“Currently engaged in other matters,” the wazir said.
The only time that particular phrase sufficed was when a man was in his bedchamber, engaged in matters that were decidedly not rest. Altair lifted his one visible brow, unconvinced.
Haytham’s shoulders dropped, disappointment curving his mouth. “He refuses to come … He refuses to meet with you.”
Understandable. Altair was, after all, the general who had led several armies against Ayman’s own. He wouldn’t have wanted to meet with the old man, either, had he been on the losing end.
“I am here in his stead,” Haytham said, and cleared his throat, lifting a bundle of missives. “Several reports have come in.”
“Let’s hear them,” Altair said, leaning forward.
Haytham slid forward a sheet of papyrus covered in neat scrawl. “Sarasin’s smaller cities have fallen to darkness.”
“Already?” Altair asked. He hadn’t thought his father would act this quickly. They’d barely had time to recover.
“It will make travel difficult,” Kifah said, gears turning as quickly as Pelusian mechanics. “We intend to return to Sultan’s Keep, don’t we? If Sarasin has been blanketed by shadows, ifrit are bound to be there. The darkness isn’t for nothing. He’s creating a home for his kind.”
“What’s this about a new caliph?” Nasir asked, tapping a finger on the missive.
“Ah. Yes,” Haytham said. “They’ve appointed the caliph elect—Muzaffar. He was present at the feast.”
On the low table, Nasir’s fingers turned white, and Altair remembered that moment, months ago, when the prince had received his orders to assassinate the previous caliph of Sarasin.
“Muzaffar is dead,” Nasir said. “I saw him lying in a pool of his own blood.”
Haytham didn’t seem surprised. “I had a feeling the timing did not align. The Lion has little reason to appoint someone as beloved as Muzaffar. Even if there was a reason, I cannot see the man idling as ifritkind overtook his lands. Possibly worse, several Sarasin contingents have been sighted shifting to Sultan’s Keep. I assume they are reinforcements.”
Kifah toyed with her lightning blades. “If they’re claiming it’s Muzaffar on the Sarasin throne, there’s only one way it could be possible: An ifrit is wearing his face.”
Altair dragged a hand down his own face.
“It’s a near-perfect solution,” Nasir commented. “The Sarasins are subdued, both human and ifrit armies answer to the caliph, and the caliph answers to the Lion.”
“You said ‘reinforcements.’ Reinforcements for what?” Kifah asked. “Us? He’s put too much faith in our leaders if he thinks we’ll march at him with four armies.”
Down three different halls of the palace, Ghada sat with her Nine Elite, the Zaramese caliph dozed, and Ayman lounged with his ancient bones. Altair wanted to grab them all by the shoulders and shake sense into them.
Haytham leafed through his missives. “I’ve also had men scoping the grounds near the Sultan’s Palace.”
Nasir shared in Altair’s surprise. It seemed there was at least one other competent man in Arawiya aside from himself.
“They’ve reported a mere handful of sentinels, barely enough to withstand a full-blown attack. If the Lion truly does believe we may march in with an army, why remain short-staffed?”
“Magic?” Kifah assumed, plopping another honey cake in her mouth. Altair scowled.
“There are spells that create protective barriers,” Altair pondered. “It’s what you were supposed to use in Sultan’s Keep to prevent the Lion from taking the Jawarat.”
He still felt the guilt of that moment, the horror of seeing the book in his father’s hands.
“We were, until we ran out of blood,” Kifah said.
“There is one good note,” Haytham said, handing him another missive that looked to have been steeped in snow one too many times. “Rebel forces have been gathering in Sultan’s Keep.”
“Rebels?” Kifah asked, taking the soggy sheet.
“They may very well join us.”
Us. Altair liked the sound of that word from the wazir.
“Depends on what they’re rebelling against.” Nasir was as optimistic as ever.
“But an army nonetheless,” Altair said, spreading the missives across the table. He stared at the map pinned to the wall, gray lines and navy rivers. The silver streaks of palaces reinforced by might and magic, the curve of the Great Library.
The Great Library.
Altair straightened and grabbed a reed pen. “Gather round, children. I’ve got a plan.”
CHAPTER 70
There were men who deserved forgiveness and a second chance, and others who deserved only to suffer for what they’d done. Caliph Ayman of Demenhur, the Jawarat said, was one of the latter.
Zafira fought against this claim, for she was a huntress and a girl, an orphan and a sister. Not a judge.
Wrongs must be righted, the Jawarat crooned. We will help you.
It was a losing battle against a bottomless, gaping hunger, a craving that could never be sated. This was how the Lion felt, she realized, when he desired knowledge. When he wanted vengeance for what his father had endured.
He dared to sequester a child in such a way?
Zafira didn’t know if the thought was hers alone or the Jawarat’s. Or if it had simply found the vial inside her that held everything enraging, and drunk it. The caliph had been wrong for years. His lies had spread across the caliphate, had permeated the very fabric of their lives. What made this moment any different? What made murder burn in their veins?
Their?
We are one and the same.
The double doors were locked, white wood as pure as her heart. She laughed at the analogy. Open them. Open them? It would be a waste of dum sihr to unlock doors. In her thoughts flashed Qismah’s shorn head. Her downcast eyes. Zafira’s own hunched shoulders.
A line of red ripped down her palm, and the locks came undone.
No longer will we wait for change. We will bring it.
Resolve hardened her. The doors flew open. Caution whispered from the back of her skull, that viper striking fear slithering close, and she—
“Qif!” Two guards leaped to attention, shouting in tandem, but what sort of fool would stop?
Sharp pain burst across her palm and she threw out her arms. The guards crumpled to the ground, dead. Dead? She froze in her tracks, blearily studying her surroundings as if suddenly awakening from a slumber. Her bandaged chest ached. Where was she? Where were Qismah and Lana?
The sentinels merely rest. Look at them, bint Iskandar.
Her lucidity vanished, and she felt as if she were watching herself from afar. The guards were lounging on the floor, chests rising and falling ever so slowly, asleep as the Jawarat assured her they were.
She was led by an invisible hand down one room and into the next, large archways like keyholes that would never find their match. Moonlight flooded the space, solitary lanterns lighting her path to a chamber.
And there, standing before a platform bed resplendent in furs, was the Caliph of Demenhur.
This is atonement for our abandon. Be pleased with this justice.
“You,” the caliph said in surprise. “The Hunter.”