We Hunt the Flame

by Hafsah Faizal

  Nasir bristled at the name the Silver Witch had used. “I didn’t—”

  “Ah, you won’t have to do a thing. Look! Men to do your bidding.”

  The sea breeze tousled Nasir’s hair. There were men on board, but something about them gave him pause as he boarded the ship.

  “These aren’t men.” He crossed the deck to where a figure stood at the helm. “They cast no shadows.”

  “Akhh, I feel safer now, knowing we’ll be on a ship full of phantoms,” Altair said with an exaggerated smile. He walked up to one of the men and shoved his hand through him, grasping at air. “I can even wring his neck and he wouldn’t feel a thing … Neither would I, for that matter.”

  Nasir sighed. The phantom men soundlessly removed the plank and released the moorings. The longer he watched them move about in perfect synchrony, without a gesture or sound of communication, the more it unnerved him.

  He looked away. “Stay alert, will you.”

  For if the Arz was a taste of dark magic and Sharr was evil incarnate, the sea between them would be just as nefarious. He grabbed his bow, but his eyebrows fell when he looked to Altair. “You brought a bow … without arrows.”

  Altair cocked a grin, something calculating in his gaze. “You’ve got plenty to spare, haven’t you?”

  Nasir inhaled through his nose, and handed Altair five black-and-silver arrows, indicating how long he expected Altair to last.

  He met Nasir’s gaze with a startlingly genuine one as he nocked an arrow. “Alert I will be, Sultani.”

  Ruler and subject once more. He had a feeling Altair knew of Nasir’s orders to kill him. Altair clearly knew more than that, judging by the fear on his face that night at the Daama Faris. Why come along if he knew of his impending doom?

  But to question was to display weakness, and Nasir was no weakling, no matter how great his curiosity.

  “Off we go, children,” Altair called, and the ship lurched forward with Nasir’s stomach.

  * * *

  Sharr was nowhere to be seen. They had a long journey ahead, but Nasir didn’t think it would take as long as when on a normal ship. No, this journey would follow the time of the Silver Witch and the abominable power she held.

  It was as if she wanted Nasir to find the Hunter. To follow him. To kill him.

  The shores of Sultan’s Keep became smaller and smaller.

  “What have we to fear on this journey, Sultani?” Altair asked.

  Nasir had the feeling the general was mocking him, for Altair should know more than he did about the lay of the land—and sea. But as the ship’s men continued without so much as a flicker of emotion in their dull eyes, Nasir found himself opening his stupid mouth, recounting names from long-buried tales he should not have unearthed. “There are tales of the bahamut and dandan.”

  Altair’s forehead creased. His head dipped toward his chest and his shoulders pitched forward, shaking. Seasick. And so soon after setting sail, the weak bastard. Nasir didn’t bother moving from the railing. Heartbeats later, Altair straightened, his face red from exertion.

  He wasn’t sick. He was laughing uncontrollably.

  Nasir scowled.

  “Beware, the mighty dandan!” Altair shouted. “I imagine the creature hides in shame because of its own name.” He broke off in laughter again. “Dandan? Dandan!”

  In answer, the ship jounced. Nasir gripped the railing.

  Altair snorted. “Oh, you’ll be safe from our dreaded dandan so close to the shore. Sultan’s teeth, look at that.”

  At the shores of Sultan’s Keep, a violent crackling filled the air. The Arz was coming back. Trees erupted out of the ground, tossing black pebbles everywhere. The very air began to darken. Trunks rose high, limbs entwining, twisting, spearing. Leaves dripped from branches like dew.

  In mere breaths, the Arz had returned, looking as if it had never left.

  If the Silver Witch could tame the Arz—rimaal, make it disappear—Nasir couldn’t begin to imagine the extent of her powers. But it was Sharr that not even she could subdue. It was on Sharr that he could finally meet his demise. After years of expecting death at the hands of his father, he could die on an island, and no one would even know. Not that anyone was left to care.

  “You shouldn’t have said that about her to the witch.” Altair broke through his thoughts, an edge to his voice.

