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She felt his hesitation before he reached around her for the reins, breath across her cheek. She tried not to focus on the way it skittered, taking in the mare’s dappled coat instead. She tried to ignore the glorious press of his legs at the backs of her thighs, studying the familiarity of the unfolding landscape instead.
The gates rolled open to stone streets lined with houses puffing smoke and people going about their day untroubled, which meant the horrors of Sultan’s Keep hadn’t yet reached Thalj. Thalj. Another city of grandeur to which her journey had brought her.
“All right?” Nasir asked in that voice, reinstating his presence.
She swallowed with a quick nod and met Lana’s gaze in silent farewell. Nasir spurred the horse forward, and Zafira fell back against the solid wall of his chest, barely registering the knifing pain of her wound and the Jawarat’s whispering melody over the sudden heat of his body.
Sweet snow, this was going to be some journey.
CHAPTER 77
It took every last scrap of Nasir’s self-worth not to press closer when he mounted Afya’s back. It became hard to breathe, and then altogether hard to daama exist when Zafira fell against him. Soon they were past the gates, cantering down the sloping street unfurling from the palace, and he had no choice but to exhale a very slow and not-so-collected breath.
Zafira turned back to take in the alabaster majesty of the Demenhune palace, her blue eyes bright with childlike wonder. They were clear, unaffected by the book clutched to her chest, and he wondered if this was one of the moments she had spoken of, when she and it had come to an understanding.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
“An apt descriptor for a number of things,” he murmured, pleased when her shoulders stiffened.
He slowed Afya to a walk along the bustling streets, ever aware of the dark blotch he was in this fair city, from the snow and the buildings down to the pristine white thobes, light-hued abayas, and furred coats almost everyone wore. Demenhur, the caliphate of ghosts and ethereality.
“How long will it take?” asked Zafira.
“Afya is an Alder steed,” Nasir replied. Spotting his mother’s mare in Demenhur’s stables was the last thing he had expected. He had never expected to see her again, khalas, sure she’d been eaten by the ifrit elder. If he were to guess, Seif had left her for them in the courtyard on the night of their escape, for only a safi would be shrewd enough to notice an Alder steed in the midst of chaos, and someone in the Nine Elite would have ridden her here. “I’d say a little under three days, but there’s no telling how this new, dark Sarasin will be.”
He heard her soft murmur of Alder steed before she ran her hands down Afya’s neck in a way that made him swallow thickly.
The soft sun had reached its zenith by the time the bustle of the main city dwindled to a few sole houses. Nasir picked up the pace, then slowed Afya down again when they neared a village. Zafira turned, profile lit with sunlight. “I’m sorry about your father. I never had the chance to tell you.”
He had lost his father long ago, the moment the poker first seared his back, and yet some part of him had held on to hope. For recognition. For a smile. For a nod of approval like he was still a daama child. Now Arawiya’s notorious sultan was a corpse on the cold, hard tile beside his own throne. A puppet left to rot without even the respect of a burial.
“It’s all right,” Zafira whispered, closing her cold hands around his. “It’s all right.” Her thumbs swept across his skin, covering the dark flame as they passed a man using a shovel in the snow and a line of women chatting in front of another’s house.
There were only spiny
trees to their either side when she spoke again, softly. “Others cry in tears. You cry in shadow.”
She continued her ministrations, absently, and though he couldn’t see his hands, he knew the moment the shadows receded and something else stirred inside him at her touch. His grip tightened on the reins and her own loosened, realization striking quick.
Rimaal, he—
He swung off the mare’s back, pursing his mouth at the slush beneath his boots but grateful for the rush of cold against his body. She stared at him from the saddle as if he’d lost his mind. He almost laughed. Surely she wasn’t that guileless?
“Why can’t you part with the Jawarat?” he asked, to distract himself as much as her.
She stiffened. “You promised.”
“It’s only a question.” His voice dropped.
“Turn us back.”
He stopped.
“Turn back, or I will take you to the caliph’s palace and leave—”
He saw the moment her idea struck. She lunged for the reins with a soft cry as her wound stretched, wrenching Afya around with a deft hand. Nasir leaped forward with a curse, grappling one rein from her grip, half of him bearing her weight to stop her from falling.
“You lied,” she panted against him, and oh how he wished there was another reason she was like this, so gloriously coming undone.
