We Hunt the Flame
Page 11
It was her fault Baba lay with blue lips beneath ice and snow.
Deen watched her, and despite the silence, she knew by the sorrow drowning his beautiful eyes that he had read everything on her face. It was her most damning feature, having her face speak before she did. A thing people never ceased to tell her. An opinion that had been repeated over and over until it had become fact. She wrapped her shawl and tossed her dwindling coin pouch at him before reaching for the door.
“Let’s go freeze our lips.”
Deen’s grin meant more to her than anything coin could buy.
* * *
Zafira folded into herself when they left the house. She noticed, because she didn’t have the obscurity of her cloak around her. Her shoulders dipped forward, pulling in her chest. She tucked her chin low, and pressed her lips thin.
She wasn’t shielding herself from the cold.
Deen paused. She felt the warmth of his fingers at her chin before he lifted her face to his level. “Zafira. The moon never fears the night. The gazelle doesn’t fear the unknown. Why must you, Huntress?”
“But this is not an unknown.”
“These are your fears, bleeding from the Hunter and into you. Don’t fear yourself.”
She tried. She tried to keep her mind on other things, like the bothersome asymmetry of the houses tucked side by side to her left and the plain of white snow broken by the wheat-like trunks of the Empty Forest to her right. It was a sparse, barren thing. A babe of a forest, compared to the cursed Arz.
Deen stopped before a bush, leafless and near-dead, sprawling in front of a house. Before she could ask, he made a satisfied aha! and turned back to her with something cupped in his palms.
A flower. White and whiskered in a fringe of ice. Silken petals held together in a loose grip.
Zafira remembered a dozen wild roses like this, salvaged by Baba. Pressed into her small palms while he hugged her tight and called her his abal. She had known, even then, that Abal was the name of one of the Six Sisters, and it had made her young self feel powerful as much as it made her feel loved.
Deen folded back her shawl and tucked the flower beneath the dark strands of her hair, and she felt the prick of its stem at her scalp before he took her hand in his. “The beauty that withstands all. Stubborn in the harshest of atmospheres.”
“Sounds like a bull,” Zafira said against the rock in her throat, and he laughed that laugh she loved more than the warmest of fires on the coldest of nights.
When they reached the sooq, Deen squeezed her hand, and she realized how quick she was to mindlessly retreat into herself. She held her chin high as they passed a girl trailing her mother, a shawl around her small shoulders, a steaming cake held reverently in her small fists. They passed a man hauling a wagon of rugs, promising discounts as he barreled on, and another with a trunk full of salves, tinctures, and medicinal herbs, listing prices that made Zafira’s eyes pop. Merchants shouted. People bartered. The jumu’a was warm beneath her shoes. Old Adib’s stall was busy, the skins of Zafira’s hunts being passed from man to woman, woman to Adib, bartering and bickering until they settled on a price.
“Good to know Adib is doing well,” Zafira noted.
Deen grunted. “He’s getting harder to deal with, that one. We might have to find a new merchant.”
He guided her to a small shop tucked behind the one for the superstitious. Unlike the others, this wooden door was a shade of lavender. Zafira touched the smooth surface just as it swung open and a girl burst out, darting through the sooq with an excited shout, her brother behind her.
Deen grinned at Zafira. “Ready?”
“I’ve never been more excited,” she drawled, but she suddenly was. There was a rose in her hair and a smile on Deen’s face. There was a pastel door before her and warmth carving a home in her chest. Something thrummed at her fingers, and she wanted to bottle this feeling and cherish it forever.
She did not expect an iced cream parlor to be warm. To be so full of people and wide smiles. Clattering spoons and jeweled metal bowls. Deen tugged her to a corner of the majlis, and she slipped out of her shoes and folded her legs beneath her, setting her arms on the low table. Everything was so … clean.
“What flavor do you want to try?” Deen asked, unable to dim the light in his eyes.
Zafira slanted her mouth. “Iced cream?”
