The Forbidden Wish Page 3

  “Zahra, if I wished for someone to die, could you do it?”

  Outwardly, I am stone, but inside I rock like a stormy sea. I loathe this wish more than almost any other. It is cruel and cowardly, and I reevaluate this boy thief. There is a darkness in him I hadn’t seen. “I could do it, but the price will be high.”

  He swallows, his eyes deep and haunted. “What’s the price?”

  “I don’t know. But you’ll find out soon enough, I think. Will you wish this Darian dead?”

  “He deserves it,” Aladdin whispers.

  “Then what are you waiting for? Go on, Master. Say the words. Wish a man’s life away.”

  He averts his gaze. “You don’t have to put it like that.”

  “Isn’t it the truth?” I stand up and walk to the top of the dune, sending a river of sand running down the side. Aladdin, panicking, gestures for me to get down.

  So he wants to make a death wish, does he? Wants me to do his dirty work, taking out his enemies while he sits in the shadows? Not if I have anything to say about it. I stand in full view of the camp below and say loudly, “Here we are, Aladdin. Now is your chance. Say the words—it isn’t hard. I wish, I wish . . .”

  “Zahra! Get down!”

  But it’s too late. I’ve been seen. The men below start shouting, and their steel sings as they pull it from their sheaths. They call for me to stop.

  Aladdin hurries to the top of the dune, bundling his cloak under one arm so that it doesn’t tangle his legs. With his other hand he pulls the lamp from his belt.

  “You insane creature!” He skids to a halt, cursing at the sight of the men as they hastily mount their horses. “And to think I was starting to like you!”

  I sweep a hand through the air. “There he is. Your mortal enemy! So go on. Make the wish!”

  “I—” He meets my eyes, his face drained of color.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Below us, the men turn their horses toward us. They’re led by the prince, who’s wielding a curving scimitar.

  “Aladdin. They’re nearly on us! You’d better make up your mind!”

  He looks from the soldiers to me, his mouth open but no wish on his tongue. Ignoring the men galloping toward us, I seize Aladdin’s cloak and pull him close. His panicked gaze locks with mine.

  “Decide,” I say. “Decide now. What kind of man are you? Are you really the sort who wishes death on his enemies from the shadows?”

  “I wish . . .” He stops, licks his lower lip.

  “Zahra, get down!”

  Aladdin throws himself across me, and an arrow that had been speeding toward my heart strikes him in the shoulder. With a cry he falls, sliding down the dune, and the lamp tumbles from his grasp.

  In an instant, I lose control of my body. My flesh turns to smoke, and I am sucked through the air, pulled into the lamp’s spout, and dumped at the bottom. There I swirl around and around, scarlet smoke, throwing my sixth sense as far and wide as I can.

  My lamp has rolled to the bottom of the dune, near Aladdin. He scrambles toward me, and I feel the pain of his shoulder radiating from him in hot, angry spikes. But before he can reach me, they are upon us. With a pounding of hooves the riders swarm around us, their camels heaving and blowing foam. They are all indistinct shapes hovering around me, sensed rather than seen, as I push myself to my limits to follow the events as they rapidly unfold.

  The riders circle us and shout over one another excitedly, maintaining a small distance from the lamp and herding Aladdin away from it. He curses them, and I sense him swaying with pain from his wounded shoulder.

  “Silence!” thunders a voice.

  The men halt their camels and fall quiet as one of the riders dismounts. I cannot sense his appearance, but I feel the vibration of his steps. When he speaks, his voice is young and melodic. “I will give you this, scum. You are slippery as a shadow. I might even offer you a job if I weren’t about to cut your throat.”

  “Darian.” Aladdin’s tone is strained, but mockingly civil. “Took you long enough to catch up.”

  “That’s Prince Darian, thief.”

  “What did your father say when he found out I stole your precious magic ring? Right off your finger as you slept! Hey, boys, did you know your prince snores like an old woman?”

  Even through my bronze walls I can hear the loud smack as Darian backhands Aladdin, throwing him to the ground. I feel a surge of heat as my lamp is lifted from the sand. Curious fingers explore the bronze surface, tracing the sensual curve of the long tapered spout.

  Darian sniffs, and his fingers tighten around the lamp. His pulse hammers at me, echoing through the small space. I huddle against the wall and press my hands over my ears. “For something so powerful and priceless, it’s quite an ugly thing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s worthless,” says Aladdin. “Just an empty relic.”

  “For all the good it did you, it might as well be. Let’s see . . . The stories always said . . .” He begins to rub the lamp, and as easily as exhaling I shift to smoke and stream out for the second time this night. My new master lets out a long, appreciative sigh as I swirl into the air, a muted display compared to my first one for Aladdin. I am a little disappointed in the boy of the streets for losing me so quickly.

  I coalesce into a tiger as white as the moon, crouched on the sand before this Darian. He is not much older than Aladdin, but his face, though handsome, is rounder and softer.

  Aladdin is down on one knee before him, his hand pressing his cloak to his shoulder. He has yanked out the arrow, and it lies on the sand beside him. Aladdin’s face is pale, but his eyes burn. He watches me silently.

