We Free the Stars

by Hafsah Faizal

  What was the use of a crown if he could not do as he wished?

  Her hands slid up his thobe and threaded in his hair, igniting him anew before she pulled away with a smothered sob.

  “How long can a stolen moment last?” The words were half to herself. That was the reason for her boldness. For her abandon.

  It hurt him.

  A single chord of perception stood in her blue gaze before she spoke in a breathless rush. “Will you speak these words to your bride? Kiss her so?”

  “My bride. My queen. My fair gazelle,” he said in the barest shred of a whisper. “Cannot all three be one and the same?”

  Color brushed her cheeks, and he knew it then. The world could bring a thousand women to him and not one could stand as equal to her. He followed the bob in her throat, noted the sadness in her eyes. He had finally found it in himself to voice what he wanted, but what did it matter if she didn’t want the same?

  “And the girl in your room?” she asked, thinking he had spoken lightly. “Am I to share you with her when I am your queen?”

  “Kulsum. I truly do not know why she had come to my room the night you saw her. She was my mother’s servant, and she lost her tongue because of me. I—I loved her,” he said, because it was true, because he would never lie to Zafira, “until I learned she was a spy who had been using me and that I’d killed her lover years ago.”

  His father had tortured him.

  His mother had lied about her very existence.

  And his lover’s every kiss had been a double-edged sword.

  Now isn’t the time for your pathetic realizations. It was too late—he was already spiraling down the abyss. She saw it. She saw the chaos on his face, heard it in the thrum of his heart because she was still so close. It was only when she pressed her brow to his that he remembered to breathe.

  “You are right not to accept me. Not to want this,” he said.

  She shook her head against his. “It isn’t your fault that—”

  He cut her off with a broken laugh. “What are the odds, Zafira? Every bit of affection in my life has been fabricated. When does it stop being the fault of others and start being the fault of mine?”

  She didn’t speak. Only gripped his shoulder with a sure hand, listening as no one ever had before.

  “I only look human,” he said quietly. A curl of shadow escaped his mouth. It happened when his emotions ran rampant, when he struggled to rein in his thoughts. “I’m a monster. A beast. And the ones who run are the ones who’ve gotten close enough to see that there’s no room inside for anything else.”

  “Even a beast is capable of love. Of being loved,” she countered. “The Lion made your father cruel. Necessity made your mother lie. Pain fueled Kulsum’s manipulation. No matter what Altair has become now, he loved you before. Kifah loves you. I—”

  He stilled. He didn’t dare draw breath.

  A knock sounded at the door, insistent.

  “I should—” She stopped, breathless, and pulled away.

  “Yes,” he said dumbly, and then she was gone, leaving the scent of oud and roses on his clothes, silver starlight everywhere he looked, and the ghost of words that never were.

  CHAPTER 48

  Altair bit his tongue until it was bleeding as profusely as his eye. He refused to make a sound, refused to cry out, even as every vessel in his body begged to. In pain. In loss. Ninety years he had retained himself, only for this.

  This.

  Aya stood in the doorway, dirt smeared across her pink abaya. She was bloody from head to toe—no, that was his vision. Blood dripped from his chin, spattered onto the floor as if he were a basin with an irreparable leak.

  She ran to him and he shrank away. He hated her in that moment. Her pity, her pain. She had no right to any of it.

  “What happened?” she cried.

  “Why do you care?” Altair felt as hollow as his voice.

  He tasted his blood on his tongue. Two paces away, the si’lah heart was witness to it all, thrumming faintly.

  “Fix him, my sweet,” the Lion commanded quietly. “He must see that he chose wrongly.”

  She reached into the tray and slit her palm after a moment’s hesitance, and through his pinprick of perception, he wondered if he was supposed to be grateful to her for abandoning her fear of dum sihr when she cupped her hand beneath his chin and stirred his blood with her own. When she pressed her fingers to his eye socket. When he saw, with a dry heave, what was left of his eye being torn away from his numbed skin.

  “Give me water,” she said to an ifrit afterward. “To clean him.”

  “Don’t,” Altair snarled. “Step away from me.”

