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What bothered her was Nasir, and how he looked like a man whose fortunes had turned and he had yet to believe it. She worried he was less attentive, which led to the worry, too, that she had begun to rely on him. He wore his wariness like a cloak, his fresh turban and thin silver circlet making her heart race a little too quickly, despite the defeat weighing heavily across them.
Men of the Sultan’s Guard stood statue-like along either side of the room, their silver cloaks complementing the ornately paneled walls. How anyone could live under such constant vigilance was beyond her.
“Ibni.” The sultan greeted him with a smile, but it was clear Nasir had gotten so accustomed to the terror the sultan had become that he didn’t know how to react to the man his father once was. “How is your progress?”
Kifah’s jaw clenched, and Zafira agreed. What was the point of Nasir freeing the sultan if the man wasn’t going to help them?
“Decent,” Nasir said without elaboration.
It wasn’t decent, they were failing. Terribly. And yet he revealed nothing. Laa, his tone was shaped to please.
Zafira held steady against a shiver when the sultan’s gaze fell to her. She saw him through Lana’s eyes, and it wasn’t hard to imagine ripping her blade across his neck, his blood so poisoned it ran black.
“—and we will delegate more resources,” the sultan was saying.
“I think we should delay the feast,” Nasir said slowly.
The sultan considered him with a heavy exhale. “We spoke of this, Ibni.”
“Yes, and the feast is to celebrate the return of magic,” Nasir insisted. “A feat we are far, far away from.”
The words stung. How close they had been at one point, on Sharr when the battle was in their favor. When they had salvaged the five hearts from the Sisters of Old, before the Lion had taken Altair and the heart he protected. Her thoughts clattered to a halt.
Altair had the last of the hearts.
What if—no.
She refused to connect the thoughts. She refused to believe he had betrayed them so early on, with the corpse of Benyamin at his feet on Sharr, his friend whose soul was still bound with Altair’s own.
“The banquet is tomorrow, and the delegates have already begun to arrive. It is too late; we cannot delay it. Are the maids and kitchen staff assisting in your efforts?”
Nasir’s brow furrowed. “No, but—”
“Then they will continue preparations.” Mirth played in the sultan’s eyes as he looked to Kifah and then Zafira. “Your friends will attend as well.” His next words addressed them directly. “I will have the tailors take your measurements.”
Zafira inclined her head as if this were the greatest blessing a man had ever bestowed on her. “Shukrun, Sultani.”
“And that merchant in Sarasin—Muzaffar, yes? I’ve invited him, too. It would be good to make his acquaintance and learn his views on certain measures so that we may possibly implement him as caliph.” The sultan smiled. “As you suggested, Nasir.”
He tapped his scepter on the dais, and caught Nasir’s flinch.
“Worry not, Ibni. All will be well.”
His words made Zafira think of her own father, whose every word came from the heart.
“You may leave,” the sultan concluded.
Nasir paused. But even ridiculed and likened to a dog, he had wanted his father’s approval, and he acquiesced, the three of them slowly backing away, as if the sultan would die if they turned their back on him. Who knows? You should try it, Yasmine said in her head.
Spite will turn your hair gray, Zafira shot back.
Fancy necklace or not, he’s responsible for thousands of deaths.
Zafira closed her eyes at the painful reminder. He was responsible for more: the tension across Nasir’s shoulders, the fear knotting the words on his tongue, the scars on his back. Abuse. Years of it.
“There is one more matter,” the sultan called, and her eyes flew open as they stopped with their ridiculous backtracking.
She kept her head low, every bit a humble peasant.
