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“We have no choice,” Zafira replied.
Anadil canted her head. “You are the girl who triumphed without the forbidden.”
Zafira smiled sadly. “Times are desperate.”
The Silver Witch studied her. “Very well,” she said. “Dum sihr in its base form will allow you to use your affinity. You will be a da’ira again. And while you may easily use your own affinity, you must locate a spellbook should you require another, as dum sihr requires an incantation in the old tongue. Established centers, such as the Great Library, may have some in their collection, though I’m certain the Jawarat contains a few of its own.”
“I’ve lost it,” Zafira said softly.
“So find it.”
The words were so simple, Zafira wanted to curl into a ball and laugh.
“Have a care,” the Silver Witch continued. “Too much magic outside one’s affinity, and some part of you will pay the price.”
She touched a lock of her unnaturally bone-white hair, and before Zafira could say once was enough and that she would never practice any magic other than her own, Anadil shook her head. As if echoing what the Lion had said about brash promises.
“Okhti?”
Zafira bolted upright. Faint sunlight slanted over her, a breeze stirring the gauzy curtains. Noon. A dream. The Silver Witch wasn’t here; Zafira had daama slept. A dreamwalk?
Lana peered down at her.
“These are my rooms, but now we can share! Can you believe I slept in the prince’s chambers last night?” She lowered her voice, brown eyes glittering. “In a little room dedicated for his lady friends.”
There were a thousand words she could have said then:
Hello, or
Bait ul-Ahlaam does have everything, or
I found the vial at the cost of everything, or
How are the repercussions of the riots?
But she said none of them.
“Lady friends,” she echoed. Like the girl in the yellow shawl. Like the women whose gazes followed him shamelessly through the palace.
“You know, when they want to—”
“I know what it’s for,” Zafira snapped. Her neck burned. Other parts of her burned, too. In ways they’d never done before.
Lana grinned. “I missed your grumpiness.”
Zafira folded her legs beneath her and reached for the vial shimmering in the light, the geometric patterns reminding her of
the Silver Witch’s letter from forever ago. That’s it. Focus on what needs to be done.
“Sweet snow, it’s beautiful,” Lana exclaimed. “Did it cost a lot?”
“Yes.”
Not of coin, she didn’t say, but something else. Something no amount of dinars could ever buy. But Aya was right: This was a victory. For Lana, too. They had traveled to Alderamin and Bait ul-Ahlaam because of her suggestion. Because of Lana, Zafira might have lost the last she had of Baba, but they could find Altair and the Lion. Track down the heart and the Jawarat. That was what mattered.
Lana moved to a corner of the room where she had been poring over a sheaf of papyrus on a low table with a tray of tools and an array of ointments along the edge.
“There’s an entire section of the palace dedicated to medicine,” she explained. “I’ve been transcribing remedies for Ammah Aya.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think she needs them any more than she hopes I’ll commit them to memory.”