  She lowered her hand reluctantly, hurt flashing across her features, and Altair laughed. A sad croak of a sound he didn’t recognize as his own. The Lion murmured something he missed, and she went back to him, washing her hands in the basin in the corner.

  The room smelled of blood and the must of oil. It smelled of apprehension and change. Of loss. With one eye, Altair watched the Lion recline across his bedroll as Aya sat beside him, crossing her legs. Her gaze flitted to Altair with the barest unease. With sorrow, always sorrow. Ever since her son’s death.

  He seized it as whatever held him stiff against the wall subsided and the ifrit grabbed him once more.

  “Aya, look at me,” he implored, despite the hatred in his veins. “Look at what he’s done. What would Benyamin say?”

  She smiled at him. “The dead cannot speak, sadiqi.”

  The Lion looked pleased. Aya picked up the first of her tools and pulled back the folds of the Lion’s robes.

  Altair’s blood ran cold. He thrashed against the ifrit, but he felt as if he were suddenly made of wheat, frail and insignificant. He gave up, all but hanging in their clutches.

  Two more came for him, because Aya might be Arawiya’s best healer, but no one could insert a heart into a heartless monster by skill alone. Without Altair’s blood to fuel her, none of this was possible. He twisted away in futile protest and dull pain throbbed up his arm at the slash of the blade. He stilled at the warm rush of blood, heard the soft pings as it hit the metal cup.

  Pride bit his tongue, held his silence. His eye socket wrinkled oddly, bile rising to his throat.

  Aya blended their blood with a soft murmur. She smoothed her fingers down the Lion’s chest.

  “Do you feel it?” she asked momentarily.

  The Lion shook his head.

  Altair knew she was good, but skilled enough to numb so much of a man in heartbeats? She placed the tip of the lancet on the Lion’s skin and paused. “There is always the chance that it may not work.”

  “Fair Aya, always so concerned for my welfare. We’ve discussed this, haven’t we? It is a risk I must take.” The Lion touched her cheek, like a proud parent commending his child.

  “For Arawiya,” she said.

  The Lion smiled. “For Arawiya, my sweet.”

  She truly was gone. Altair watched helplessly as the knife tore through the Lion’s golden skin, black blood welling along the path of the incision.

  The promise of a greater darkness to come.

  CHAPTER 49

  There truly was no fool bigger than Zafira. I love you? She wanted to bash her head against the nearest wall.

  If Kifah hadn’t knocked when she did, Zafira’s wayward tongue would have run too far to reel back, though the look on Kifah’s face when Nasir followed her out of the room was mortifying enough. He barely met Zafira’s eyes as he hurried on and turned down a different hall, the guards on either end snapping to attention.

  She was aware, then, that those were the last words she would say to him before he was bound to another. Before this night was over, all that they had shared would no longer be the beginnings of a possibility but the end of a memory—unless he spoke out and held his ground.

  “So that’s why you weren’t with Lana. Akhh, he’s looking cheery,” Kifah observed as she appraised her. “You, on the oth
er hand, look like you climbed out of someone’s dream. Probably his.”

  Zafira felt bare with her hair unbound, lost in the flame of his touch and the yearning beneath her skin. She felt powerful, too, with her new jambiya against her leg.

  “I was worried when you weren’t in the audience hall,” Kifah continued. Her own new attire was fierce: A sleeveless tunic dropped at a slant to her mid-thigh, the high neck embroidered in bold gold filigree. She started to say something more, but stopped.

  Zafira cast her a sidelong glance. “What is it?”

  She pulled a small cylinder of polished wood with golden caps from a loop at her hip. With a flick of her wrist, it extended to either side, a vicious spearhead at the very end.

  “I’m impressed.” Zafira’s brows rose.

  Kifah flicked a latch and the spear retracted. She attached it to her waist. “A gift from Benyamin.”

  Zafira’s throat closed, imagining Benyamin preparing for a matter of life and death, yet pausing to construct a gift for the stranger with whom he would undertake a momentous journey.

  “It’s exquisite.”

  Kifah nodded, torn. “Calipha Ghada had it with her. She wants me to come back.”

