We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya)

by Hafsah Faizal

  It wasn’t. Nasir hadn’t spoken to Kulsum in months. Every time she came near, he would retreat.

  “Leave,” Nasir said after a long pause filled with the swooshing of steel as he removed his weapons.

  “Pity. I thought you might want to know about the mysterious mission, journey, quest—thing—the sultan is so keen about.”

  Nasir felt a vein feather in his jaw. Altair watched carefully, not bothering to even move toward the door as Nasir hung the rest of his weapons on the wall above his bedside table. The bastard always knew what to dangle in front of his face.

  “What do you know about it?” he asked carefully, pouring himself a glass of water. Though he could have a throng of servants pouring him water, helping him change, setting his bath, he had ordered to have no one in his chambers. Monsters preferred solitude.

  He sat on the edge of his bed.

  Altair leaned down with a conspiratorial whisper. “More than you.”

  “Start talking, then,” Nasir said when the water had laved his parched throat.

  “Yes, my liege,” Altair said mockingly, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Nasir bristled at his tone and nearly tossed the glass at the general’s head. “Do I need to pay you to speak? Because I’m afraid that won’t be happening.”

  Altair scoffed. “I have an abundance of gold, shukrun. I find the best payments are always the most difficult to extract. So come with me to the Daama Faris, and we can talk over a drink.”

  Nasir clenched his teeth as Altair lifted two fingers to his brow in a mock salute and strolled from the room. Weasel.

  * * *

  The traveling tavern slouched across the uneven sands not too far from the palace. How Altair had found this place was beyond Nasir, but that was how soldiers and their betters worked.

  Stepping into the Daama Faris was like stepping into a different world, for no other place in the sultan’s city was this alive. Nasir’s ever-present irritation was placated by unfamiliar longing. His step faltered.

  Such feelings weren’t to be encouraged.

  Nasir let the tent flap fall behind him and followed a grinning Altair inside, sidestepping the men littering the worn, faded rugs. The messy sight and the blistering heat, combined with the rowdy crowd, made his head spin. Altair greeted a few of the men by name as they wended through, and Nasir expected the tent to fall silent, to see fear in the eyes of the people surrounding him.

  But they only gave him a passing glance. They didn’t even recognize him.

  Was this flood of freedom what it meant to go unnoticed?

  Bodily odors and the stench of drink made him grit his teeth. He would leave the place with a layer of grime on his clothes. The thought of inhaling it nearly made him empty his insides, but that would only add to Altair’s endless list of taunts, so he swallowed his revulsion.

  The two of them shoved their way to a low table too close to the center of the place. Nasir swept his gaze across the tent, noting the most sober, counting the entrances, and pausing at the tables swathed in shadows. There were at least four men in the silver cloaks of the Sultan’s Guard, another handful in the black of Sarasin uniform, and a few darker-skinned men near them who could only be Pelusian, talking heatedly with their Zaramese counterparts. Sultan’s Keep had its fair share of Demenhune, too, but the fools probably only drank melted snow wherever possible.

  “I’ll protect you, my dear assassin. Now stop looking like the world might swallow you whole, hmm?” Altair whispered in his ear.

  Nasir closed his eyes, hearing Altair’s smirk. He might as well have vomited.

  Altair had the nerve to grip his shoulders and steer him to the worn carpet, where Nasir folded his legs beneath him and sat like a common peasant. It was all he could do not to flip the general over his shoulder.

  Altair laughed, clearly enjoying every heartbeat. “Shall I procure you a bib as well?”

  “Keep at it and I’ll shove your fancy turban down your throat,” Nasir offered, noticing that the carpet beneath him was mottled with dark stains of who-knew-what.

  He was here for information. He had seen and done worse than this filth. He would survive.

  “Fancy, eh? Feel free. Blue isn’t really my color.” Altair winked and settled on the opposite side of the table.

  Nasir didn’t bother with an answer. Someone opened one of the tent’s many flaps and the moon peeked in, bringing a gust of the cool desert breeze inside. In the deserts of Arawiya, there was nothing more beautiful and beloved than the moon, bringing with her relief from the relentless sun. One more thing the growing darkness sought to diminish.

