The Forbidden Wish Page 15

  But before I can make a move, a peal of trumpets and a crier announce the king’s arrival. The crowd goes still and silent, watching with bowed heads, and I suppress a groan. Running out now would only draw unwanted attention.

  The door atop the stair opens, and Malek leads in a small procession, Sulifer at his right shoulder. The king is hunched and pale, and the bright festival garb he wears looks more comical than regal on his wasted frame. He stumbles down the stairs, nearly toppling altogether before accepting an arm from his brother. Leaning on Sulifer, Malek makes his way to the floor and there pauses to catch his breath. His glazed eyes rove disinterestedly about.

  A few snickers bubble out of the crowd, unnoticed by the king. I spot one young nobleman in a far corner—one of Darian’s boys—mimicking the king, tottering around and miming holding a simmon pipe to his lips while smiling vacuously. Darian himself is expressionless, but I have lived long enough to learn to read the emotions beneath the surface. He masks disgust and satisfaction when he looks at the king.

  Caspida’s face is as still as the moon. Without a word to Aladdin, she pushes through the crowd and reaches Malek’s side. With a wave she dismisses Sulifer and takes her father’s arm. He seems to rouse from his stupor at her touch, and smiles and pats her hand. She leads him to the throne, helping him sit and arranging cushions behind his back. The crowd begins to lose interest and goes back to their dancing and talking.

  “How long has he been like this?” I ask Nessa.

  She sighs and watches Caspida and the king with sorrowful eyes. “Ever since the queen died, ten years ago. He was once bright and strong and adored Caspida completely.”

  “How did the queen die?”

  Nessa’s gaze darkens. “A jinn attack, long ago. They ambushed the queen and all her Watchmaidens while they were on a journey to seek an alliance with Ursha. Our mothers. All gone in a single day.”

  Ah. Small wonder then that the princess hates the jinn so deeply. Uneasily, my thoughts wander down paths I’ve tried very hard to avoid: What will happen to Aladdin once I’ve won my freedom? What will Caspida do when she learns he tricked his way into the palace with jinn magic?

  Vigo appears suddenly at his sister’s side, grinning wickedly. His dreadlocks are in a thick braid down his back, their silver-tipped ends tinkling. “Come on, Ness! Let’s show them how the Tytoshi dance.”

  “All right, ugly, but don’t cry when you can’t keep up.” Nessa smiles and hands me her book. “Hold on to this for me, Zahra.”

  They slide onto the open floor and throw themselves into a lively dance composed of jumping, whooping, and twirling, which looks altogether exhausting. The crowd around them cheers and claps along. I watch, smiling a little, recalling entire fields filled with dancing Tytoshi back when I belonged to one of their kings. After a while, I look down at Nessa’s book and open it to the first page. It bears an illustration of the Shepherdess Queen of Ghedda looking down on her city as waves rose to devour it.

  With a shudder, I slam the book shut.

  Suddenly a hand slides around my waist and a voice whispers in my ear, “How about that dance now, love?”

  It’s Bad Breath, now well drunk and reeking of wine. He pushes me from behind, into the open, and grabs my wrist tightly. As he tries to force me into a turn, I hiss, “I’ll give you exactly three seconds to contemplate the mistake you’re making before I break your—”

  The man’s eyes go wide, and his lips spread in a grimace as his free hand is twisted behind him—held tightly by a grim-faced Aladdin.

  “Step away,” Aladdin says softly, “and you might leave with your arm still attached to your body, you bastard.”

  The man moans, but he lets go of me and skulks off, muttering, “Why does this always happen to me?” to himself. Aladdin, pleased with himself, bows to me.

  “Can I have a turn? Or do you only dance with cretins like Darian?”

  Rolling my eyes, I drop Nessa’s book into my pocket, then hold up my wrist. He meets it with his own, sweeping me into the midst of the other dancers. “I didn’t need your help.”

  “A lady shouldn’t have to get her hands dirty on a night like this.”

  “Oh, you are quite the prince. So did you sweep her off her feet?”

  His expression changes then, shifting from smugness to misery. “She barely spoke ten words to me.”

