We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya) by Hafsah Faizal

Author:Hafsah Faizal [Faizal, Hafsah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 9780374311544
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Published: 2019-05-13T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 40

Night feathered the horizon, painting the skies a blend of charcoal and winterberries, while a smattering of stars winked and danced in shy greeting. It was an odd sky—light enough to discern color, dark enough to host stars. A desert sky.

Amid the tense silence, Zafira was struck with how little control she had. In the face of spears, swords, double scimitars, and … sorcery, she was nothing. She was a blade of grass to be trampled.

Or, worse, cut down.

Where were these people coming from? First a warrior from Pelusia, and now a man dressed in finery that looked awkward among Sharr’s ruination.

Before Zafira could move, Nasir clamped down on her arm and pulled her deeper into the shadows of the ruins. She pulled free with a hiss. “What are you doing?”

“Getting away,” he said simply.

“From what? What about your friend?”

“Friend?” he asked, appearing perplexed at the idea of having such a thing.

She gestured wildly to Altair, who was grinning madly at the newcomer. Nasir stilled, giving her the sense that he was unaware of this acquaintance.

Altair clasped the newcomer on the shoulder. His tone was endearing. “Any longer and you would have found my corpse.”

“A thousand and one apologies. Old age, as you know,” the newcomer replied, though he looked no older than Altair. His voice was lilting and smooth, decadent like that chocolate drink she, Yasmine, Deen, and Lana had drunk on one of Demenhur’s warmer nights beneath endless skies.

“Who is he?” Zafira whispered.

Nasir looked at her. “If I knew, did you think I would tell you?”

So he didn’t know. “Altair knows him. I imagined you would, too. You’re the prince.”

Something in his eyes caught in the moonlight. “I’m afraid that’s all I am.” Then he tightened his mouth, angry at himself for saying as much. “We need to go.”

The shadows behind them stirred. “And where exactly are you planning to go now that we’ve saved your sorry lives?”

The Pelusian. She spoke so quickly it was a marvel she found time to breathe. Nasir extended his gauntlet blade, but the woman merely stared at Zafira, unfazed. Not a woman—a girl. Likely a year or so older than she was.

“Why did you save me? You don’t know who I am,” the Pelusian asked, her shorn head aglow. A length of gold cuffed her upper arm.

There were three sectors in Pelusia: the farmers, the erudites who consisted of inventors and scholars, and the warriors. The crossed-spears emblem on her cuff marked her as a warrior of the calipha’s Nine Elite. Yet one of her arms—from shoulder to fingertip—was inked in the old tongue, the mark of an erudite, for only they valued the knowledge of the ancients enough to stain their bodies with it. Had she switched when her calling did?

“Are you my enemy?” Zafira asked, and Nasir released an exasperated growl.

A smirk played on the Pelusian’s full lips. “I never did like the idea of the Demenhune Hunter, and I could spear you to the ground before our prince even moved his arm, so if those are what it means to be your enemy, then I suppose I am.

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