  “Marhaba,” the server girl said in greeting. A green jewel—likely fake—adorned her exposed belly button, arms shimmering with iridescent powder. Altair’s smirk spread wider, and she took that as permission to sidle close to him.

  “Tell me, habibi, does this turban look good on me?” Altair crooned.

  Nasir crossed his arms and sighed.

  The girl ran a henna-tipped finger across his turban and smiled with pink lips. “I think it makes you look”—she leaned closer and dropped her voice, dark hair fanning him—“ravishing.”

  Nasir lifted an eyebrow when she trailed her lips down Altair’s cheek.

  Altair gave him a stupid grin, hunger darkening his gaze. He was drooling like a dog just praised by his master. The girl tittered and Altair answered Nasir’s glare with a calm stare before turning to her with a new smile. He trades faces quickly.

  “One dallah of qahwa for me, please,” the general said.

  Nasir was surprised. Coffee? He would have thought the general would be all for drink and get drunk.

  “And for my friend here…” Altair trailed off, gesturing to Nasir, who scowled at the word “friend.”

  “Water.”

  The girl bristled at his order, touched Altair’s cheek, and glided away.

  Altair’s eyes followed the server girl. “I knew you were a boring man, Nasir, but water? I don’t think they even have that here. They might just scoop some for you from the toilets.”

  Nasir bit his tongue.

  Altair continued, “Your restraint astounds me.”

  As if coffee would make Altair forget anything.

  “And your lack thereof abhors me,” Nasir replied.

  “Some seek ways to forget,” Altair said, oddly solemn.

  Nasir followed his gaze to a man clearly taken by drink. The fool stared at a glass, lost and unfocused until he blinked—a flash of pain, there and gone again. Nasir did not think Altair saw that pain.

  “Some of us can never forget.” Nasir didn’t know why he said those words to Altair of all people.

  As a reminder of his idiocy, Altair gave him a withering look. “Some of us don’t deserve to.”

  The girl returned before Nasir could form a retort. She set a dallah pot and a cup in front of Altair, and a smaller glass of water in front of Nasir. It looked clean, and didn’t smell like it had been salvaged from … there.

  “Shukrun, habibi,” Altair said, trailing the backs of his fingers over hers.

  Nasir’s ears burned when the general leaned into her and murmured against her skin before pressing a scrap of papyrus to her palm.

  “Listen,” Nasir started, but the girl stood and sauntered away with a parting glare. She stopped before one of the men in black uniform. A Sarasin soldier.

  “It’s bad manners to stare at a woman when you’re with a man,” Altair drawled.

  Nasir gave him a disgusted look. “Whoever told you that is—”

  “I made it up myself, actually,” he said.

  Nasir saw the flash of something cream-colored pass between the girl and the soldier. The scrap of papyrus.

  “Don’t be nosy, Prince.”

  Nasir scoffed and looked again, but only the soldier stood there now, staring back at him with cool indifference. Was he part of the contingent tasked with gassing Demenhur? Nasir didn’t know.

  “Anything I do
is for the good of our kingdom,” Altair went on. “Isn’t that what our duty dictates? There has to be some reason why you skulk around killing innocent people.” He poured a stream of the dark coffee into his cup, out of place in the tent full of drink and rowdy men. He caught Nasir watching his cup. “I’d think you of all people would have noticed me to be above this human tendency to muddle the mind.”

  Nasir was half safin, and not even he referred to himself as anything other than human. Altair was right, though. Nasir had noticed the startling clarity in his gaze whenever he returned from his nights out. He simply hadn’t expected the man to drink bitter coffee at a tavern.

  “Where were we? Ah yes, the mission.” Altair stretched his legs to either side of the table, not bothering to lower his voice.

  Nasir opened his mouth to ask about the girl and the papyrus, but the Sarasin soldier had disappeared.

  “I’m surprised your bleeding father didn’t tell you yet. Him and his grand plans.”

  Nasir held still. Altair never spoke ill of the sultan.