  “I’m shocked.” I smile, turning my back to him, our wrists meeting behind my head. “Did you try poetry?”

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  Turning to face him, I lean in and whisper, “Wish for her love, and I will deliver it to you.”

  He smiles grimly. “Then it wouldn’t be love.”

  “And what do you know of love?”

  “That it must be a choice.”

  “Oh, my naïve thief.” I pause briefly to meet his gaze. “Love is rarely a choice.”

  The music slows, and most of the other dancers drift away to talk and drink. I start to follow, the need to find Zhian pulling at me, but Aladdin says softly, “Just a little longer. I think I’m starting to get the hang of this.”

  I glance up at him and find his gaze too warm to withstand. I resume dancing but keep my eyes lowered, fighting the knots twisting inside me.

  Only two other couples are left: Nessa and Vigo, and Caspida and Darian. The prince and princess move with stiff formality, their steps rote. Darian seems frustrated at the princess’s aloofness.

  “She doesn’t love him,” I whisper to Aladdin. “With the right words, you’ll win her over.”

  “If you have any ideas to share, I’m nothing but ears,” he replies, his voice suddenly miserable.

  My eyes narrow as I study his forlorn gaze. “Why, Prince Rahzad, are you starting to fall in love?”

  He blinks, his eyes clearing, and then his gaze locks on mine. I spin away, then back to him, and his copper eyes don’t waver.

  “I’m not here to fall in love, am I? I’m here to avenge my parents.”

  “Don’t the two work hand in hand?”

  Abruptly, he stops dancing and steps away. He stares at me with eyes as deep as the night.

  “No,” he replies softly. “I’m not sure they do.”

  I stand still, bewildered, as he turns and melts into the crowd.

  Chapter Sixteen

  EXHAUSTED FROM DANCING, the people move into a grand courtyard beneath a starry sky and colorful lanterns swaying in a gentle breeze. They burn in the night like candle flames, bright and brilliant. I follow, only paying half attention to everyone around me, as I push my sixth sense far and wide and deep, probing for Zhian. I even send out tentative whispers in the silent jinn tongue: Are you there? Brothers and sisters, is anyone there? No reply comes trickling back.

  Aladdin is at Caspida’s side. They move in the midst of young lords and maidens, all laughing and flirting. The princess and my master are reticent, not looking at each other. Aladdin glances around, and then his eyes catch mine and hold. I stand apart from everyone else and, meeting his eye, nod pointedly at the princess. He stares a moment longer before turning back to Caspida and making a comment that draws a polite smile.

  I find a quiet corner tucked in the tall hedges surrounding the courtyard and sit on the base of a tall statue hidden there. It is a marble sculpture of a gryphon with a face seemingly based on King Malek’s, though this face is stronger and fuller, like the man Malek might have been had he not wasted himself over simmon.

  Tipping my head back, the moon and I regard one another silently, like enemies facing off across a field of battle. It is the same moon that met me the night Aladdin brought me out of the vault beneath the desert: barely there at all, merely a sly wink in the deep dark sky.

  Two days until it disappears completely.

  I let my mind turn to the possibility of failure, something I haven’t even
dared consider until now. Shaza had warned that if I didn’t release Zhian in the allotted month, Nardukha would rain death on me and Parthenia. It isn’t hard to imagine what that means.

  I still have Nessa’s book in my pocket, and I pull it out and lay it on my lap, open to the first page, where an ink drawing depicts a sorrowful maiden looking down on a city being swallowed by waves.

  I’ve seen him destroy cities with fire, with water, with the shaking of the earth. He destroyed Neruby with sand and wind. He destroyed Ghedda, the city in the drawing, by causing the mountain it was built on to erupt. He might have already destroyed Parthenia, if it wouldn’t risk Zhian’s life. It’s a wonder the Shaitan has kept his notorious temper in check even this long. If I fail, he’ll likely let Parthenia and all its people sink into the sea, then send his maarids to search the ruins for Zhian’s bottle.

  And Aladdin will die.

  That thought hits me hardest. Lifting my eyes, I watch him laughing with the young lords, their faces turned to him like flowers to the sun. I have felt that same draw, that mysterious pull he has on me. I’ve been feeling it for weeks now, and it’s getting harder and harder to resist. I think of him in the garden, lying on the grass, his hand brushing mine, and shudder at the pleasure this memory brings.