“Plain it is.” He laughed and went to the counter, where two men taking orders greeted Deen by name as he passed them a few dinars. A third figure stood farther back, tugging gooey white cream by the handful. She wore the same outfit as the men.
She. Skies. Zafira studied the workers more closely as Deen returned and sat across from her.
“Who runs Bakdash?” Zafira asked as two girls sat down to their other side and a third went to order for them. The place was bustling, despite the cold. The place was happy, reminding her of what she did not have—peace, happiness, a life. All she did was hunt and get ready for the next hunt.
“It’s been in the same family for generations. Why the sudden interest?”
“The one in the back,” she said, voice low, “is a woman.”
Deen looked to the trio, and pride broke across his face. “They are good people.”
Zafira made a sound. “Allowing their sister to work with them isn’t a glorious feat.”
“No—but defying your caliph is,” Deen pointed out, and she couldn’t argue with that.
A young boy brought them a platter. He set a spoon in front of Zafira, followed by a metal bowl full of fluffy white cream topped with slivered pistachios and an eye-popping candied cherry that could not have been easy to come by.
Deen watched her. “It’s called emaa, from the old tongue. It’s not the same as iced cream, but it’s what makes Bakdash special. They keep it frozen with ice and use their hands to tug it free.”
Zafira hadn’t eaten iced cream to know the difference. She merely hmmed and tucked her spoon into the white blob, surprised at its softness and the taffy-like pull. It smelled subtly of rose water.
“Don’t stare,” she commanded.
Deen gave her a sheepish grin and shoved a spoonful of emaa into his mouth with a shrug. She touched her spoon to her lips, the cold chilling her skin. She shivered before dipping it into her mouth, surprised by the burst of honey and rose, the sugar sweetening her tongue, the taffy dulling the cold.
“Well?” Deen asked when she had downed more than a bite.
Zafira could only grin, and Deen’s eyes sparkled as he gleaned the rest from her face.
This could be her first and last bowl of emaa. The last time she could feel such unrestrained happiness at so mundane a moment. The last time she could see Deen’s smile and freeze her lips.
“Not now,” Deen whispered, pushing her bowl closer with his knuckles. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, and Zafira didn’t even think of the people who could see them. This.
She shoved her heavy thoughts aside and leaned back against the cushion of the majlis, the bowl in her hand, nuts between her teeth, and honey on her tongue. In this moment, it was her and Deen and the iced cream she had once cursed but had now begun to love.
Too soon, the boy returned to take her empty bowl and then they were leaving, picking up a few things from the sooq before heading home. When they neared her house, Deen paused before turning to the street where his friend lived.
He held her gaze, voice soft. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she said with a nod, and then he was gone.
The clouds skittered in front of the rising moon, darkening the oncoming night, and the Arz looked like a mouth of jagged teeth, black against blue. Light spilled from their kitchen window, and Zafira was glad Lana was home.
She had just finished checking on Sukkar in the stable when a hand fell on her shoulder. She scrambled back before she caught the shimmer of burnished bronze hair against the moonlight.
“You scared me,” Zafira exclaimed in a whisper. The rose in her hair f
ell to the snow, petals scattering.
Yasmine tipped her head as she stepped closer, birdlike. “Funny. You rarely get spooked.” Her voice was flat, and the look on her face told Zafira what was coming next.
Not now, she wanted to say. She wanted to cherish the magic of Bakdash a little longer.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Yasmine asked. “To Sharr. Before you ask, yes, I know. Kharra. Everyone in this bleeding, ice-brained village would have known before you told me. If Deen hadn’t used his head, I don’t think I’d ever know.”
“Do you want me to be sorry for not ruining your wedding night?” Zafira seethed, her good mood shattering. Anger flashed across Yasmine’s features. “This is my chance to bring down the Arz. To bring back magic. There’s no one who knows the Arz better than I do. Even if the Arz weren’t a problem, I can’t sit here. You know me, Yasmine. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
The Arz groaned in the lengthy silence as the wind curled through its limbs. How much closer had it grown while Zafira whiled away the evening, eating emaa?
