But when she looked up, it was not Qadir standing at the entrance, but an older woman garbed in layers of silk. A man wearing a sword at his hip stood beside her. The woman pointed at Mazen and said, “That’s him. Look at his face and tell me that isn’t him.”
The man with the sword—a mercenary charged to keep the peace, by the looks of it—glanced at Mazen. He seemed on the verge of apologizing when the prince looked up. The mercenary’s eyes widened. The prince stared at him in silence.
Loulie picked up the lantern. “Qadir?”
The fire cackled softly, and then nothing. She had no time to think about what that meant. The mercenary had yelled for backup and was now approaching them. Loulie slammed the lantern into his knee and gripped the prince’s wrist at the same time. The mercenary doubled back as she surged forward, dragging Mazen out with her.
Outside, visitors stared at them unabashedly, first with curiosity and then with fear as mercenaries entered the space, yelling Prince Mazen’s name. Loulie grabbed the prince and ran toward the corral. But there were already mercenaries there, ready for them.
“Let them have me,” the prince said. “What use am I to you, anyway?”
Loulie dug her nails into his wrist. He cried out. “Shut up and listen.” They were close to the corral now. “When I give the signal, run for the horses. I’m counting on you to free them.”
“W-what’s the signal?”
But there was no time to explain. The mercenaries were approaching, telling her to move away from the prince.
Qadir had said she was the bravest person he knew. Now she would prove it to herself.
When the mercenaries were close enough to touch, Loulie reached into her pocket and withdrew Qadir’s dagger. She slashed one mercenary in the arm and threw herself at the other, sending them both tumbling to the dirt. The moment she let go of the prince’s hand, he paused, stumbling and staring at her with wide eyes before he ran for the corral.
Loulie rose to her feet, but too slowly. One mercenary grabbed her by her hair and yanked her backward. She tried to elbow him, but to no avail; he was standing far enough away that she could not reach him.
He said something, but it was lost beneath the shrill sound of a scream.
Her captor paused, gasped. “What in nine hells?”
Loulie craned her neck to see what he was looking at. There was smoke—smoke and fire—coming from the souk. Before the mercenary could recover from his shock, Loulie angled her knife and slashed it through her curls, cutting both her hair and his grip.
It was perfect timing: the corral doors burst open, and the prince came charging toward her on his horse. He reached out a hand. Loulie grabbed it, throwing herself across the saddle and holding on for dear life as the burning souk blurred in her vision.
61
LOULIE
That night, neither of them slept. Loulie was too jittery, nervous that the mercenaries would give chase. She had commanded the compass to lead them to a hiding place, and it had brought them to a plateau overlooking the Sandsea. It was there that they waited for Qadir.
All the while, Loulie cursed herself for forgetting their supplies at the oasis. The loss of her merchant apparel made her inwardly and physically shudder. The desert was freezing, so cold she burrowed herself into the prince’s side without even thinking to ask for his permission. The prince didn’t seem to mind; he was either too numb or too cold to care. They sat there like that until the sun rose and Qadir appeared on the horizon—a lone figure walking toward them. It was a relief to see their bag of supplies slung over his shoulder.
Loulie wrapped her arms around herself and stood to meet him. “What happened?” She had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.
“The rumors say a magical fire burned through the souk.” Qadir paused before her. Even at a distance, he exuded a warmth that thawed the chill in her bones. “Apparently, though it looked real, it was nothing but a mirage.”
“Imagine that.”
Qadir reached out to touch her frayed curls. “Your work, I assume?”
She managed a weak smile. “What, you think a mercenary would cut it for me?”
“I suspect even a mercenary would make a cleaner cut.” His gaze softened as he turned to look at the prince, who had not moved. Qadir snapped his fingers, and a fire burst to life in front of him. The prince sidled closer to it.
Once Loulie had donned her warmer merchant layers and they were all seated in front of the fire, Qadir told them what he’d learned. Shortly after being spotted in Madinne by commoners, “Prince Mazen” had been locked in his chambers indefinitely by his father. The act had garnered sympathy—or perhaps understanding—for what the prince had done next. He’d turned some of the royal soldiers, staged a coup, and stuck a knife through his father’s heart.
Prince Mazen looked like he could barely sit upright. “Those are no royal soldiers.” He shuddered. “They’re my brother’s thieves. I overheard Aisha talking about them.” He looked up, glassy eyes locked on them in desperation. “My brother,” he said weakly. “What of Hakim?”
Qadir grimaced. “There was no news of Prince Hakim. He seems to have vanished in all the chaos.” He turned to look at Loulie. “Since the coup was mostly contained to the palace grounds, I trust Dahlia is safe.”
Loulie managed a weak nod. Dahlia was a woman of the black market. If she needed to escape, she would use the underground tunnels. But there was still another person whose fate Loulie did not know. When she tried to lock gazes with Qadir, he turned away, hesitation embedded in the furrow of his brow. Loulie’s heart hammered in her chest.
There was nothing she could do to prepare herself for his next words.
“Ahmed bin Walid is dead,” he said.
The words hit like a hammer. Loulie swayed. It felt as if the world had been pulled out from beneath her feet. She had to place a hand on the ground to balance herself.
“His body was found by the palace gates,” Qadir continued. “The rumors vary; some say the wali led the prince’s uprising. Others say he was helping palace staff escape when he was ambushed by soldiers. He died with a blade in his hand. A warrior to the very end.”
Loulie stared at him numbly. No.
She did not realize she was digging her nails into her palms until Qadir reached forward and gently uncurled her fingers. He clasped her shaking hands in his. The normally comforting heat of his skin barely warmed her. Loulie couldn’t stop shivering.
The prince fidgeted. “I think Ahmed knew something was off the moment he saw me in Dhyme.” He hung his head. “I believe he suspected Omar of scheming and tried to stop him.”
If the words were meant to comfort her, they failed.
She could not stop reliving her departure from Dhyme. Could not stop seeing the melancholy smile on Ahmed’s lips. She remembered the way he’d kissed her hand, and the words he’s said to her: And we shall finally talk, lovely Loulie, of stars and stories.
A stray tear slid down her cheek. One, two, and then she was sobbing, her body shaking with the force of her tears as Qadir wrapped an arm around her. He pulled her toward him.
She felt empty, as if some piece of her heart had been smashed. She had taken Ahmed bin Walid for granted. He had seemed immortal—a charismatic, well-liked hunter. A hero, to some.
How could such a man be gone? Without ceremony? Without so much as a goodbye?
Grief shattered the rest of her thoughts, and Loulie buried her face in Qadir’s shoulder as she cried. She wept until her throat was hoarse and her tears had run dry.
And then she let rage consume her sorrow.
Wallowing in grief would accomplish nothing. But fury would help her burn a path forward. And at the end of that road, if she was persistent, there would be vengeance.
For her family. For Ahmed. For her.
She peeled herself away from Qadir and glanced at the prince. She saw her emptiness reflected back at her in his eyes. He was a victim now, same as her.
And just like her, he could prove he’d been underestimated.