It was time for a new era.
He’d written to the ifrit known as Muzaffar, the soon to be ruler of his own caliphate. Ifrit were different from men and safin—they’d require laws specific to them, benefits created for them, and Altair would figure it out. He was part ifrit, after all. Surely that would earn him a few favors.
He’d sent invitations to the caliphates, too, including one to Qismah, the daughter of Ayman al-Ziya, the dead Demenhune caliph. It was early, and it risked him appearing malleable, but he’d already met with the rulers as a general, and he’d hoped the gathering would usher in a new unity in less time than Anadil expected.
There were ways to rule, she had said. Altair agreed and disagreed, for there were ways to appeal to hearts, too.
“And you, One of Nine? What does Ghada say, aside from wanting her daughter in my lap?”
Kifah laughed. “I don’t think I’ll get a second invitation, if that’s what you mean.” She paused. “But … I don’t think I want one. I joined the Nine Elite to prove something to my father, but it was Benyamin who gave me what I’d wanted.”
The chance for vengeance. Altair regarded her. “Will you return home to gloat? Am I to say farewell to you, too, then?”
“Have you need of me?” Kifah probed.
“I have a proposal for you, actually,” he said carefully. Her eyebrows rose. “For a place by my side.”
“With a crown on my head?” Kifah sputtered. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
Altair grinned. “I’m not blind, Kifah. I know romance isn’t something you desire if even my perfection can’t tempt you.”
She snorted, but her dark eyes glistened.
“I was thinking something more lethal, like Sword of the Sultan. Captain of my guard.”
She didn’t answer. Of course she’d want to return home. The bastard had taken away more than her brother.
“Think about it. Discuss it with Ghada if you must. Find your father and gloat a little. You’ve seen the reports. These first few months won’t be easy as people come into magic, even with the help of the High Circle and the gossamer web. Then I’ll have to start worrying about every other kingdom wanting a piece of us now that the Arz is gone and—”
“Altair. For once, please stop talking.”
He stopped, and Kifah met his eyes.
“Yes, I accept. Why be one of nine when I can be the one?”
CHAPTER 110
It had been three days since Nasir had taken the Sarasin throne. The people were not enthused about giving the crown to the assassin who had killed their previous caliph, but when had Nasir’s life been particularly loving?
He found Zafira on a rooftop overlooking Sarasin’s capital of Leil, near the quarters of Dar al-Fawda, home of the prestigious camel races. She sat on a red rug with her back to him, loose strands from her crowned braid fluttering in the bare breeze. Nasir paused, chronicling every piece of the scene before making his presence known.
She smiled when he sat down beside her, but there was a tightness to the gesture, a guard behind her eyes.
“I’m leaving for Demenhur today.”
Why? he wanted to ask, but he was certain she had a thousand and one reasons to head back to her home. “When will you return?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized they had never spoken of this. The fragility of a future, and what she wanted. She had arrived for his coronation on time—without Lana or Yasmine, who had stayed in Thalj—and had been staying in the palace since then, but between the ceremony and the turmoil of magic’s return and the knowledge that his people were not pleased, Nasir hadn’t had the chance to see her. To speak to her.
He saw the undulation of her throat before she looked at him. “I won’t.”
The words were scythes carving out his heart, and it took him a moment to make sense of them. They could reject him across cities, across caliphates, all of Arawiya could scorn him, and none of it would hurt as deeply as this.
He didn’t know what he should say. I am falling in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop. Those weren’t words someone said aloud, were they?
“I can’t sit on that throne. I can’t rule,” he said instead.
Without you.
She turned to him fully. Her eyes glistened.
Why not? her face asked. “You can,” was what she said.
He shook his head. “The darkness—”
“Darkness doesn’t need to be destroyed. We need the dark as much as we need light. It makes us bold, as much as it makes us afraid.” She smiled. “Darkness needs only to be tamed.”
“Tame me,” he said in desperation. Shadows bled from his fingers.
Marry me. Love me. Be with me.
“Be mine, wholly and utterly.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “What if I want you to be mine?”
“Fair gazelle, jewel of my soul, I was already yours. I’ve changed for you. I’ve—”
“But I like you just the way you are,” she whispered. “Scarred, deadly, and beautiful.” She had wrapped her arms around her legs, containing herself, as if she would fall apart otherwise. “I promised a calipha her throne.”
“Honor before heart?” he asked quietly. The wind whistled across the rooftops, bringing with it surges of the city life below.
“It’s not always one or the other.”
“For you it is.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow, closing his eyes against a welling of pain. Closing away his heart as he had done long, long ago. The words inked inside his wrist had never rung truer.
He was wrong to have expected her to leave behind her entire life and join him in the dark palace of Sarasin, which half of Arawiya loathed and feared. He was selfish to wish and dream and hope.
She pulled back, barely meeting his eyes as she rose to her feet. “Rule well, Prince.”
Her face was wet as her tears fell to the rooftop. She was his moon and his sun. She stole his breath even when he had none to spare.
Why? he wanted to ask. Why was she ripping out their hearts and trampling them both? But it had always been one of the many things he loved about her: that he could never understand the enigma that was her.
He let her go. “Ride swift, Huntress.”
CHAPTER 111
Back in the Demenhune palace, Zafira stared at the ceiling of her room. After having experienced the unhindered magic of Sharr and dum sihr, the doled-out dosage of the royal minarets left Zafira wanting. She fisted her hands in her sheets, cursing the hearts, cursing the Sisters. Why was magic not giving her the joy it had on the royal minaret? Why was she so … empty?
Be mine, wholly and utterly. She tucked her blanket beneath her chin, ignoring the dampness of her pillow. Resorting to bitterness was good, if it meant less crying.
The door cracked open, and she cursed her numbed state for forgetting to lock it. The torchlight lit Yasmine’s silhouette.
“Zafira?”
“I’m sleeping.”
Yasmine didn’t care. “What did you do?”
At some point in the past two months, she had carved out half of her heart and given it to him. That was what she had done.
“You’ve been crying ever since you came back,” she said sadly. Of course it was Zafira who had managed to make her even more sad than she was. “I saw a vision just now. At least, I think it was a vision. I was in the palace again, looking for someone. I had a knife, so it could have been a dream. Zafira? Is it magic? Did you lose it? Why are you—”