  Nasir lifted an eyebrow and propped his onyx-hilted jambiya against the rail to polish. “What?”

  “Kulsum.”

  He paused. “All I said was that she is of no concern to me.”

  “You use people and discard them. No one is of any concern to you, Nasir,” Altair said coolly.

  As if he knew. As if he daama knew what Nasir had been through.

  Altair and his mouth.

  One moment, Nasir was trying to force air through his teeth, the next, he shoved the bigger man against the rail, blade at the smooth column of his throat.

  “Let me,” Nasir breathed, “tell you a story, General.”

  Altair’s eyes flared. Good. It was good to have Altair fear him for once.

  “Once, there was a girl in Sultan’s Keep. She sang away her nights beneath the stars with my head in her lap and her fingers in my hair. Until she lost what she prized most. Because I loved her. Because I was selfish.” Nasir spat the last words in his face. “I would have lamented less had she died.”

  He pulled away. Altair straightened his clothes, the wind toying with the fringe of his turban. Waves crashed, and somewhere, Kulsum was carrying a tray to the sultan.

  “You will always be selfish,” Altair said, voice strangely level. “Do you know why I stand as an equal beside you, princeling? Because I’m untouchable. Because I’m the man no one has hold over. Not only did you say she is of no concern to you, but in your arrogance, you revealed Kulsum’s association with me. You might as well have carried a sign that said Altair cares for the girl.”

  Nasir stilled. Whether or not Altair actually cared for Kulsum was irrelevant.

  Altair saw the understanding on Nasir’s face. “Good thing she’s of no concern to you, Sultani.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Zafira had seen snow every day of her seventeen years. Not once had she left her family for longer than the setting of a sun. And now a ship was about to drag her away. From Lana, Yasmine, her mother. Misk, too. There was a searing through her chest. Loss.

  Deen squeezed her shoulder. He looked strong and powerful beneath this new sun. Neither was a word she had ever before used to describe him. But today he looked different. Today she felt a fool for not seeing him as she should have.

  Funny how eyes worked.

  “They’ll be safe. I’ve been to Thalj, remember? The snow is far less and the conditions are better. More food, fewer casualties from the cold. They’ll be cared for in the palace,” Deen soothed. “It was smart of you to ask for that.”

  As Demenhur shrank, her heart raced as if she were wading through the Arz. Yasmine and Lana huddled together, Misk behind them. Zafira hadn’t spoken to Yasmine after Deen had stepped forward. She had been angry. She should still be angry, but she was just numb now.

  Movement caught her eye—the camels of the caravan and the soldiers in their uniforms of gray and blue. Dastards. None of them had stepped forward when Deen spoke of loyalty and success.

  The caliph was nestled safely among them. The man with a twisted notion that only men could save their kingdom. Now Zafira felt something: a rush of anger, a flicker of defiance.

  Her gaze crashed upon Haytham, who risked being charged with treason because of another masquerading girl. No wonder he looked so haunted. Yasmine’s words echoed in her mind: What are you waiting for?

  A thrum started in her chest, traveled to her fingers. This. This was what she had waited for, all these years.

  It was time to make the Hunter and Zafira one and the same.

  She had nothing to fear—the caliph couldn’t reach her now. He wasn’t cruel. She didn’t have
to worry about her family’s safety. She lifted her hands to her hood.

  Wind through her fingers.

  Cloth against her skin.

  Salt heavy on her tongue.

  Zafira bint Iskandar dropped her hood. She shook her hair free, and a mane of black tumbled behind her in waves. Deen’s breath caught.

  Her hair gleamed beneath the heat of the sun. The widow’s peak she had inherited from her mother dipped into her forehead. She loosened the clasp, and the cloak she wore to cover her figure fell to the deck.

  A small thud of dark cloth, her disguise for years.

  Even from her distance, Zafira could see Yasmine’s and Lana’s broad grins. Misk pumped a fist into the air. Others watched in awe—daama awe—and it took everything within her not to hide behind Deen. Relief shook her shoulders, for the news would spread quickly, and a tale was only swayed by its teller. Skies, word could spread as far as Sultan’s Keep.

