Kifah’s pacing back and forth on the rug was driving Altair to the brink. He kept glancing to the door, as if Nasir and Zafira would materialize the longer he looked. He couldn’t bring himself to remove the note from Hirsi’s leg, as if ignoring it long enough would somehow make it reach his mother.
“They’re late,” Kifah deplored. “Two people—one of them wounded—against an entire caliphate.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Altair said wearily. Nasir was a hashashin. He wove through death like a needle through gossamer. He had to survive—they were only just starting to be brothers.
Kifah stopped pacing. “We need to discuss how we’ll proceed if they don’t arrive on time.”
Pragmatic as ever, except for the concern in her dark gaze.
But Altair had no alternative ready. That wasn’t how he worked. He chose the best for his plans, and counted on them to perform.
His mind—ordinarily endlessly calculating, plotting, scheming—had blanked.
He bolted upright when the door flew open, both he and Kifah rushing forward. But it was neither his mother nor Nasir or Zafira.
Only one of Misk’s runners, panting. “The Great Library. It—it’s on fire.”