“What of your mother? And Lana?”
Zafira laughed softly. “When I meet the caliph tomorrow, I’m going to ask him to give them a better place to live, along with someone to care for Ummi. If he accepts, Lana will forget within days that she even had a sister.”
Yasmine just stared back. Oh.
“And you—you have Misk. And your brother. I’ll ask the caliph for—”
“You think a gift from the caliph will replace you? Do you think I’m that selfish?” Yasmine snarled, adding a string of curses.
Zafira shook her head, and the silence between them was more painful than anything she had experienced. It stretched like a chasm in the darkness, the bridge across it no wider than a thread.
“You might die there, Zafira.”
Zafira still didn’t reply. She still tasted honey on her tongue.
The bridge collapsed.
“There’s nothing I can say, is there?” Yasmine asked, a hysterical laugh bubbling at the end.
Zafira pulled on a weary smile.
Before the tears glistening in Yasmine’s eyes could fall, Zafira closed the distance between them. She hesitated and settled on a squeeze of Yasmine’s shoulder. “Your husband is waiting for you.”
Zafira turned away first, her friend’s absence a weight in the depths of her heart, Bakdash far in the past.
CHAPTER 13
“Get up,” Nasir said.
Altair was sprawled on his bed, looking nothing like the poised man who reveled in taunting.
“That dull, flat voice. I swear, it’s a threat on its own,” Altair croaked, pulling a pillow over his head. He wore nothing but a pair of emerald sirwal, his qamis nowhere to be seen.
“You want me to be concerned?” Nasir scoffed. “You’re coming, too.”
“Sultan’s teeth, I wonder why I’m so desolate,” Altair droned. “Fetch me some qahwa, will you?”
Nasir threw open the curtains, and a shaft of light hit Altair in the face. It was Nasir’s first time visiting Altair’s rooms, which he had never expected to be this … neat. They were just as monotone as his own chambers. Twin peals of female laughter echoed from the adjoining bathroom, and Altair smiled.
Nasir scowled, ears burning.
“Do I look like one of your girls?” he asked. “Fetch the qahwa yourself. Drink it, dump it on your head, cry in a corner, I don’t care. But we sail at sunrise, which means we have to leave the palace soon. I don’t know how long it’ll take to cross the Arz, and I don’t want to get to that wretched island after the Hunter and whoever else.”
Altair peeked over the pillow. “So eager to start killing, aren’t you?”
Nasir tossed a satchel at Altair’s head. “We ride at dusk. Get ready.”
“But of course, Sultani. Can’t wait.”
Nasir bristled. Altair never bothered with titles when it came to Nasir, and his use now bothered Nasir more than his disrespect ever had. He slammed the door shut on Altair’s wheezing laughter.
But his steps faltered when someone new entered Altair’s receiving rooms.
“Kulsum?”
Her name alone sent the organ in his chest racing. Her dark eyes lit up as his thoughts came to a halt. Kulsum in Altair’s rooms? He quickened his pace to the door, putting her behind him. He felt her fingers raking the air, reaching for him. Knifing him.
Mute, always mute.
He didn’t look back as the door thudded shut.
* * *
Nasir took the weapons on his person, along with a rucksack containing a few provisions and a change of clothes.
He expected this journey to be quick, no longer than a few weeks. Head straight through the Arz, sail to Sharr, follow the Hunter, and bring back the lost Jawarat.
Beneath the light of a heavy moon, Nasir saddled a gray stallion, and Altair saddled a roan beside him. The general was an odd sight in hashashin gear, with armor so thin one couldn’t imagine it existed at all.
A hashashin’s garb was made for blending, for appearing unthreatening, despite the numerous weapons obscured along his body. But in typical Altair fashion, there was something to make one glance at him again. He had discarded the obscuring outer robes in favor of flashing more skin. Though leather gauntlets were wrapped tight around his forearms, the rest of his corded arms were bare, and a turban rimmed in red was styled around his head. The traditional sash around his middle was stark red, too, clashing with his ridiculously colored sirwal.