  Haytham saluted two fingers off his brow, the ends of his keffiyah fluttering in the breeze. Zafira almost grinned.

  But the caliph.

  The blanket upon his shoulders barely concealed the rage contorting his features. Zafira had hunted in the Arz for years. She was proof that a woman’s actions did not draw out malevolence. Yet there he was, unbelieving. Angry.

  If she were standing before him, she would have feared for her life.

  The men with him were of mixed emotions. Some of them looked overjoyed. Some of them hooted. Other expressions had darkened, with grim set mouths she could see even from her distance.

  But the caliph.

  With that one display of emotion, every victory of hers—braving the dark, returning from the Arz, feeding her people—had just been stepped upon and cast aside. Because she was a woman. How could he allow such unfairness to root in his bones?

  I will show him what a woman can do. She startled herself with that thought, rough and angry. Because conquering the Arz wasn’t enough. Now she was going to Sharr.

  She was going to bring her father justice, kings and witches be damned.

  And when she returned, magic in her grasp, she would give a calipha her throne. She would give Arawiya magic and make the sultan himself bow before her.

  Zafira lifted her chin and met the caliph’s gaze in a farewell of defiance, and the Arz sprang back to life.

  CHAPTER 20

  Nasir was seventeen when he had learned the sultan’s ways and the sultan had learned his. When Ghameq realized pain no longer worked, not when inflicted upon Nasir’s body.

  For the sultana had ensured that her son’s body was strong, unbeatable, withstanding.

  It was then that the sultan learned of the compassion Nasir could never shake, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many times he murmured it, telling himself to believe it, waking up drenched in sweat, adrenaline pumping through him until he made sense of what he woke up repeating.

  Compassion kills.

  But nothing in Sultan’s Keep was easy, least of all death.

  The first night after his mother’s burial, Nasir had suffered alone, telling himself that this internal, unseeable pain wasn’t endless.

  The second night, he had sensed someone in the shadows, cursing himself for the hashashin training that made him so aware.

  The third night, she had drawn near, the shadows one with her skin, her eyes aglow beneath a dim moon.

  The fourth night, she had gathered her beaded skirts and settled beside him on the wall overlooking the desert dunes behind the palace. She, his servant, sitting beside him as an equal. He had been too shocked to say a word, or he would have said something he would still regret.

  The fifth night, his lips formed her name. Kulsum. And that was when she parted her mouth and gifted him a sound so beautiful, a blackened heart such as his should not have been allowed to hear it. Soon, her lips parted for more than singing.

  It continued until his father found them with her fingers in his hair, their lips breaths apart, her voice raw from the eerie tune she had learned from her own mother.

  Everything after that, Nasir remembered only in flashes.

  The two of them, stumbling down the wall. The two of them, first standing side by side, then one behind the other, master and servant. Dim torches, because his father loathed light. A blade, gold in the fire, poised to strike.

  Her mouth parted. Eyes terrified. Body slack. Tears streaming.

  Her tongue, in a silver box, gifted to him in the end.

  * * *

  The ship swayed as he made his way up the wooden steps. He had barely slept the night, lurching with the sea, tossing and turning, that ornate silver box burning behind his eyelids.

  Love was for the weak, compassion for the burdened. If only he could rid himself of his heart and lose this infernal curse. It would make his father happy.

  It could make his father love him.

  He bent over at the rail, so engrossed by anger that his vision pulsed black. If his father wanted to starve Haytham’s son to death, so be it. If his father wanted Altair dead, Nasir himself would cut off his head. If his father wanted the Jawarat, he would find it soon enough, along with the Hunter’s corpse.

  Nasir’s stomach churned with the sea, but he felt calmer. At ease.

  The world darkened despite the early sun. The ship, the sea, the very air they breathed swirled with shadow. As Nasir tried to blink it away, the vessel lurched.

