When the sand settled, the night framed two horses beneath the moon. Seif dismounted first, and Altair knew he’d learned of Zafira when he saw pity in his pale gaze. Pity never brought the dead back. It was an insult, plain and simple, one Nasir noted with the barest of growls in the back of his throat.
The second rider dismounted, a safi as tall and thin as her late brother, giving reason to why Seif hadn’t joined him and Nasir in their escape.
“Leila,” Altair greeted. Her abaya was far too scandalous for a funeral. The angled neck plunged almost to her stomach, her pale skin contrasting against the dark, glittering fabric. It was a sight he would have appreciated, had circumstances been different. Had her soft umber eyes, which matched Benyamin’s exactly, not been a sight too painful for this moment.
She nodded in return. Tears stained her cheeks. Blood dripped from her dress—her mother’s blood. He’d seen the Alder calipha on the floor, an eternal lifeline cut short by hatred. A death as heinous as her son’s.
“Head for Demenhur,” Seif instructed. “Neither Sultan’s Keep nor Sarasin is safe. I’ve directed the Pelusians to do the same. Lana rides with them.”
Altair pushed away from the wall and strode to them, leaving Haytham’s son by the gate. He didn’t know who Lana was. “I’ll be making a few stops along the way. The gossamer web needs to know the truth of what happened in the palace. We can—” He stopped at Seif’s chargin. “You’re leaving.”
“Aya was my charge,” Seif replied hoarsely.
Of course.
“And now she’s dead,” Altair finished numbly, fighting the rage that threatened to spill. “Died making the Lion what he is.”
“Why?”
The loathing behind that one word was so great, so unlike Nasir that both Altair and Seif turned to him fully in disbelief. He knew what the prince was thinking behind the flint of his eyes: It was Aya’s fault that Zafira was gone. But if they started down that path, blaming one thing upon the next, there would be no end, no future.
“Some truths have no reason,” Seif murmured. “This one does,” Altair said with force.
Leila spoke now. “After what she’d lost, you have no right
—”
“We’ve all lost something,” Altair bit out. No one knew how much he had once loved Aya. No one knew he was once the last to judge her. “Look at me. Look at him.” He gestured to Nasir. “We have lost, and we have suffered. We did not fall prey to insanity and the Lion’s lies. The difference, Leila, between Aya and us is that we do not give up.”
The camels snorted in the silence, Haytham’s son’s soft murmurs lilting in the quiet. Seif’s brow was creased, his pale eyes slit.
“He is right,” he said finally.
“Thus, Benyamin died for nothing,” Leila said softly.
Nasir looked away. Benyamin had died for the gray-eyed prince, for their future sultan, and for his brother.
To Altair, that was everything.
“He was valiant until the end,” Altair said solemnly. “He spoke of you even in the throes of death.”
She closed her eyes briefly, carmined lips soft. “I expected nothing less from a Haadi. Now I am all that remains of
Arawiya’s oldest family.”
“Not much of Arawiya will be left to speak of if the Lion remains in power,” Altair said as Haytham’s son collected stones from the cool sand. “We need you with us. We need your aid. We need aid from Alderamin.”
Leila’s gaze flicked to the ground. “My people will not—” “Your people,” Altair repeated quietly. “Alderamin is home
to only a fifth of your people. Arawiya is the land of your people. Leave this division by caliphate aside, Leila. We are one kingdom.”
“I am not one of them, Altair,” she said crisply. The gold filigree cuffing her elongated ears glinted mockingly.
He set his jaw, the loss of his eye a beacon. “Neither am I.” “What you decide to do with your immortal life sets no
requirement upon ours.”
Altair breathed a mirthless laugh, regarding her. It was taking some adjustment, only being able to see out of one eye. It meant turning his head and craning his neck far too much. “You were there for his first reign of darkness. You know what will happen. The darkness will spread from one caliphate to the next, and people will die. Even safin can starve.” He met Leila’s gaze, disappointed by her obstinacy. “Benyamin would
—”
“Do not speak of what he would or would not have done,” she demanded. “He is dead. My mother is dead. You need to understand that the title of Alder calipha will matter little when I ask my people to help you, for not one safi will feel particularly inclined to assist the mortals for whom my kin died.”
The wind gusted toward them, grieving the night’s lost souls. It was a horrible truth, but had Leila been more like her brother, she would have agreed: It was worth trying. Worth rallying them, begging them for aid. Altair turned to Seif.
“I will not abandon our cause, but I must return to Alderamin, too,” Seif said. “After tonight’s events, it is clear the Lion will seek the destruction of the remaining hearts. I must be there to protect the heart and the throne. The rest of the High Circle will do the same in the other caliphates. History stands to be rewritten, and if there is anyone who understands the merit of this opportunity, it is those of the Circle.
“We will remain vigilant, and upon magic’s return, should you succeed, we will position restrictors to halt the flow of power until each caliphate gets their bearings.”
Altair wasn’t ready to think that far just yet. To worry over the common person being unable to control the affinity he or she wielded felt trivial after what had transpired. He lowered his brow, sensing he had no leeway here. No amount of persuasion would work. Safin were stubborn that way.
“May success ride in your favor, Seif bin Uqub,” Altair said at last. “Shukrun for your efforts.”
Besides, he hadn’t come so far by relying on the halfhearted.
