It meant that everything about magic disappearing was more than black-and-white.

“The witch has wronged me on more than one count,” the sultan continued. “Do not let the book fall into her hands. If my assumptions are wrong, and the Hunter is no more than a man with a goal, move on.”

Move on. Innocent wording for “kill and be done with it.”

“Understood?”

Nasir dipped his head. Whether he wanted to do this or not was unimportant.

“Why me? Why not a contingent?” Nasir asked. He might be the only one who wordlessly did the sultan’s bidding, but how was Nasir expected to succeed on an island not even the Sisters had returned from?

“A more strategic option, but we are dealing with a fickle witch, not a mortal rival.”

Fickle, indeed.

Nasir thought of the ivory curtains to his left, in that room he doubted even the sultan slept within anymore. The words rushed from his mouth before he could stop them. “And if I don’t?”

Sultan Ghameq’s answer was immediate. “Your servant girl can stand to lose a few more parts. Then there is the matter of the Dar al-Fawda boy, and Haytham’s son. You will never truly be left with no one. You will always find a sick soul to protect. Do you think I can’t see that? You are weak. Pathetic.

“And until you murder the sickening leniency festering within, you will never be worthy of being my son.”

The vile words echoed in the silence.

Nasir had been a worthy son, once. The sultan was a man he had called Baba once. It was as if something else prowled inside him now, eroding the man Nasir once loved. To see a flicker, a glimmer, a bare hint of appreciation in his father’s eyes—Nasir would do anything.

Even kill without morals. Murder without regret. Become a monster without bounds.

A servant swept into the room. Nasir heard the swish of her dress around her legs, and he knew, without turning, that it was she. The sultan watched him, so Nasir stoned his features and stared back coolly.

Kulsum glided forward and set a platter of fruit on the floor before the sultan. She crouched, chin tucked to her chest, quiet and expectant, not more than two paces away. Sweet jasmine struck Nasir’s senses. He remembered the softness of her skin. The pain.

Ghameq looked down at the tray with silver bowls as if they had appeared on their own. A murmured order to get out—akhraj—was the only acknowledgment he gave.

Nasir didn’t look at her, though every nerve in his body begged otherwise. Fruits were arranged in the bowls, a multitude of colors sliced delicately and displayed lavishly. They were fresh from Pelusia, the only caliphate with such fertile soil.

The sultan ate. One grape after another, they plopped into his mouth, while Haytham’s son shivered in hunger, while the page boy licked his dirty fingers and the children tumbled from the backs of camels. While Arawiya suffered.

Breathe.

“If I may leave, Sultani,” Nasir said after a moment.

The sultan chewed on, ignoring him. Darkness edged into Nasir’s vision.

Finally, Ghameq grunted. “It’s tomorrow, boy. Get ready.”

“Assuming I cross the Arz, how will I get to Sharr?” Nasir asked. They had no vessels for sailing the sea. They had no sailors to help them navigate.

“On a ship,” Ghameq barked like he was stupid.

Nasir did not think the sultan saw the tic in his jaw. “Yes, Sultani.”

He resisted Ghameq’s orders, once, for as long as it took before he succumbed to the pain. And he endured it—more than most could. Until the sultan found a better way to ensure Nasir’s obedience.

“Will I make the journey alone?”

The sultan smiled, ever a snake, and dread settled in Nasir’s stomach. “Take Altair.”

Nasir exhaled. What had the sultan’s favorite general done to incur Ghameq’s wrath?

“And I’m to kill everyone.”

“That is what I said, isn’t it?” Sultan Ghameq picked up a handful of pomegranate seeds.

Sharr was the land of ghosts, an isle where even the land would be his enemy. Yet Nasir wasn’t afraid of that anymore. He was afraid of himself, and the lives he would take, starting with his father’s favorite general. For Kulsum. For Haytham’s son.

Unless…, the voice in his heart began.

He left it at that.

CHAPTER 12

Zafira had spent the rest of the night thinking of the woman in the silver cloak—a veritable, magic-wielding witch, who spoke of redemption and magic, who looked a handful of years older than Zafira but spoke as if she had lived for centuries. Zafira was not like Deen. She hadn’t convened with immortal safin. She hadn’t tasted the world beyond Demenhur’s western villages. Her knowledge of everything had come through tales spun on quiet nights. A witch was too much to comprehend.

Deen hadn’t stayed the night in her house in the end.

After the Silver Witch had vanished, he had slouched against the stable wall with a far-off look in his eyes.

When he had finally gathered himself, Zafira could tell he didn’t like what he saw on her face. And when she stretched the silence between them, he took her downcast face in his hands and touched his lips to her forehead.

“Zafira. Zafira, look at me.”

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t look at him, and her eyes had fluttered shut. In the darkness, anything was possible. Baba was alive, Umm was herself, magic still existed. But eyes couldn’t stay closed forever, unless one was dead.