‘Don’t look away,’ Aisha said, grabbing her sister’s hand once more.
She saw sunlight flashing off blades, men shouting and crying out. Zahvik stepped up to Farrah, fisting her hair as he drew a blade from within his robe. The steel gleamed as he lowered it to her throat.
A scream tore from Aisha’s chest as she returned to the room.
Safiya grabbed hold of her. ‘Your nose is bleeding.’
Aisha barely heard her. She looked around for Tariq and found him fighting for his life in the corner. Pulling free of Safiya’s hold, she stumbled forward.
‘Where are you going?’ Safiya shouted.
Aisha couldn’t form words and walk at the same time. She continued forwards, flinching at the cries of men as she passed by them. She fixed her gaze on Farrah.
It happened just as she had seen.
Zahvik didn’t like that he was losing. He grabbed the queen by her hair, pulling her head back as he reached inside his cloak. Farrah’s eyes widened as she realised what was happening.
Somehow, Aisha found it in her to run. It was sloppy, but it got her to where she needed to be. With no weapon and no real plan, she threw herself at the sectarian with all the strength she had left, colliding with his side. Down he went, not one god willing to soften his fall as he collided with the floor. Of course, she went down with him, landing beside him with her face mere inches from his.
The fighting seemed to fade into the background, but not because of a vision. Aisha was a girl again, standing in a town square in Slevaborg. Acrid smoke filled her nostrils as she watched the flames consume her mother. Zahvik was unaffected by her screams.
Aisha lay frozen on the cold marble floor, her body present but her mind trapped in the memory of her mother’s death. Zahvik’s eyes bored into hers as he lifted the dagger still in his hand. Aisha didn’t have the strength to stop him. The steel glinted above her, and she waited.
A shadow fell across them, and the dagger was kicked clean from Zahvik’s hand, landing some distance away and skidding across the marble. Tariq towered over them, sword in hand and eyes ablaze. The muscles in his arm knotted as he raised his weapon, his murderous gaze fixed on Zahvik.
‘No!’ Aisha shouted, the word coming out hoarse. She raised a trembling hand, palm open to Tariq. She could feel blood dripping from her nose and ears as she struggled to breathe. ‘Not like this.’
At first, Tariq appeared confused, but then his features softened with understanding. Lowering his weapon, he stepped back, his chest rising and falling sharply. ‘Get him out of here,’ he instructed the two soldiers who appeared on either side of him.
Zahvik was dragged across the floor and disappeared from sight.
The clash of steel dulled to cries of surrender as Gruisean soldiers forced the last of the warriors to their knees. Sweat and blood were all Aisha could smell, the floor slick with it.
Safiya appeared, dropping to her knees. ‘What the hell was that?’
Aisha’s eyes met Farrah’s as Tariq went over to remove the gag from his mother’s mouth and untie her hands. They stared at each other, two women stripped bare by terror, exhaustion, and the things they had nearly lost.
In that stare was an understanding deeper than words could ever carry.
Chapter 46
The courtyard was packed to its edges at dawn, a sea of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. The scaffold of wood had been built high, a pyre for all to see. Zahvik stood at its centre, bound to a stake. His white robes were filthy, his face gaunt but unrepentant. His eyes were fixed defiantly on the horizon. Hungry torches flared at the edges of the pyre.
Tariq stood tall at Aisha’s side, his jaw hard and eyebrows lowered. Kaidon was also nearby, still bloodied from a long night of sorting and imprisoning warriors. Safiya had found time to wash but hadn’t slept a wink—none of them had. Together, they watched as the first torch was lowered to the kindling.
A hush fell over the courtyard as the flames curled around the dry wood. The fire spread quickly, climbing. It wasn’t long before they could all feel the heat.
That was the moment Zahvik began to pray.
‘Take this flesh to cinder and my breath to oath. Let my ash ride the wind to Emperor Hassan’s hand.’
Safiya rolled her eyes. ‘Just die already.’
‘If I have failed, make my ruin a whetstone for those who follow. If I am weighed, weigh me by devotion,’ he continued, the pitch of his voice increasing.
His words had no impact. There was no empathy to be found, no forgiveness.
A scream tore from him as the flames climbed his body, a sound so raw it seemed to split open the air. No one looked away. Aisha breathed in the smoke, the justice, feeling the heaviness lift from her shoulders. She had seen what she needed to see—heard his fear and pain, as she had once heard her mother’s.