  “The Silver Witch has sent out an invitation. Irresistible. Tailored,” Altair began, downing a cup of qahwa. It was always a rueful day when the sultan took counsel from the Silver Witch. She was familiar around Sultan’s Keep, but Nasir kept his distance from the fair woman who always watched him too closely. “A glamorous way to get something from Sharr—”

  “Sharr?” Nasir repeated before he could stop himself. The island of—kharra. Every thought in his mind scattered like sand in a gust of wind.

  “Don’t interrupt.” Altair scowled. “Whatever this thing is, it will supposedly restore magic to Arawiya’s minarets. And you’re a big part of the plan.”

  “Me. And this prize is—” Nasir broke off as someone kicked him, but when he flicked his gaze up, the degenerate had already swayed past. Another dry breeze slipped into the tent, ruffling Nasir’s hair and stirring the cacophony of odors.

  “I don’t know what it is except that the Silver Witch is behind it and only the pure of heart can find it.”

  “Right. And that means I have to go?” Nasir mocked.

  A brawl started not three tables from them, between a mouthy Zaramese and a massive man with streaks of sweat staining his qamis. Nasir rubbed his temples as grunts and crashes and swears rose in the already unbearable din.

  “Did you have a moment, thinking you were pure of heart?” Altair said, unperturbed. “Ghameq doesn’t trust the Silver Witch—for reasons I can’t fathom. Your job is to kill the person who finds the prize and bring whatever it is back to your father.”

  Ah. Now that was a task befitting Nasir.

  “See? As much as he hates you, you’re the only one Ghameq trusts,” Altair explained.

  But Ghameq didn’t trust anyone. Not even his own son, let alone the witch he sought counsel from.

  Altair croaked a mirthless laugh, coming to the same conclusion. “Laa, that’s not it. You’re simply the only one he can force and the only one who won’t break while doing his bidding.”

  The words were a slap. An accusation Nasir had grown accustomed to, but not the overwhelming sense of cowardice that came with it. He snapped his gaze to the general with a clench of his jaw. Self-pity could wait.

  “And I fear whatever you’ll retrieve will be the last thing he needs,” Altair concluded.

  For what? Nasir almost asked.

  But trepidation crossed Altair’s proud features and wavered at his proud mouth. Emotion that Altair, in his collected mind, would never betray.

  Something worse than Nasir could imagine was at work.

  On the daama island of Sharr, no less.

  CHAPTER 7

  Zafira’s umm always knew her daughter didn’t fear the Arz the way other children did. She would usher her to bed with whispers of the Sultana’s Guard instead, and Zafira would dream of them chasing after her with their silver hoods and stern faces. Umm was no storyspinner like Baba was, but mothers were always good at spinning fears.

  Now the sultana was dead, and Zafira glimpsed a different kind of silver in every slant of shadow.

  The letter, and the silver-cloaked woman.

  She lay in bed, her skin sore from the tight fit of that infernal dress she had worn at the wedding, just hours before. Yasmine was one house away, as always, but her friend felt somewhere far off and unreachable. You’re selfish, that’s all.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them with a groan, clearing her head of Yasmine and Misk. And Deen, carrying his bulky satchel as he disappeared down the street with a bittersweet smile, off to stay with a friend for the next few nights until Yasmine moved to Misk’s house.

  Sweet snow below.

  She had other things to worry about. Like the quest in two days. Through daama Sharr of all places.

  The thin mattress did little to muffle the squeak of old wood when she slipped out of bed. She would have to ask Deen to take a look at the creaking bedframe soon. He was always tinkering with random materials, coming up with inventions he dreamed of sharing with the Pelusians two caliphates away.

  She threw on a faded tunic and then Baba’s heavy cloak. She swung on her smaller satchel, pushing Baba’s heftier one away. If she made the trek to Sharr, the lumpy thing would be at her back. With extra clothes, her favorite soap, and the kit of rare medicinal items Baba had put together over the years—strips of fabric, tonics, liniments for wounds, resin for burns, and herbs—all from a time when Demenhur wasn’t a cursed chasm of snow, a time Zafira could only dream of.