  Altair shouted over the crash of the waves, and the world righted again, the shadows a figment of Nasir’s thoughts. It was rare for the general to rise before Nasir did.

  “Oi! Nasir!” On the other side of the ship, Altair readied an arrow.

  Nasir rounded the deck. The sea rippled in angry undulations, and his heart sped with a feeling he eagerly recognized: not belittling fear, but excitement.

  Bloodlust.

  The general didn’t know that his mention of Kulsum the day before was what had reminded Nasir of who he was and what he had been trained to do. That compassion would get him nowhere.

  Altair studied Nasir before he spoke, and the cadence of his voice said he did know. “I think we’re meeting your dandan.”

  A beast rose from the water, twice the height of their ship. It swayed, baring its teeth in a horrible smile.

  Nasir smiled back.

  CHAPTER 21

  When Zafira was younger, the sky had been brighter, the snow magical. Baba’s stories would envelop her in warmth and wonder. Only now did she see the snow as a hindrance and the sky as a cage.

  Even then, his stories were filled with blood and darkness, horrors and terrors. Whenever Umm scolded him with a teasing smile, Baba would say that lies would take his little girl nowhere. That was also what he had said when he put a bow in Zafira’s still-baby-soft hands and taught her how to loose an arrow. And so she was given the truth, even in the years when she would look upon everything with a veil of innocence.

  He had told her of the Zaramese, who had worshipped the Baransea. They were sailors by trade, and being the brutes that they were, they believed nothing could stand in their way. So when the Arz stole the Baransea, a group of their finest men and women lifted tabars in their mighty fists and stormed the cursed forest. Arawiya laughed at their foolishness, but the Zaramese were determined.

  They chopped tree after tree, the darkness thicker than any storm they had faced at sea. Some say the trees of the Arz rose even as the Zaramese felled them. But a will was all it took. They chopped and chopped. Felled and felled. Until they collapsed, triumphant, at the sight of the cerulean waters lapping Zaram’s blackened shores.

  They never returned. No one knew if the darkness had driven them to despair or if they had dived into the sea out of relief. It was said that any who ventured along the dark path that had carved the Arz in two, intent on reaching the sea, could hear it: the screams and shouts of the Zaramese Fallen, courageous until the end.

  Zafira understood, now, where that courage had come from. Had she been given a
taste of this freedom, this power, then she, too, would have fought her way through the Arz. There was sea spray on her tongue, wind in her hair, and sun on her skin.

  Yet the longer she stared at the swelling waves, the more she thought of Lana and Yasmine, and the harder it became to breathe. Her stomach reeled as it did during her hunts in the Arz, when her distance from her family made her worry for them more than herself. Because if she were with them, they’d be safe. If she were with them, she would know what was happening.

  That feeling increased tenfold now that the entire Arz separated them.

  And it only worsened as night crept into the sky—her first night away from home. So she descended into the ship’s belly, growing accustomed to the gentle swaying and sudden lurches that came with the sea. The Silver Witch would take care of her, she knew. Because the woman needed something.

  The thought didn’t make her feel any safer.

  Something told her the witch was trying too hard. There was too much malevolence in the way she held herself, too much for mere redemption. Perhaps the lost Jawarat could deliver magic back to Arawiya, but it was more than that.

  Zafira could feel it in her bones.

  Which meant she needed to find it and bring it back to the caliph before the witch could get her hands on it. On her.

  If such a thing were even possible.

  * * *

  When she woke the next morning, the cabin opposite hers was empty, Deen’s strewn dark sheets reminding her of a crimson smile. She made her way to the hold with a sigh, setting her lantern beside her when she sank onto a wooden chest. She unclasped her cloak and held it against her chest, her hair a curtain of darkness, the violence of the Arz’s return flickering in her thoughts—the crackling branches and moaning limbs as the forest reached for the skies like sharp-edged spears. What bothered her most was what the return of the Arz had shown her: it was a wall, beyond which stood all her yesterdays. Her voyage would take her to her tomorrows.

  Possibly the last of her tomorrows.