I nodded, and the wait continued. The goat was finished, and a piece of it was brought to our guard. We had been given lunch and did not expect anything else. The guard ate his portion, turning away from us so we could not see him. I wondered if he had a daughter, and if that was why he was so ashamed.
Then there was a cry from the center of the camp, and a horde of running feet. We leapt up, all five of us together, and the guard spun to look at us, his staff clutched in both of his hands. Saoud had Arwa’s bag and was moving to strike when the guard dropped his staff on the ground and held up his hands.
“Go,” he said, and looked at me. “Can you use the staff so that I am wounded but not dead?”
It was not an easy task. His staff was heavier than the one I was used to. I might kill him by accident. But I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I said, and picked it up.
He kissed his hands and held them out to Arwa and to Zahrah, and then turned so that I could hit him. He dropped, and we stepped over him to run.
We tried for stealth at first, but soon enough we realized there was little cause for it and went for speed instead. The soldiers were entirely diverted, even the ones who had been feeding the horses their evening fodder, because Prince Maram’s tent was in flames. The finely dyed cloth burned hot in the beginning of the desert night, and none of his men could get close enough to the conflagration to even try beating it out. As we circled the camp, we saw a figure emerge from the tent, screaming in agony as he burned.
He was too short to be Saoud’s father.
We saw the soldiers tackle him, and frantically try to contain their prince before he could light the whole camp on fire with his own touch. Already the flames were spreading to other tents. The horses, smelling smoke, were beginning to panic and pull at their tethers. Saoud’s father had bought us time, and we would be best set to use it.
We ran, giving heed only to our direction as we went. The stars were out and the moon was coming, and we ran beneath them, spurred on by desperate hope. When we crossed the border into Kharuf, we had to stop. Tariq and Arwa both started coughing as soon as their feet passed the invisible line, and I felt my own lungs constrict. Zahrah and Saoud were untroubled, but when I waved them on, they did not go. Arwa passed her bag to Saoud, and Tariq straightened beside her. I took three deep breaths to prove I could, and then we were off again, though our pace was slower.
Zahrah had taken advantage of the short halt to tie up her dress, and she moved easier with it no longer wrapping around her legs. Arwa had lost her veil somewhere, and her long black hair streamed behind her like a banner. Tariq ran with a hand on his chest, as though each breath squeezed him, but his face was determined. Saoud carried the staff as well as Arwa’s pack, and I fell to the rear of the group to watch for pursuers.
Time played with us as we ran. Our steps got heavier and heavier, our stops to rest more frequent; that should have made the night seem endless. Instead, the darkness passed all too quickly, and we could not run fast enough to make good use of it. Every moment felt squandered, but we could not go any faster.
It was not yet dawn, and we were weary with the night’s long run when I saw the first sign that our escape had been noticed. It was too early for sunrise, and the east should have been pink, tinged with the promise of yellow day. Instead, it was silver, and edged with hate. I could barely gasp for breath at all, the run and the spinners’ illness working against me, but I croaked a sound close enough to Saoud’s name that he turned around and saw what I saw.
He stopped, his hands on his knees and his shoulders heaving. Behind him, Tariq fought to keep his feet, and Arwa swayed. Zahrah was resolute, even though she shook. The phoenix’s gift was working. Her feet were bloody with cuts.
“My princess,” said Saoud. “We have done what we can.”
“You have my thanks,” she said. “For now and always, no matter what becomes of me.”
“No,” I said, for I saw that she planned to sacrifice herself to the demon for our sake. “No.”
“Yashaa, you must keep going,” she said. “You must try. Run all the way to my father and warn him, and then warn Qamih.”
“No,” I repeated. I would not lose her, not again.
“Look!” said Tariq, who had not been watching the east, but the west instead. His eyes were lit with hope, shining in a moment of the truest belief I had ever seen on his face. He looked toward the mountains, and saw our salvation. It was how I was always going to remember him.
It was a swarm of purple and gold, the color of the Storyteller Queen, and the color of the creatures she had made. They had seen us. They had come.
They were too late.
The silver light grew brighter and then solidified before us. Tariq gave a horrible cry as though something was pulling him to pieces, and then the ground beneath his feet opened, and he was gone.