  As she stood with a sigh, she heard the howl of wind and the snap of the front door, but out in the foyer there was only Lana, curled on the majlis, a book in her lap. When Zafira opened her mouth to ask who had come in, she saw what Lana was reading.

  Silver glinted in the firelight. Kharra. Kharra, kharra, kharra.

  “What are you doing?” Zafira asked sharply.

  Lana startled, her eyes snaring on Zafira’s satchel and hunting clothes. A plate of aish el-saraya from the wedding sat beside her, syrup glistening in the firelight.

  “Were you going to tell me and Umm?” Lana asked, accusation in her sweet voice. She held up the letter, and the dip in her forehead bothered Zafira more than she liked.

  “I only got it today, and then there was the wedding.” And also the little problem of me not really speaking to Umm anymore.

  Lana was silent a moment. Accusation on her face gave way to hurt, pulling at the cords in Zafira’s chest. “But were you going to tell us?”

  “Maybe. No. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Zafira asked tiredly.

  She held out her hand, and Lana folded the invitation before giving it back. The broken seal flashed like the silver-cloaked woman’s smile.

  Zafira reached for the old blanket hanging by the front door, her fingers brushing the dusty coat beside it. Baba’s coat. He had the most elaborate sayings for everything, and he used to describe its color as the waters of the Baransea on the calmest of days beneath the cloudiest of skies, even though he had never seen the Baransea.

  Skies, if she went on this journey, she would see it.

  Baba had been a collector of stories, a weaver of words. He hadn’t been alive before the Sisters fell, but over the years he had gleaned tales from before the Baransea became dangerous, before the Arz sprang up, rimming the caliphates and obscuring the sea from Arawiya. His stories were the reason Zafira knew so much.

  Pieces of Baba were scattered throughout their house—his boots, his favorite cup—because Zafira couldn’t bear to get rid of them. Even after so many years, she was methodical in her cleaning every evening. It unnerved her to see anything out of place, but in the case of Baba’s things, she could only ever run her fingers over their surfaces and gasp away an endless sorrow.

  It was her fault. It would always be her fault. If only she had been stronger, better.

  When Baba had ambled home from the Arz five years ago—months after his disappearance—the first
thing Zafira had noticed was his state. His clothes were torn and tattered, shoulders hunched. By the time she saw the blood and understood the expression on his face, he was already moving for her. Readying to attack the very same daughter he had ventured into the Arz to save.

  Moments later, he was dead, killed by—

  “Okht?”

  Zafira flinched. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” she said to Lana quickly. She tucked the frayed blanket around her sister’s shoulders, stomach clenching at the bones that jutted more sharply than they had one moon ago. “Get some sleep. Umm might start any moment now.”

  Her words were followed by a soft keening from Umm’s room. Something propelled Zafira forward—instinct, perhaps—before she remembered Baba’s glassy eyes, blood stretching a horizon across his chest. She clenched her teeth and dug in her heels.

  “So much for that.” Oblivious, Lana shoved the blanket away with a scrunch of her nose. “Is the trek to Sharr really the day after tomorrow?”

  Zafira looked away. “Yes.”

  Lana’s disappointment was a fist to her stomach, and she forced herself to meet those eyes. Baba’s eyes, earnest and ancient.

  “I’m sorry, Lana.”

  “Will you take someone with you?” she asked, and glanced wistfully at the novel tucked under her blanket before adding, “A safi would be a good ally to have on your side.”

  “I don’t know who’s going. I don’t even know if this is real. But you and I both know that safin don’t care about us.”

  The so-called great safin—with their pointed ears, heightened abilities, and endless lives—had abandoned Arawiya when the people needed them most. The caliphates had relied on magic the way a drunk man relied on his glass—except for Alderamin. And now that magic was gone, the safin lived as fine a life as they had before, selfishly hoarding their resources and turning their noses from Arawiya’s suffering.

  “Maybe they want to help but can’t,” Lana said. “They have the Wastes on one side and the Arz on the other.”