Altair’s first order as Arawiya’s ruler was upheaving the depressing decor of the Sultan’s Palace. He didn’t understand such dark and drab decor. Royalty wasn’t dead. A day after magic’s return, the black carpeting was rolled up and a new one unfurled in blue and red and edged in gold.
But if he was being honest, all this was merely delaying a more important task: being sultan. The loneliness of it. Magic and the chaos it entailed. Already there was word from one village of a fireheart having accidentally set a tree ablaze and the flames spreading to the sooq, upon which an aquifer thought to be heroic and flooded the market stalls.
Some good the safin were doing, easing magic into Arawiya.
“And here we have our lonely sultan,” Kifah said by way of greeting as she strolled into the room.
He was lonely. Nasir had already left for Sarasin to prepare for his own coronation. Zafira and her sister were bound for Demenhur. He bit the inside of his cheek. Sultans didn’t cry.
One side of Kifah’s mouth curled into a smile as she strode to one of the large windows. “Seif and I toured the city. They’re calling you Zhahabi Maliki.”
The Golden King.
“Has a nice ring to it,” Altair said, swallowing a rasp. He liked the word “king” more than the word “sultan.” What was it that his father had said?
It was time for a new era.
He’d written to the ifrit known as Muzaffar, the soon to be ruler of his own caliphate. Ifrit were different from men and
safin—they’d require laws specific to them, benefits created for them, and Altair would figure it out. He was part ifrit, after all. Surely that would earn him a few favors.
He’d sent invitations to the caliphates, too, including one to Qismah, the daughter of Ayman al-Ziya, the dead Demenhune caliph. It was early, and it risked him appearing malleable, but he’d already met with the rulers as a general, and he’d hoped the gathering would usher in a new unity in less time than Anadil expected.
There were ways to rule, she had said. Altair agreed and
disagreed, for there were ways to appeal to hearts, too.
“And you, One of Nine? What does Ghada say, aside from wanting her daughter in my lap?”
Kifah laughed. “I don’t think I’ll get a second invitation, if that’s what you mean.” She paused. “But … I don’t think I want one. I joined the Nine Elite to prove something to my father, but it was Benyamin who gave me what I’d wanted.”
The chance for vengeance. Altair regarded her. “Will you return home to gloat? Am I to say farewell to you, too, then?”
“Have you need of me?” Kifah probed.
“I have a proposal for you, actually,” he said carefully. Her eyebrows rose. “For a place by my side.”
“With a crown on my head?” Kifah sputtered. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
Altair grinned. “I’m not blind, Kifah. I know romance isn’t something you desire if even my perfection can’t tempt you.”
She snorted, but her dark eyes glistened.
“I was thinking something more lethal, like Sword of the Sultan. Captain of my guard.”
She didn’t answer. Of course she’d want to return home.
The bastard had taken away more than her brother.
“Think about it. Discuss it with Ghada if you must. Find your father and gloat a little. You’ve seen the reports. These first few months won’t be easy as people come into magic, even with the help of the High Circle and the gossamer web. Then I’ll have to start worrying about every other kingdom wanting a piece of us now that the Arz is gone and—”
“Altair. For once, please stop talking.” He stopped, and Kifah met his eyes.
“Yes, I accept. Why be one of nine when I can be the one?”
