In Baba’s stories, once the villain was vanquished, the world suddenly became a better place. The victors could at last lean back and avail themselves of the fruits of their labor. There was much the stories failed to mention. The way the victors missed the villain, for instance. The trauma left behind for the kingdom and its people to endure. The deaths to mourn.
Zafira had reunited with Sukkar, who was the same lazy dastard he’d always been, not really surprised to see her alive. Laa, the beast would have been surprised if she had died. Misk had kept the horse busy, riding him from Demenhur all the way to Aya’s house where he and his rebels had gathered. Together, she and Sukkar found Yasmine in the graveyard beneath the morning sun, not far from the Sultan’s Palace. A mound of dirt stretched before her.
Misk Khaldun.
“The dead don’t like to be delayed,” Yasmine said in greeting. Her friend looked smaller than she was, delicate and breakable. She didn’t look up, even when Zafira sat down beside her on the rug flecked already with sand.
“I wish he had died in Demenhur so it wouldn’t be so hard to visit him,” she continued.
“You’ll have to move here, then,” Zafira teased. “The royal life suits you.”
Yasmine breathed a laugh, and finally looked at her. “They’re gone, Zafira. I’m an orphan. I’m a widow. I was once a sister, and now I’m not even that.”
Zafira reached for her hand, sliding their palms together. “You still are.”
She didn’t exhale until her friend squeezed back, but she felt the whisper of her hesitance, the pain. I’m trying was spelled within the gesture.
“Hearts need time to mend,” Zafira said softly, reassuring them both.
Love was a peculiar thing, she had learned. Like the surge of old magic that defeated the Lion, like the Silver Witch sacrificing her heart.
It had been little more than half a day since his separation: his memories in the Jawarat Zafira kept close, his soul immortalized in the black tree in the palace courtyard, and his body soon to be anchored in the Baransea.
Jinan hadn’t asked for coin this time.
Zafira sat back, breathing the scent of freshly turned earth. It was strange, not having to worry about whether or not she would live to see the next sunrise. Strange that the Lion was no longer a threat, that the Arz no longer crept closer. Every breath she took now felt new and free. Every heartbeat felt like the promise of another.
And yet she missed both the Lion and the Arz beyond comprehension. They had shaped her into who she was, as Nasir had said, forcing themselves into the fabric of her existence.
A crier marched the streets, announcing the upcoming coronation and filling the city with a buzz of excitement and fear. Change was coming, and as the Lion taking the throne had shown them, it was not always good.
What they did not yet know was this: the coronation would grant them more than a new king, but magic, too. A new age. As Seif had assured the zumra, the High Circle had positioned blockades to stop its flow until after the coronation, and though the dignitaries who had attended the ruined feast knew of the hearts’ restoration, it would be some time before everyone else did.
Yasmine rose and dusted off her dress, spotting Sukkar. “What’s the plan? Back to Thalj?”
“Only to fetch Lana,” Zafira replied, refusing to meet Yasmine’s eyes as she swung atop her horse. In days, Nasir would become ruler of Arawiya, the circlet of a prince replaced with the crown of a sultan. It filled her with pride, even as her heart ached.
She took Sukkar’s reins as Yasmine watched her with a wistful softness in her eyes, understanding everything.
“I’ll be back for the coronation,” Zafira said.
She intended to return with enough time to spare, and though the trek through Demenhur would be sloppy as snow continued to melt across the caliphate, she couldn’t complain. Word had come that it was gradual enough that the water seeping into the ground would allow people to grow herbs once more, and soon.
“You mean we will be back,” Yasmine said, arching a brow when Zafira looked at her in surprise.
She loathed the sorrow in her friend’s gaze, the hollow that she was afraid might never be filled again.
“It’s your prince. Did you assume I wouldn’t want to come?”