  I slam the book shut and set it beside me. Enough sitting around, waiting for Zhian to show himself. Looking around, I spot Prince Darian lurking nearby, swirling a bottle of wine and watching Aladdin and Caspida stroll.

  A plan unfurls in my mind, and I rise and walk to him.

  “All alone on Fahradan? That’s a shame.”

  He starts, spilling wine on his coat. He brushes at it with a look of annoyance. “Is that how you address your master? If I had a servant half so impertinent, I’d have her whipped and then cast out of the city for the ghuls to enjoy.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  He shrugs as if that’s to be taken for granted. “I’ve been thinking of ways to teach your master his place in my court.”

  “Your court? Forgive me, Majesty. I wasn’t aware I was in the presence of a king.” I eye Darian calculatingly as he glares at me, then gesture at a nearby bench in invitation. He sits beside me, a bit too close, his breath reeking of wine.

  “Why is he really here?” asks Darian.

  Grabbing his bottle, I take a deep swallow of wine before answering. “To gain the pleasure of your scintillating company.”

  With a curse, the prince suddenly grabs my wrist, his eyes fevered. “Tell me the truth, girl, or I’ll have you both thrown out of this city.”

  Pulling my hand away with a scowl, I reply sharply, “You have no power over us. We are guests of the king.”

  “The king is an idiot and an invalid. Everyone knows my father is the real ruler of Parthenia.”

  I bite back a reply, forcing myself to focus on the real goal here, not petty sniping. Taking a moment to alter the course of my tongue, I smile coyly and reply in warmer tones, “Yes, the great Vizier Sulifer, commander of the Parthenian military. He is a great warrior, from what I hear.”

  Darian’s chest swells. “He is. And everyone says I am very like him.”

  “I see.” I slide closer to him and run one finger down his sleeve, my eyes lowered. “You must have killed many jinn.”

  “More than a few,” he grunts, leaning in dangerously near. I lean back, out of reach of his questing lips.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What?” His face darkens.

  Turning away, I shrug and run my fingers through my hair. “Anyone can say he has defeated many jinn, but a real warrior would prove it. Did you know in the mountains of Ursha, the tribesmen cut thumbs from their slain enemies and wear them on their belts as trophies?”

  “That’s barbaric.”

  “The men were allowed to take one wife for every thumb. Some of them had twenty or thirty thumbs.” I glance at him sidelong. “How many jinn have you killed?”

  Darian runs a lock of my hair through his fingers, and I resist the urge to pull away from his touch. His eyes burn intently as he stands. “I will show you.”

  My chest tightens with excitement, but I hesitate.

  “Is it far?” I cast a worried look at Aladdin. I can’t afford to get too far from him and be forced to shift in front of Darian.

  The prince shrugs. “You won’t miss anything here, believe me. This festival’s more boring than a tortoise race. It’s just around the corner, anyway.”

  We slip out of the courtyard unseen, through a small door leading into the palace. Darian doesn’t let go of my hand. His grip is sweaty and too tight, but I say nothing that will distract him. I want to see what he has to show me, and hope against hope I have gambled well and am not wasting more precious hours. Time is falling sand, and it streams through my fingers.

  “This way,” says Darian, leading me down a narrow, winding stair. I worry that “just around the corner” was an exaggeration, or that Aladdin might wander off and unwittingly summon me back to the lamp. But this chance at finding Zhian is too good to pass up. As we walk, I count my steps carefully.

  . . . 64 . . . 65 . . .

  The sandstone walls echo with our passage as we descend, the darkness closing in and swallowing us up. The glimmer and light of Fahradan fade quickly, until the prince and I are alone in a dark subterranean world of black passages and dusty chambers. My sixth sense probes the emptiness of the palace’s underbelly, but my reach is blunted, the clarity of my Ambadyan sight blurred. The walls here are lined with strips of iron, the metal interfering with my thoughts, and my sixth sense is repelled back at me. I blink furiously, hoping Darian doesn’t notice my mental reeling.

