Chapter 233: Death’s Relief

Of course, it was Dunya who found him first.

It always was her, and perhaps it always would be.

When he came back from the East barely alive, when he stood before a family’s grave blaming himself for their deaths, and when he had stumbled out of a ship that carried him away from Hell, Dunya always had been the one standing at the end of the road.

Even on the first day of his return.

Dunya was the one who sent him back to the Holy Palace.

She had a gift for it. But she could no longer send him back, at least not where she usually sent him...

There was no Holy Palace to send him back to.

But that wasn’t the only difference.

Dunya crossed the dune in a run, stopped a full arm’s length away, and stood there with her fists clenched at her sides.

Her purple eyes were wet and furious.

Right, what was once fear turned into anger.

She lifted one hand, and purple letters bloomed in the air between them, reeking of Death.

[Where were you?]

For the first time since she became his maid and closest confidant, she was questioning him.

Malik took a moment.

He looked at the letters and at the dark circles under her eyes.

The Sultan had thought up a hundred lies for the people he loved. A cave. A coma. A long fight between Angels. None of them would have survived a single look from this girl.

"Heaven."

The letters wavered.

She stared at him blankly.

Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she would laugh. Then her face crumpled from the edges inward, and she crossed the last step, slamming into his chest.

Dunya began to cry.

Cry like a child.

Her small hands twisted in the front of his tunic and her face pressed so hard against his ribs that he could feel her teeth. She made no sound; she barely did, but her whole body heaved with it, and every sob rolled through him.

Malik stood very still, though only for a few moments, eventually putting both arms around her.

It was a new thing, having two. He had grown used to the clumsy movement of a one-armed man, and the weight of his right hand on the back of her head surprised him.

She felt so small.

Sweet, sweet Dunya had always been small, but she had been a rock in his life for so long that he had forgotten how little of her there actually was.

To hurt her this much...

’It hurts more than the arrow did.’

It was a dry thing to think, and it was true.

Letters appeared in the air beside his ear, uncharacteristically jagged.

She could not stop writing, even with her face in his shirt.

[You... left.]

"Yes."

[You told me to wait, and you left.]

"I did."

[You lied to me. You stayed back knowing that you would die.]

"I..."

[Sinbad brought your arm.]

His jaw tightened.

"I am sorry."

[Lady Layla never let go of it.]

He closed his eyes.

[She would not put it down. Amal stopped talking. The children cried in their tents every night. I couldn’t stop writing about what happened. What I wanted to happen. I couldn’t... I...]

"Dunya."

[I wrote He is not dead.]

[Thousands of times.]

[You made me go mad.]

[I have never felt so strongly as I did then.]

[If I had a voice, my screams would have never stopped.]

The letters shook so badly that the last word came out crooked.

Her fingers dug deeper into his tunic, and a fresh wave of sobs broke over her.

Malik did not tell her to stop. He rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, the way he had once done for a smaller version of her in a dark room, and he waited.

"I am here."

[That is not enough.]

"I know that too."

[You do not get to say sorry and leave to die again.]

"I will not."

[You said that before.]

It landed like a thrown boulder, and he took it.

Dunya was right. He had said it in the hall, a lifetime ago, with a smile on his face, and he had been lying. He had known he would not keep the promise, and she had known it as well.

Yet she had gone through the circle anyway because he asked her to.

He had asked a great deal of her.

"I said I would live, I did. I have never lied to you about that. I am going to be honest with you now, because you have earned that from me a thousand times over. I cannot promise I won’t have to leave again. The war is not over. But I will tell you first, to your face, and you will not have to find out from an arm."

She went still against him.

The letters hung in the air for a long time before they changed.

[Do you promise?]

"I promise."

[Truly?]

"I am blunt, Dunya. It is the only thing I’m good at."

A wet, startled sound escaped her.

It was almost a laugh.

She pulled her face out of his shirt and looked up at him with red eyes and a runny nose, and she wiped her cheek on her sleeve like she was eight years old.

[You look different.]

"Do I?"

[Younger.]

[And taller.]

[And you have both arms.]

"I noticed."

[Death says hello.]

Malik blinked.

"It speaks to you?"

[It started writing the second you landed.]

[It says your name a lot.]

[It sounds relieved.]

’So the True Sultan’s gone, and his gift left a door open.’

He filed it away for later.

Dunya hugged him one more time, shorter and fiercer, and then let go.

She stepped back, straightened her cloak, and scrubbed her face with both hands.

When she dropped them, she looked exactly like herself again, composed and quiet, with a single stubborn tear still sliding down her jaw.

[What now?]

Malik smiled.

It was a gentle one that he let stay.

"Now, I need to speak to my people."