A wild laugh tore out of her. Zafira had magic, all right. Her heart was a compass once more, and it was pulling her in a direction she didn’t heed.
“I came home, that’s why. I came home because Sarasin isn’t,” Zafira said simply.
Understanding dawned in Yasmine’s eyes. “We have no home.”
Zafira looked at her sharply. “Our home is in the western villages, and we’re going back tomorrow.”
Yasmine’s head snapped up. “For what? Neither of us have anything left there. Not our homes, not our families. Nothing, Zafira. Deen is gone, Misk is gone. Why would I want to live in a place that will haunt me for the rest of my life? The palace healers offered to tutor Lana, and I’m going to stay, too.”
Zafira stared at her.
“You’re running away from him, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. Lana told me. You run from the things that scare you.”
Zafira scoffed. “And yet I marched into the Arz every daama day. I trekked to Sharr. I faced the Lion of the Night.”
“Because you’re not afraid of the dark, or of evil, or of harm. You fear change and what it signifies.”
“This isn’t like your stories,” Zafira said angrily. “I can’t wear the crown of calipha and suddenly command an entire caliphate. I’m supposed to help the caliph’s daughter secure her throne.”
She owed that to Qismah, and more, after what she had done to her father.
“And you can do both. You won’t have to rule over Sarasin,” Yasmine said, sitting beside her. “He will.”
“So I’ll take care of his palace. Fold his clothes. Sit pretty. Care for—”
They were lies, and she knew it. He would ensure she was nothing but his equal. She could do for Sarasin as she’d done for her village, only tenfold. Care not just for a handful of houses but for an entire caliphate. She’d seen it when she’d spoken to Muzaffar.
That wasn’t what she feared.
Yasmine touched her hand. “I don’t know him the way you do, but I was there. I saw how he looks at you. If he’s the darkness, then you’re his moon, and the moon wasn’t made to be caged. It’s a beacon to behold, a relic to revere. To be loved.”
Zafira didn’t realize the tears were falling until Yasmine brushed them away. She never knew she could hurt so much. Want so much. Lose so much.
Yasmine whispered, “He will give you what Deen could not.”
“I don’t need a man to complete me.”
“No,” Yasmine agreed with a sad smile. “We never do. Your happiness completes you. And if he is what makes you happy, why would you throw him away?”
Zafira closed her eyes. She wanted him. She wanted him so badly she could not breathe, she could not think, she could not be. Which was precisely why she should stay away, wasn’t it?
The Jawarat regarded her from her bedside table. It was the embodiment of memories and magic and the reason for all the wrongs she had done. Wrongs she would have continued, had he not been there for her. Had he not believed in her, understood her, the way no one else had.
Loving him was a knife to her throat, thorns around her heart. The fragility of life in the clasping of their hands.
Outside, a bird trilled as Demenhur awakened to a new world. One Misk would never see.
Her whisper was soft. Raw. “What if I lose him?”
She had nearly lost him once.
“The way I lost the one I loved?” Yasmine asked. She cupped Zafira’s face. “I will forever regret every word I didn’t say and every moment I spent not holding his hand. The questions I never got to ask. The understanding we did not have. But I will never, ever regret marrying him.” She pressed her brow to Zafira’s. “Knowing you can lose something is what makes it more precious.”
CHAPTER 112
Listening to his people was a dour affair, but it was one Nasir did without complaint. It meant Sarasin was slowly but gradually beginning to trust him in the three months since he’d been crowned caliph, the prince who had killed so many of their own. Freeing the children of the camel races and giving them an abode in the palace had helped, too, but Nasir hadn’t done it for the people.
His wazir, a stern-faced man named Yasar, straightened every last missive they’d received from dawn until noon and handed it to him, signifying that it was time for another unbearably hot afternoon in his chambers, writing and stamping and poring over caliphate affairs.
“Oi, give him a break, old man,” Altair intoned. He had come for a visit and was sprawled on the dais at the foot of the throne, going through missives of his own.
Yasar was miffed. “If you have a problem with how I manage my caliph, Maliki, I suggest you return to your palace.”
It was only a quarter day’s ride between Sultan’s Keep and Sarasin, and the new king was known for his spontaneous visits, dragging Kifah along with him. The only one missing from the zumra meetings was Zafira.
“I hear Qismah’s coronation as Calipha of Demenhur is one moon from now,” Kifah said.
“It is,” Nasir replied, and it was the only letter he’d happily opened, for the silver parchment sealed in navy, the colors of Demenhur, reminded him of her.
Not once had he doubted her. He could see the ice in her gaze, the ferocity in her bearing as she conquered the hearts of the thousand men who stood between Qismah and her throne.
The last merchant finally shuffled from the room, and as the guards closed the doors for the day, a ruckus rose from the hall. Altair sat up. Nasir paused, craning to see, nudging the young scribe out of the way so he could step off the dais.
“What is the meaning of this?” Yasar snapped when the doors flew open again. The guards drew their spears as a hooded figure stepped inside, moving with gazelle-like grace and snatching the air from Nasir’s throat.
“The caliph is no longer holding court,” one of the officials barked.
“Protect the king,” a gold-cloaked guard commanded.
“Drop your hood,” another one snapped.
The children paused in their chores to stare.
The newcomer lowered the fine hood of their cloak, exposing the delicate features that had plagued his nights and days and his every waking moment.
Nasir’s heart saw it fit to pause here. To stop and chronicle this instant in time.
And then he was running, stumbling, racing toward her, missives scattering behind him to Yasar’s disappointment and Altair’s laughter. His hands skimmed her shoulders, her neck, cupped her face.
“Zafira,” he whispered as papyrus drifted around them.
“Nasir,” she replied, as if she had never left. As if he hadn’t forgotten how to breathe.
His lips molded to hers. His life began afresh. Twin sighs escaped them, as if they had both been starving and salvation was finally theirs. The men murmured among themselves, and at the sound of Kifah’s ululation, Zafira pulled away.
“I hear Sarasin is in need of a calipha.”
CHAPTER 113
“Habibti,” her husband said, touching a kiss to her lips.
There was a scar at her breast, and another in her heart, for people had died because she lived.
“Hayati,” he breathed, pressing another to her ear and stealing her thoughts.