment. I should have ruminated before depositing such a hefty revelation upon you.”
It was easy to forget that Benyamin wasn’t human. Like the Silver Witch. Like half of Nasir’s self.
“I’m no hashashin, but in my humble observations, it seems you can’t take your eyes off her,” Altair drawled in Nasir’s ear.
“Jealous?” Nasir asked. The torn end of his turban flickered in the gentle breeze, the cloth soft against his neck.
“I would be, if I didn’t know you stare at me just as much.”
Nasir’s brows flattened. “I need her.”
“Which is what every man says when it comes to—”
“Close your mouth or put it to use elsewhere,” Nasir growled. He marveled at why he even bothered talking to the oaf.
Altair mimed sealing his lips shut, but his silence lasted no longer than a dying insect. “Oi, whatever you were thinking, I wasn’t.”
