Page 166 of The Moon's Fury

“I’ve had my kids”—he jerked his chin at the group behind him—“searching the streets for weeks, but you never showed. We’d given up. Until sharp Reem here spotted you. Exactly as he said.”

Jamil regarded the boy.

“The man lied.”

Yakhti gaped at him. “But—”

“I’ll give you thirty gold coins.”

The kids whooped as Jamil traded a heavy pouch for the parchment. Yakhti didn’t spare them a second glance, excitedly counting the coins.

Jamil quickly read the note and sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He passed her the parchment.

“I hope you’re not afraid of boats.”

67

Thesunblazedoverheadas they walked through the sandy beach and the small, adjacent town. The scent of spiced meat wafted through the air, along with an unfamiliar but not unpleasant aroma—a rich, buttery smell that hinted of ocean and smoky sweetness. When she asked Zarian about it, he told her it was fish.

Palm trees lined the market, their fronds swaying over colorful woven canopies and wooden stalls brimming with fruits she’d never seen before. The sun beat down on her head, the air heavy and humid, and soon, her skin glistened with a thin layer of perspiration.

Zarian was relaxed, though. For once, it seemed like he was scanning the shops and faces with leisure, not searching for hidden threats. Islanders with deep, tanned skin watched them with curious eyes. Many of the men were shirtless, their sun-kissed skin glowing beneath the bright, midday sun, arms stacked with dark, intricate tattoos. Some of the islanders recognized Zarian, ambling up to greet them in the same strange, lilting language.

The market’s shops were carved from driftwood and woven with palm fronds. They passed a small apothecary, several fishmongers’ stalls, and shops selling woven clothing.

As they walked, her shoes quickly became filled with sand, and she realized why most of the locals wore sandals.

“What language do they speak here?” she asked, her hand resting on his bicep as they passed the last shop. “And how do you know it?”

“It’s calledjazirluga,” he said, adjusting the bags on his shoulder. “And I know it because I learned it.” He gave her a teasing grin.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being awfully secretive.”

His grin widened. “I’ve been here several times. My longest stay was about six months—enough time to learn the language.”

“And where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t offer up any more information, and she was content to absorb their surroundings. The winding path cut through the center of the island, the sunbaked ground hot beneath her sandy shoes. Houses with thatched roofs dotted the way, some with open-air verandas and cloth canopies that swayed gently in the breeze.

There was a loud squeal, and a tiny creature scampered past them, hooves kicking up clouds of sandy earth. It shocked a gasp out of her.

“A piglet,” Zarian chuckled. “Ashra’s resident menaces.”

As they walked, she drank in the new sights with eagerness, the drying fishing nets and clay ovens built into the sides of homes.

But the sight that captured her breath was Zarian.

She had never seen him so at ease. The corners of his mouth were perpetually upturned. A few times, people recognized him and bounded off their verandas to exchange pleasantries. Zarianalways introduced her, but she wasn’t sure what he was saying. Whatever it was, the islanders smiled brightly at her, nodding in greeting. Some of the older women pulled her into an embrace, patting her face with maternal tenderness.

Something tight and sharp pulled at her heart.

Eventually, the sandy road branched off into a wide fork, paths leading both to the left and right. The beach was directly ahead of them, gentle, rolling waves lapping at the sandy shore. Zarian led them down the right trail, their walk framed by tall palm trees on one side, the sandy horizon on the other. They soon reached a house—more of a villa—with a flat roof and large windows. Its walls were smooth, and the roof extended slightly past the structure, shading the front door from the afternoon sun.

They walked up, passing a small firepit nestled in a basin of black rock, cradled by two driftwood chairs.

Zarian rapped on the door.