  One, two, three levels—the architects of Parthenia dug deep into the earth for these foundations. The farther we go, the farther we are from my lamp, and I feel the distance stretching like a tightening rope. I haven’t explored this area before; we are far from Aladdin’s rooms and well outside the perimeter that has held me captive every night till now. I thrum with excitement and nervousness. This is the closest I’ve come yet to finding Zhian and finally securing my freedom—now my every thought turns toward not ruining this chance.

  . . . 101 . . . 102 . . .

  My stomach tightens. Any moment, Aladdin could take a few steps one way while I take a few steps the other, and my leash will snap and I will turn to smoke. I wonder if Darian notices how tense I am. He still holds my hand, too tightly for me to pull away.

  The walls are stone slabs, their faces etched with fading glyphs and symbols. Brass hooks hold burnt-out torches on the walls, but Darian manages to find one with a little oil left in it, and he lights it with a strike of the decorative knife on his belt against a bar of flint tied to the torch.

  “The old crypt,” says Darian, holding up the light. His hand tightens more around mine, and I stare at him curiously. Darian is afraid, of the dark, the deep, or the dead. As if sensing my glimpse of this vulnerability, he scowls and pulls me onward.

  “The old kings and queens are buried here. Now we lay them in tombs above ground, in the hills to the north. But the walls here are lined with iron, which makes the crypt perfect for storing our . . . special prisoners.”

  The hair on my neck stands on end. This is it. This is really, truly it—the night I find Zhian.

  And not a day too soon.

  . . . 126 . . . 127 . . .

  As everything in me screams to turn around and run back, I wonder if Aladdin has noticed me missing yet, then chide myself for even thinking of him right now. I need to focus fully on the mission at hand. I know that soon, perhaps even this very night, I will have to let Aladdin go forever. That is a thought I swallow for now, finding it too painful to touch.

  “Prisoners?” I ask, keeping my voice high and frightened. “Are you sure—”

  “You’re safe with me,” Darian assu
res me. “We’re almost there.”

  . . . 138 . . . 139 . . . If I had a heart, it would be pounding like a drum.

  He stops in front of a door made of iron, a massive thing he couldn’t possibly open on his own. But, dropping my hand, he opens a wooden panel in the wall to reveal a clever system of gears. He pulls out a handle, fixes it to one of the gears, then hands me the torch so that he can grab the handle in both hands and throw his weight against it. Darian strains and curses, and slowly the gears begin to turn. The wall hums and clicks as levers begin to work, and the door slowly eases sideways, sliding into the wall.

  When the door is open just enough for one person to fit through, Darian slides an iron bar into the gears to keep them from slipping, then turns to me with a grin.

  “Now you’ll see just how mighty we Amulen warriors are.”

  And not a moment too soon. I’m nearly sick with apprehension, the distance between me and the lamp seeming to hum dangerously. Just a few more steps. I can last that long. I have to.

  He steps inside, and I follow, a sharp pounding in my chest like a phantom heart.

  Inside the room, I can feel them all.

  Hundreds of jinn, of every kind, are trapped in small bottles of clay and bronze, glass and porcelain, set on shelves that stretch wall to wall. The room is large and high-ceilinged, the floor bare save for a table holding a heavy scroll and several quills.

  The jinn feel me enter, sense my true nature, and begin to clamor and cry out, their voices an overwhelming tidal wave. I sway, gasping a little at the impact of noise and desperation.

  Darian of course can hear none of this, and he looks pleased at my reaction. “Yes, it’s quite impressive. We’ve been bottling jinn for hundreds of years. There’s no one better at it.”

  “You—you bottle them yourself?” I ask, putting out a hand against the wall to steady myself.

  “Well . . . not me, personally. But I give orders to the Eristrati, who fight the jinn, and to the jinn charmers we imported from Tytoshi. Since I’ve been in command, we’ve bottled more than thirty jinn, just in a few years’ time.” He struts around the room, like a hunter displaying his trophies. “These are the maarids—water jinn. There are the fire ifreet, and the earth ghuls. We even have a few sila.” He waves at some tall glass bottles on a high shelf. “Very hard to catch, because they’re usually invisible.”