By the time Nasir had found a string of words to suffice a proper apology, it was too late. She was not in her room. She was not in the foyer. She was nowhere in the house, and when he ran outside, too hurried to wear his boots, he saw the servants calming the two steeds left in the stables where he’d seen fourteen before.
His pulse had never raced as quickly as it did now. He had never felt such searing lament, such bone-deep rue. He should have worn his shirt, he should have sent Kulsum away, he should have answered Zafira’s question. Regret was Nasir’s dearest friend.
The moon tucked herself into the clouds, despondent, and a chill descended from the skies, sinking teeth into the city. He returned to his room, relieved to find it empty, and snatched his weapons before washing his feet and slipping into his boots, nearly wearing the right on his left and the left on his right, and then struggled with the servants to placate one of the angsty steeds, even as they claimed it was the worst of the lot.
Nasir was not surprised. Such was his luck. He pulled out the red-and-silver compass the Silver Witch had given him before he’d embarked for Sharr and brushed his thumb across its surface. It had led him to Zafira more than once.
What do you want?
More than his heart could hold. More than he could begin to know.
When at last he mounted the beast and the gates creaked open, Aya swept outside. Nasir wondered if she had stayed behind for him, since everyone except Zafira’s sister had left.
She stayed for Lana, mutt. He flinched at his own thoughts, at the echo of his father’s insults.
“The night mourns.”
He suppressed a shiver at her voice and guided the horse toward the dark streets. Limestone structures gleamed blue- black. Lanterns glowed like eyes, ever watchful. Echoes of the merchants and people wading among their stalls reminded him that this city never slept. On the other end of the tangled streets and sprawling houses was the palace. He’d told no one of the plans he’d begun to form, but what did it matter now? He had to find the zumra. He had to find Zafira.
Why? a voice whispered at the back of his skull. Aya noted his hesitance. “Where do you ride for?”
“Alderamin,” he said when the silence became too much to bear. “To join Zafira.”
“There’s no need. Seif and Kifah are with her. As you said, preparations must be made here.”
He paused at her logical words.
“Come inside,” Aya coaxed. “We can continue training if you do not wish to rest.”
Rimaal. Look at yourself. It wasn’t about the journey itself, for he still felt that a trek to Alderamin for a vial that may not exist was a waste of time. It wasn’t about the number of people she had with her; it was about Zafira herself. It was about saying the words he had not been able to say before. Even if he believed his chances of finding Altair were higher here. In the palace, to be exact.
A small figure darted through the gates. Nasir’s gauntlet blade pulsed against his wrist before he recognized the luminescent green shawl. Lana stopped in front of his horse, wide-eyed and out of breath.
Aya rushed to her. “What is it, little one?”
“A—a Sultan’s Guard,” she blustered.
Nasir was off his horse in an instant. If the man had touched her, had even tried to touch her, he would lose his fingers, then his tongue. Then his head.
“I came as fast as I could.” A scroll was in her palm.
Nasir exhaled, but he didn’t need to read the scroll to know where it was from. He was the prince, and this shade of parchment was a common sight. That didn’t stop the surge of dread through his limbs when Aya unfurled it to read before wordlessly passing it to him. Because when one disaster befell him, it was almost always followed by a barrage of others.
“How did he know who I was?” Lana asked, uncaring of what he’d given her.
Only then did Nasir notice she was shaking.
He looked past the gates. He sensed no one, but if Lana’s comings and goings were noted, it was obvious. “We’re being watched.”
Nasir returned the horse to the stable; then he and Aya took Lana inside and sat her on the majlis with a blanket. A servant brought her tea. Aya held her against her chest, murmuring too softly for Nasir to hear through the rushing in his ears as he read the missive.
It was an invitation to a feast, one sent not only to the crown prince but also to every last leader of Arawiya, celebrating magic’s imminent restoration.
Only, magic was still far from restored. It might never
return, despite the zumra’s near-success upon Sharr.
“We’ll go,” Nasir said beneath the flicker of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling.
“It is a trap,” Aya said, surprised that Nasir would accept the invitation.
“It’s not a trap if we are aware of it.”
He’d already had a number of reasons for wishing to trek to the palace, theories he wished to test, but now he had ample justification. The medallion around Ghameq’s neck flashed in his thoughts. The notion that the Lion was in the palace itself, hiding in plain sight.
“We know the Lion holds my father captive,” he said. “But the delegates don’t.”
“We can send notes of our own,” Lana suggested, “telling them it’s a trap.”
Nasir imagined a missive such as that, warning the delegates of their impending doom and signing off with “Prince of Death.” He shook his head. “It won’t reach them in time.”
“You think to protect them,” Aya said.
This time, her surprise stung, but Lana gave him a small smile. His reputation had reached even the farmost villages of Demenhur, it seemed.
“If it is a trap, there is the likelihood that we will face the Lion,” Aya continued.
“He won’t show his hand so soon,” Nasir said, “not before comprehending the Jawarat. My father is behind the celebration.”
“And he is controlled by the Lion,” Aya said, gentle but firm. “We are no match for him on our own.”
“Unless we remove the medallion,” Nasir countered.
Aya’s features scrunched, dissent written across them, but she held silent. Nasir crushed the papyrus in his fist. The Lion played his game well, and this was an invitation no one would dare miss.
Not even Nasir.