  Ah. The Calipha of Pelusia. “But that’s good, isn’t it? It seemed like you wanted her to forgive you.”

  “Not with an ultimatum. I’d have to go back with them now. After the feast. It means leaving everything behind. You, the prince, Altair … magic. Forgo my vengeance and regain my place.” She barked a bitter laugh. “My father would love it.”

  What could Zafira say? If she had to decide between going back to her home or staying here to restore magic and defeat the Lion, she couldn’t choose one or the other. She wanted both. She wanted more. She wanted to return home without the guilt of Deen’s death. To find Umm alive and Yasmine smiling. She wanted magic returned without the betrayal of Aya and Altair.

  No matter what, though, she was a part of this now. She could not see herself stepping away, not after what she had endured and all she had lost.

  “Your advice is unmatched, Huntress,” Kifah drawled.

  Zafira laughed. “I can’t be the one to decide which is more important to you. Your place in the Nine, which you joined for vengeance against your father. Or your place in the restoration of magic, which you once decided would be an even bigger blow to your father. Big enough that it was worth leaving Pelusia against your calipha’s wishes.” Zafira stopped to look at her. “If you leave us, you will be missed. If we restore magic without you, it will always be your victory, too.”

  Kifah let out a low whistle. “And yet, once magic is restored, who’s to say how Arawiya will be?”

  Once, she said, not if. That was Kifah, doubtless and fierce, but Zafira shared her concern. She was no longer the Hunter now that the Arz was gone. She wasn’t even a daughter anymore. What was she to do after magic returned?

  She would need to start afresh. She and Lana.

  “That’s what makes the future beautiful.” Lana’s voice came from behind them.

  Kifah rolled her eyes. “I doubt there’s a fourteen-year-old as ancient as you, little Lana. That’s what makes the future terrifying.”

  Zafira stilled.

  Lana’s dress was sage, a pale shade of fresh sprigs adorned with tiny pearls. Pleats were set across the length, folds of bronze wound around the middle to accentuate her nimble shape. Brown kohl framed her eyes, and if Baba were here, he would have wept at the sight of his little healer, a woman now.

  Lana had always been beautiful; now she was breathtaking.

  “What do you think?” she asked shyly after the silence dragged on a beat too long.

  Zafira lifted her brows. “I think we ought to hide you away.”

  Lana wrinkled her nose dismissively, but she was glowing with pride. Happiness. It was what her sister deserved after what had happened to Aya and Umm, and Zafira decided then that no matter what, she would see this mission through. She would end the Lion with her last breath if it meant a world where Lana could be happy.

  She could barely imagine a world such as that. Without the Arz, without the Lion. She wasn’t artless—she knew a world without danger could never exist, but if there was one where death didn’t loom, where a girl didn’t have to fear becoming the woman she once idolized, Zafira would find it.

  Before two massive doors, a servant in white garb lowered his head, and the rest of Zafira’s thoughts were lost in a gasp. The audience hall was quite possibly the largest room she had ever seen, flourishing in the latest that art and innovation had to offer.

  The floor was exquisite, creamy marble offset with small metallic diamonds lit aflame by the ornate chandeliers. Marble columns supported a domed ceiling inlaid with a mosaic of patterns in an array of deep blues, browns, and rich gold. How odd that something so far out of reach was bedecked with such intricate beauty. Tightly wound swaths of fabric clung to certain angles, rope dangling for a single pull in which the jewel-toned curtains would unfold.

  “It’s so neat,” Lana said.

  Zafira gave her a look. “You’re making us look uncultured.”

  Kifah smirked. “After dinner is when the revelry really starts. The curtains drop, lights dim. Raqs sharqi. Arak.” She lowered her voice, clearly enjoying herself. “Debauchery.”

  “Raqs sharqi … Isn’t that belly dancing?” Lana asked, eyes wide.

  “Here?” Zafira asked, and Kifah broke out in laughter, making Zafira wonder just how much the Nine Elite had witnessed in the Pelusian palace.

  “We’ll make sure you’re tucked into bed by then.”

  A man in a white thobe and a russet turban stepped to the forefront of the hall, and Kifah cursed. “We’re late.”

