Nasir nudged open the door with his foot and carefully set her down on the bed, uncaring that Lana was witness to him tucking a pillow beneath her arm and straightening her clothes. Lana clutched the Jawarat to her chest, and as much as he loathed entrusting it to her, she was right. She set the book out of reach and curled against her sister’s side without a word.
It was only now that he noticed how distraught Zafira had been. As she slept, the groove between her brows was smooth, the harsh cut of her lips supple.
His life was full of loss and pain, and he would not lose her again.
In the hall, he came face to face with a girl—the one he’d seen at Zafira’s side before. She was as slight as Kulsum, her curves more ample, her eyes doe-like and heavy-lidded, the color of honey.
She was not pleased to see him closing the door to Zafira’s room.
“She’s asleep,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed in mistrust, for she didn’t yet know of the attack. Laa, she thought Nasir had been in Zafira’s bedroom for a reason other than laying her motionless body across her bed. If only.
Her voice might have been melodic, if it was not full of the hate he was used to. “If you hurt her—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. “If I hurt her, I will bring every weapon at my disposal and lay them at your feet for you to do to me what you will. If I hurt her, I will no sooner carve out my own heart than dare draw breath again.”
She was silent. Her eyes were no longer narrowed. “Do you understand?” he prompted.
“You love her.”
She spoke the words like a subtle knife: rife with disbelief. As if it was impossible to comprehend that the Prince of Death would care for anyone.
No, he did not love her. The word for what he felt for Zafira bint Iskandar did not yet exist.
 |
When at last he stepped into the room where the others had gathered, conversation ceased for a beat. He paused with a raise of his eyebrows, but when he dropped the curtain behind him and joined them, they continued again as if nothing had happened.
It took him a moment to note the tension. The stiffness of Kifah’s movements, the stillness in her restless limbs. Wariness tugged at Altair, haunting his one-eyed gaze.
They were trying to continue as if nothing had happened. “I don’t think we can wait for her,” Altair said.
Nasir leaned against the wall, knowing full well whom he spoke of. He agreed. “No, we can’t.”
Haytham slid a look across them in the silence, and Nasir wondered how easily he’d believed the lie.
Kifah unfurled a map across the table. “Haytham has received another report. Seems the Lion still hasn’t left the palace grounds, not even to visit the Great Library.”
“Imagine the temptation,” Altair murmured.
“But why not give in to it? Is he afraid?” Kifah mused. “Or preoccupied,” Haytham offered.
Nasir remembered the haunted look in the Lion’s eyes, the pain. He wondered if that played more of a part than fear did. He was powerful and protected, and the Great Library was hardly a journey from the palace. His father had made the trip often enough. Nasir knew, because he would note Ghameq’s comings and goings to time his own excursions to the mollifying edifice. Each time, his father would return with a stack of—
Only, that hadn’t been his father.
“He’s gathered enough reading material for the time being,” Nasir said.
“Perhaps,” Altair ceded with a tilt of his head. “But we can agree that standing within the walls is an entirely different experience.”
True enough.
“Let’s hear your plan, then,” said Nasir, catching the hope in Altair’s tone and clinging to it for dear life.
His brother looked pleased. “We will, woefully, need to part ways, habibi.” He tapped the map with a finger, trailing two upward paths from their present position in Thalj. One path stopped in Sarasin’s capital of Leil, the other in the vicinity of Sultan’s Keep. There was a third path, too, crossing the sea. “Three parties. Kifah and I. A falcon in the skies. You.”
And no mention of Zafira.
“Your job involves doing what you do best,” Altair said.
“Killing,” Nasir said, stepping closer to look at the plans spread across the table. It was what he did best. Still, it stung.
Altair noticed, but his next words didn’t help ease daama anything. “You do have experience sneaking into the Sarasin palace and killing a caliph, so—”
Nasir released a breath.
“Oi, don’t be upset!”
“And why are we killing him?” Nasir asked, apathetic.
“As you said, the ifrit looks like the man the Sarasins admire. Therefore effortlessly controlling both ifrit and human armies. It’s simple. We get rid of him, we command in his stead. Short term, of course. Until we get rid of the Lion and appoint someone better suited for the task.”
Perhaps it was because of Zafira and her honor, her rectitude a drop of white in the fabric of his dark world, but Nasir’s first thought did not involve killing the caliph, ifrit or not. It was odd how that change had come about within him.
Kifah took his silence as acceptance. “Controlling a horde of ifrit will prove tedious, but this way, we will at least be able to restrain the mortal Sarasin army and use them to hold the ifrit in check.”
Nasir looked at her sketch. “A blockade.” She nodded once.
It was easy enough sneaking into the Sarasin palace when he was the rightful prince and no place was off-limits. Now, with the Lion eager for his head and ifrit to contend with? Nasir sighed. “All right. Consider him dead. Is Zafira not any part of this plan?”
Kifah paused with chagrin. Altair looked regretful. “We’re leaving just after noon. Zafira needs rest, most certainly, but she also needs to return to herself. Laa?”
“She’s still herself,” Nasir said quietly. “She hasn’t become some sort of wild beast.”
It pained him to speak the words, and he was relieved to see it reflected in Altair’s eyes. Haytham tried to hide his confusion as no one filled him in.
“If she’s stable tomorrow, she can join us. Yes?” Altair looked at Kifah.
“Without doubt,” she said.
For a long moment, the three of them stayed mired in Zafira’s absence until Kifah dragged her finger along the third path, returning them to the plans. “Then we have the falcon.”
“Who will head straight for the Hessa Isles and deliver a note, which I’m still piecing together because the timing has to be right. We’re going to need the Silver Witch’s help,” Altair said without meeting Nasir’s eyes.
If the wazir noticed Altair’s hollow tone, he pretended not
to.
“Haytham remains here gathering intelligence,” the general
continued. “Meanwhile, Kifah and I will locate the rebels in Sultan’s Keep while you ride for Sarasin. We won’t be able to communicate, so much of the plan’s success will rely on a schedule.”
“It seems to me,” Nasir said, “that much of the plan relies on chance.”
“Chance keeps us alive,” the oaf replied.
“The chances,” Nasir gritted out, “of you finding my blade at your neck are currently quite high.”
Altair flashed him a grin. “I love it when you speak so filthily.”
Nasir’s ears burned. Kifah leaned back, eyes bright. Adversely, Nasir felt he could sleep forever after everything that had transpired.
“And?” he asked, sensing there was more.
His brother’s smile was wolfish. “Well, there is another thing. It’s more chaotic than my usual style, and it’s certainly not your style. It’s risky and dangerous. And, uh, flashy.”
All things the general adored.
“But it’s guaranteed to draw my—” Altair stopped short, remembering Haytham. “To draw the Lion out.”
Nasir looked between him and Kifah with creeping dread. “So, Sultan Nasir, how do you feel about arson?”