“Ready to ride the night away, Sultani?” he asked suggestively.
“Save your innuendos for your parties, Altair.”
“Ah, so you’re not as dumb as your father makes you seem,” Altair said with a laugh. “I can’t wait until we meet the Hunter. I’ll have to introduce you by saying, ‘He’s not always this grumpy. Then again, he’s one of those people who talks less and murders more.’”
“You’ll be doing a good job of not frightening him,” Nasir said, spurring his stallion forward.
“Shukrun, habibi,” Altair called after him. “Endearing as always.”
The sands glowed like dying embers in the night. Mansions glittered in the moonlight, and the limestone of the slums loomed eerie and desolate.
No one would be around to see them, not now, when the moon had risen and the cold had begun its sweep across the desert. Nasir’s heart stuttered at the thought of crossing the Arz at sunrise, but he didn’t have a choice. Kulsum’s dark eyes flashed in his mind. The soft curve of Haytham’s son’s small shoulders.
He never had a choice.
He would cross the Arz and meet the Baransea at sunrise, in whatever condition he stood.
CHAPTER 14
Zafira woke to a pair of catlike eyes staring into her own. She jerked away. “Yasmine!”
Yasmine answered with a curse. Tears streaked her cheeks, and she looked as though a heavy weight had been set on her shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” Zafira asked, voice rough with sleep. “Shouldn’t you be—”
“With my husband? I swear, that’s all you ever say when you see me.”
Zafira sank back into the pillows and cut a glance at the window before jerking upright again. She had to go. “I have to—”
“Go? Kharra, I know. That’s why I came. To see you one last time.” Yasmine dropped her gaze to her hands. The henna from her wedding was already fading, the russet now a bright shade of red. She sat on the edge of Zafira’s bed, the mattress bowing under her weight.
“Remember when my parents died, and Deen left us to go exploring the kingdom? When he joined that caravan across the Wastes? I still have a little bit left in that tin of hot chocolate he brought back, and I saved the empty vial of honey you licked clean.” Yasmine laughed softly and then sighed. “It’s strange what I’ll remember with a spoon of cocoa and an empty vial of honey, no?”
Zafira tried to puzzle over those words before she swung out of bed.
“Do you expect to live? It’s scary enough when you disappear into the Arz,” Yasmine said, and Zafira heard her recline on the bed.
Zafira glanced at her. “You’re awfully optimistic today.”
Yasmine shrugged. “It’s not every day the sister of your heart settles on a death wish.”
“I don’t have a death wish, Yasmine. We know I have a better chance at getting through the Arz and, because of it, Sharr. It could be completely different, but I have a chance where no one else does. Either way, we won’t even see another year before the Arz swallows us whole.”
Silence screamed between them as Zafira reached for her clothes and froze. This wasn’t the qamis she had left for herself. This was the dress she had worn to Yasmine’s wedding, only a lot shorter. She fingered the sharpened swirls along the deep blue shoulder and looked up.
Yasmine smiled. “I know how much you love that dress, and I also know it’s a tad tight. So, I … shortened it and made it a little looser. If you’re going to save the world, you might as well do it in style.”
Zafira laughed softly and slipped it over her head, the material soft against her skin. It was lighter, but Sharr wasn’t a snowy mess like Demenhur. Her cloak would help her bear the cold until she left.
“Promise me,” Yasmine said softly, “that if you die, you will die fighting to return to me.”
Zafira struggled to smile. “I would kiss you goodbye, but your husband wouldn’t like it.”
Yasmine sputtered a laugh and rushed forward, throwing her arms around her. Zafira wasn’t certain which of them trembled more. Yasmine pulled away and pressed her forehead against hers, and Zafira inhaled the scent of orange blossom and spice one last time.
“Come back, Zafira. No matter what. Victorious or not, come back.”
The cool water had numbed Zafira’s skin, but her blood was ablaze as she ruminated her next words, because she was never good at saying goodbye. “I don’t plan on dying. I plan on finding that daama Jawarat and coming back.”