  She dragged Zafira and Lana past rows and rows of cushioned majlises set before low ebony tables. People tracked their progress; servants darted to and fro. The air was stifling, heady perfumes stirred with the aroma of the food still to come, and Zafira held her breath at the pungent stench of garlic underlying it all. At the head, steps led to a platform covered in richly dyed cushions and a low table, legs curved like half arches. Behind it, like the centerpiece of a woven rug, was the Gilded Throne.

  Zafira could barely imagine how the place would look after the dinner. Was Nasir expected to stay? Her mind raced, imagining him lounging on the dais, eyes hooded as a woman swayed her hips for him, sheer clothes bright as the coy promise on her lips. It wasn’t as if this were his first feast. Skies, he might have attended hundreds of these.

  Kifah elbowed her. Zafira spotted Seif on the opposite end of the room, his gold tattoo catching the light of the thousands of flickering flames. He still couldn’t seem to find a shirt, his bold thobe in black and deep gold unbuttoned to his bare torso.

  “Calipha Ghada bint Jund min Pelusia, home to Arawiya’s greatest inventions and the Nine Elite!” the man in white announced.

  The din settled to a hushed murmur.

  “There she is. The source of my worries,” Kifah said, but there was pride high in her voice.

  A raven’s coo drew Zafira’s attention as the Pelusian calipha strode down the farthest row in a turban of liquid gold, her abaya wide and sweeping. The dark bird assessed the room from her shoulder, as alert as a hashashin. Ghada’s daughter followed, as dark as the night and her mother, her purple abaya clinging to her generous curves, hair tucked beneath a red turban. There was a playfulness to her eyes and the quirk of her mouth.

  She was one of the young women Nasir would choose from by the night’s end.

  “Is that Nawal?” Lana asked quietly.

  Kifah nodded. “Ghada’s daughter was the closest I had to a friend, and now she’s the only reason I’m being tolerated at all.”

  Eight more followed the calipha: their heads shorn, outfits of red rimmed in purple depicting the colors of Pelusia, arms bare except for their golden cuffs. Not one of them was tattooed, and they were all notably calmer than Kifah was. Or maybe Zafira had gotten
so used to Kifah’s restless demeanor that it only looked like the rest of the Nine Elite moved like slugs.

  “Do you regret it?” Zafira asked.

  “Do I regret wanting revenge, you mean?” Kifah snorted. “Never. I just need to decide if it’s still worth it.”

  The deep voice rang out again: “Caliph Rayyan bin Jafar min Zaram, where the mighty forged a path through the cursed forest, and none could stop them!”

  Perhaps it was because of what she knew of the Zaramese—that they were brutes who tamed the seas, who fought in arenas and reveled in blood—that Zafira expected their caliph to be a brawny, callous man.

  Caliph Rayyan bin Jafar looked like a reed swaying at the water’s edge, his wiry build folding beneath the weight of his jeweled cloak. He was followed by his daughter in a headdress made of shells, more regal than the caliph himself, and his three sons.

  “The esteemed Calipha Rania and daughter Leila min Alderamin, where the safin idle in elegance, immortal to the bone!”

  No one outside of Alderamin had seen the royal Alder family in nearly a century, and the silence was instant.

  Every head swiveled to witness Benyamin’s mother. Safin were always pushing the boundaries of Arawiyan tradition, and the calipha’s appearance was no exception. She was average in height, her long hair unbound and uncovered, crowned with a gold circlet at her temple. Her elongated ears were wrapped in gold, her black abaya studded with rosy pearls. Vanity shrouded her like a cloak, and she carried her beauty with a sharp-edged cruelty.

  By her side was another safi, taller by a hand, a tattoo circling her left eye. The neckline of her abaya was cut deeper than modesty would ever allow, and Zafira quickly lifted her gaze from the plunging seams. Her face, unexpectedly, was kind, her eyes a familiar umber.

  “Benyamin’s sister,” Kifah murmured. Did Leila know her brother was dead? That her sister-in-law had joined the forces of the Lion? “Bleeding Guljul, that calipha. Can you imagine what would happen if our prince was fool enough to ask her daughter to be his wife?”