What they did not yet know was this: the coronation would grant them more than a new king, but magic, too. A new age. As Seif had assured the zumra, the High Circle had positioned blockades to stop its flow until after the coronation, and though the dignitaries who had attended the ruined feast knew of the hearts’ restoration, it would be some time before everyone else did.
Yasmine rose and dusted off her dress, spotting Sukkar. “What’s the plan? Back to Thalj?”
“Only to fetch Lana,” Zafira replied, refusing to meet Yasmine’s eyes as she swung atop her horse. In days, Nasir would become ruler of Arawiya, the circlet of a prince replaced with the crown of a sultan. It filled her with pride, even as her heart ached.
She took Sukkar’s reins as Yasmine watched her with a wistful softness in her eyes, understanding everything.
“I’ll be back for the coronation,” Zafira said.
She intended to return with enough time to spare, and though the trek through Demenhur would be sloppy as snow continued to melt across the caliphate, she couldn’t complain. Word had come that it was gradual enough that the water seeping into the ground would allow people to grow herbs once more, and soon.
“You mean we will be back,” Yasmine said, arching a brow when Zafira looked at her in surprise.
She loathed the sorrow in her friend’s gaze, the hollow that she was afraid might never be filled again.
“It’s your prince. Did you assume I wouldn’t want to come?”
CHAPTER 103
The announcer basked in his moment of fame from the balcony overlooking the main jumu’a, where not long ago, death and blood had run rampant. The palace gates had been thrown open, the entire kingdom invited to the occasion, including the remaining caliphs. The trio was seated on a platformed majlis below, with Haytham representing Demenhur. Nasir had invited Muzaffar, too—the ifrit, of course. For the future of Arawiya promised to weave not only human and safinkind at its core but ifritkind as well.
The people were not jubilant.
They whispered of the strange tree that had sprouted out of stone. They whispered of him. They were not bursting with love for the assassin turned sultan, and how could they? The Prince of Death had touched upon countless lives—if not directly, then indirectly. Displayed like the sultan’s prize dog, used to instate fear and obedience.
Nasir was no stranger to the way people reacted to him, but now that he had done so much, changed so much, their whispers were a thousand and one stones upon his back. He lifted his chin, determined.
Their hesitance meant there was work to be done and barriers to tear down, and Nasir reminded himself that he would not have to do any of it alone.
“Ready, brother boy?” Altair asked as the announcer finished his spiel.
Kifah was unable to stand still. “He was born for this.”
The Silver Witch smiled, for it was she who had taught him how to rule, she who had ensured he was ready.
Zafira was still not here.
A plinth held the royal crown in a shroud of gossamer. Nasir had asked them to remove the small onyx in its center, which had been set to represent his father’s Sarasin lineage. Now the crown would stand with a rare polished amber, untethered to any caliphate.
A reminder of all that they had vanquished.
The announcer returned to the shadowed alcove with a dip of his head.
“Yalla,” Altair crowed. “The food will get cold.”
“He means the belly dancers,” Kifah said.
Nasir drew a careful breath, everything muffled as he met his mother’s eyes, and went forward into the light. The crowd fell silent. He saw their fear. Their reluctance. Their curiosity.
And when he opened his mouth, every last word he had prepared disappeared.
Honesty, Zafira whispered in his skull. Honesty was easier when people expected little of you.
“My mother once said I was born to hold a crown on my head and death in my fist,” Nasir said. He was far more quiet than the announcer had been, but the balcony had been designed to carry his voice across the courtyard and into the streets. “I excelled at the latter. I killed fathers, mothers. Lovers and dignitaries. Each left their mark, in more ways than one.”
Murmurs swept through the people. His people.
“I am not—” He stopped, clenched his jaw, and started again. “I am not going to ask for forgiveness; I am going to ask for trust. In me, in the throne. Trust that Arawiya will be restored to greatness. Trust that our trade will flourish, and our cities will shine, and that one day your children will speak of these dark days as ones we overcame.”
His eyes searched the crowd until he alighted on a young woman shoving her way through the crowd. A profile of ice, a study of angles.
She had come. Her eyes were lit with pride. Her smile was bittersweet.
Honor before heart, she had said. All that she did, she did for love. For honor. For what was right.
Like that, he knew what he needed to do.
CHAPTER 104
By the time Zafira fetched Lana from Thalj, reunited with Yasmine, and returned to the Sultan’s Palace, the throngs of people that had gathered for the coronation were impenetrable. The hushed whispers and curiosity made it clear Arawiya still feared him, the Prince of Death, but if Nasir could change her heart, she knew he could change countless more.
She dragged Lana through the thick of the crowd. “This is all your fault.”
Zafira had left Sukkar behind for the very reason of trading horses and riding hard, and still they had managed to arrive late.
“It’s not my fault you never taught me how to ride as well as you,” Lana whined. She was smart enough to know that now was not the time to bring up the fact that having to restitch parts of Zafira’s wound had delayed them, too.
“She has a point,” Yasmine said.
Near the black tree, Zafira paused to lift her head to the branches reaching for the skies. There was no white rose on its limbs now, but she felt a whisper as she brushed past, a call she once heeded.
“Qif,” ordered the guards standing before the doors, silver uniforms bright. “No one is allowed inside.”
Zafira froze, and Lana lifted her chin.
Yasmine propped her hands on her hips. “We’re expected.”
One of the guards barked a laugh. “You and every other peasant here. Move aside.”
“I’m the—” Zafira almost said “Hunter,” before the word died on her tongue, for there was no Arz to hunt in anymore. She wasn’t a hunter, or a huntress.
She was a peasant, as the guard said.
“Okhti,” Lana warned beside her, and Zafira snapped out of it as the guard descended the steps, his face cruel.
She grabbed Yasmine’s hand and the three of them backed into the crowd, shoving their way through the people until they found a spot within view of the balcony where Nasir had already begun addressing the crowds.
“I’m sorry,” Lana said softly.
Zafira and Yasmine hushed her.
And then Nasir found her in the throngs, and he stopped.
He smiled after a thought, a true curve of contentment that reflected in his eyes, a dimple etched into his right cheek. From his mother, then.
Several people turned to look at her, to see what had stolen their sultan’s attention, and she couldn’t stop a full grin of her own. Then he opened his mouth.