“Mortals,” Seif muttered, crossing his arms as Aya joined them in a flutter of lilac.
“You need this mortal, safi,” Zafira bit out. She felt Nasir watching her, now that she wasn’t watching him. “And if I’m to slit my hand and find Altair and the heart, I need to eat.”
Oblivious, Aya ushered them inside the palace as confident as if she were its queen. She took one glance at the vial of blood hanging from Zafira’s neck and beamed, quickly hiding a warble of her lips. “We must mark this occasion, my loves. Every victory must be celebrated, however small.”
Zafira couldn’t smile back, not when the sheath at her thigh hung achingly empty. Why was it that victories were forever riddled with loss?
That, and the palace made her feel out of place. The halls were bathed in golden light, heaving with shadows that danced, eager for the Lion. She saw extravagance at her every glance, dripping from the suspended lanterns, gilding the intricate, arching walls. Columns twisting with interlacing florals, pots overflowing with greenery too lush to be real, gossamer curtains fluttering shyly in the dry breeze of the wide windows, and beckoning balconies.
People filed in and out of the great double doors, dignitaries arriving for the ominous feast. Servants polished the ornate floors to a shine, and majlis after majlis was readied by nimble-fingered needlewomen. Chandeliers were brought down and lined with fresh oil wicks, and goats bleated from deeper inside where she presumed the kitchens would be, oblivious to their impending slaughter.
Servants led Zafira away from the others, and like a fool, she glanced at him, to see if he’d turn. Look at her. Acknowledge her.
He continued on, deep in conversation with Kifah. And it was as if, suddenly, they were strangers again. The cloaked Hunter, the aloof Prince of Death.
She didn’t think it was possible to stand footsteps away and miss him even more.
Zafira hurried after the servants to her quarters, as large as her and Yasmine’s houses combined, spacious enough to host an entire village for a feast. The ornaments alone could feed them for a year. There was a mirror wider than any she’d seen, an assortment of vials in front of it that Zafira deemed useless because she never understood what ointment was meant to accentuate which part of her face and in which order. Another low table held lidded bowls, one with almonds, another with pistachio-studded nougat, and the third with dates.
She stepped farther into the room and knelt to touch the stupendously large platform bed, softer than the fur of the supplest of rabbits. Her mind flashed to the Lion wearing Nasir’s face and her head spun, weariness tugging at her eyelids. But she was too guilty to climb beneath the covers knowing he was out there and that she could find him, the Jawarat, the heart, Altair—daama everything by losing yet another part of herself.
Sweet snow, she was tired. She lowered her cheek to the sheets, and didn’t think she had ever felt something so glorious in her life.
“Huntress.”
Zafira turned. The room was dark, unfamiliar.
The Silver Witch greeted her with a twist of her lips. “The first time is always the hardest.”
Umm had once said that about something far more mundane than what she was going to do. Ah, right. To Yasmine, when she’d snuck away with a boy once. A pang ripped through her heart.
“We have no choice,” Zafira replied.
Anadil canted her head. “You are the girl who triumphed without the forbidden.”
Zafira smiled sadly. “Times are desperate.”
The Silver Witch studied her. “Very well,” she said. “Dum sihr in its base form will allow you to use your affinity. You will be a da’ira again. And while you may easily use your own affinity, you must locate a spellbook should you require another, as dum sihr requires an incantation in the old tongue. Established centers, such as the Great Library, may have some in their collection, though I’m certain the Jawarat contains a few of its own.”
“I’ve lost it,” Zafira said softly.
“So find it.”
The words were so simple, Zafira wanted to curl into a ball and laugh.
“Have a care,” the Silver Witch continued. “Too much magic outside one’s affinity, and some part of you will pay the price.”
She touched a lock of her unnaturally bone-white hair, and before Zafira could say once was enough and that she would never practice any magic other than her own, Anadil shook her head. As if echoing what the Lion had said about brash promises.
“Okhti?”
Zafira bolted upright. Faint sunlight slanted over her, a breeze stirring the gauzy curtains. Noon. A dream. The Silver Witch wasn’t here; Zafira had daama slept. A dreamwalk?
Lana peered down at her.
“These are my rooms, but now we can share! Can you believe I slept in the prince’s chambers last night?” She lowered her voice, brown eyes glittering. “In a little room dedicated for his lady friends.”
There were a thousand words she could have said then:
Hello, or
Bait ul-Ahlaam does have everything, or
I found the vial at the cost of everything, or
How are the repercussions of the riots?
But she said none of them.
“Lady friends,” she echoed. Like the girl in the yellow shawl. Like the women whose gazes followed him shamelessly through the palace.
“You know, when they want to—”
“I know what it’s for,” Zafira snapped. Her neck burned. Other parts of her burned, too. In ways they’d never done before.
Lana grinned. “I missed your grumpiness.”
Zafira folded her legs beneath her and reached for the vial shimmering in the light, the geometric patterns reminding her of the Silver Witch’s letter from forever ago. That’s it. Focus on what needs to be done.
“Sweet snow, it’s beautiful,” Lana exclaimed. “Did it cost a lot?”
“Yes.”
Not of coin, she didn’t say, but something else. Something no amount of dinars could ever buy. But Aya was right: This was a victory. For Lana, too. They had traveled to Alderamin and Bait ul-Ahlaam because of her suggestion. Because of Lana, Zafira might have lost the last she had of Baba, but they could find Altair and the Lion. Track down the heart and the Jawarat. That was what mattered.
Lana moved to a corner of the room where she had been poring over a sheaf of papyrus on a low table with a tray of tools and an array of ointments along the edge.
“There’s an entire section of the palace dedicated to medicine,” she explained. “I’ve been transcribing remedies for Ammah Aya.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think she needs them any more than she hopes I’ll commit them to memory.”
Only then did Zafira realize what Aya had taught Lana that their mother never had: confidence. A surety that Demenhune women lacked, even those who had fathers or brothers like the Iskandars once had Baba.
“Oh, and Kifah came. She wasn’t happy to know you were asleep, but I took care of it. None of us are any use half-dead.”
Zafira pursed her lips at the word “us” and the reminder that her sister was no longer a little girl. She hadn’t been a little girl in a long time, but that was all Zafira saw: Her small figure tucked against Baba’s side. Her eyes wide in wonder, her nose in a book.