  “Tremble, mortal,” I say in a gravelly tiger voice, my eyes flickering away from the old master and to the new. “For I am the jinni of the Lamp—”

  With a wild cry, Aladdin suddenly lunges up and makes a desperate grab for the lamp. Before he can make it, one of the other riders—the archer—swings his bow and clouts Aladdin on the ear, knocking him down again. Quick as a snake, Darian is on him, kicking him in the stomach and then roughly stepping on his injured shoulder. Aladdin hisses and seems to nearly faint, but hangs ruggedly on, trying to grab Darian’s ankle with his other hand. The prince laughs at this feeble effort and kicks him again, this time in the chest. With a grunt, Aladdin curls up and spits blood on the sand.

  I watch like a statue, telling myself it doesn’t matter, that none of this matters, that I can’t do anything anyway. And why should I feel sorry for this boy? I do not know him. I should not care. But I wince as Darian kicks him one last time just for spite.

  He didn’t make the wish.

  They could kill him, but still he didn’t make the death wish.

  Then the prince stands over Aladdin, breathing heavily, his eyes going from me to the injured boy. He leans over, pulling the ring off Aladdin’s finger. He tosses it high before catching it and slipping it into his pocket, and then he spits on Aladdin.

  “I’ll take that back, you dirty, thieving bastard.” He grabs Aladdin by his shirtfront and hauls him to his knees. Aladdin’s head lolls on his shoulders, but he manages to glare at the prince.

  “Who told you about the ring?” Darian demands. “Why did it work for you and not me?”

  Aladdin only laughs, though it sounds strangled. The fire does not fade from his eyes. Darian pulls a curved dagger from his sash and presses the blade against Aladdin’s throat.

  “Go on, then,” Aladdin says through his teeth, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Do it. Get your hands dirty for once. But be careful. Your father’s not here to clean up after you.”

  “You’re not worth another minute of my time. Count yourself lucky, bastard. Nobody steals from me and gets off this easy.” He digs the blade into Aladdin’s neck, drawing blood, and I tense and look away. I have seen thousands of men die, Habiba,
but murder always makes me feel cold and hollow. How cruel humans can be. I am sad for this thief. His spirit is strong and wild, but it seems he is lost.

  He doesn’t have to be.

  The thought comes out of nowhere, sounding so much like you I almost believe your ghost is standing behind me. I look back at the thief, struggling against the prince’s blade.

  There is something of you in him, Habiba. A certain unyielding steel. He took an arrow for me.

  And you know I never could resist stirring up trouble.

  I rise on all four paws and brace myself, even as my mind revolts. What are you doing, you stupid, stupid jinni? You’ve been down this road before—you know this will end in disaster! Remember Roshana? Remember the war?

  But I’m committed now. I roar mightily at the prince, startling him enough that he lets go of Aladdin before he can slice the thief’s veins. Quick as lightning, Aladdin throws himself backward, flinging sand into Darian’s eyes. The prince cries out and stumbles, flailing blindly with the knife. His men shout and dash forward, but not before Aladdin snatches the lamp from Darian, dodging the prince’s swinging blade.

  I feel the power of possession shift from prince to thief, and I go dizzy. Changing masters so quickly is disorienting as my alliances reverse and the connection between master and jinni collapses and re-forms, until Aladdin and I are bound once more.

  As a half dozen swords come swinging at his head, Aladdin cries out, “I wish to go home now!”

  Chapter Four

  FOR A MOMENT IT ALL FREEZES: The moonlight flashing on the swords swinging at Aladdin’s neck. The prince’s roar of anger. The wide, reckless hope in Aladdin’s eyes.

  In that eternity between heartbeats, I think.

  I dream.

  I create.

  Time slips back into motion, and I rise from tiger to girl, dressed in crimson silk, my face veiled. I lift my hands. The blades deflect off thin air, bouncing away and throwing the men off balance. Ignoring them, I slide seamlessly into the next movement. The will of this boy thief flows in golden streams. It is the thread with which I weave, the colors with which I paint, the element with which I create.

  Sand begins to rise from the ground. It coils and swirls, making Aladdin’s robes flutter. I summon the wind and charm it, sending it spiraling around my astounded master. Into the air I weave the ancient songs of the people of Ghedda, who lie buried now beneath the cold ash of the Mountain of Tongues.

  The force of the spiraling wind throws the prince’s men wide, and they go sprawling on the ground. Darian falls to his knees and struggles to stay upright, a hand in front of his face as he snarls in rage.

  I slip inside the whirlwind and stand facing Aladdin, who stares at me with eyes like twin moons. He is half dazed, the lamp clutched tightly in his hands. Blood runs down his neck and from the corner of his mouth.

  Wishes are born in the will of men and women, and it is the true and pure source of power all humans hold. Few realize it is there at all. I remember your will, Habiba: You shone like the moon, a sly gleam in a dark sky, secret and intemperate. Aladdin burns like the sun, driving away every shadow and warming the sands. I draw on his will, holding it up like a torch in the dark, lighting the way. I close my eyes and follow the thread of his thoughts with my mind’s eye.

  I glimpse a dark street, puddles of moonlight on the cobblestones. The smell of salt and smoke, canvas awnings fluttering softly in the midnight wind. Less a point on a map and more a region of the soul, but it is a path I can follow.

  I open my eyes and clap my hands once.

  The desert bends away and the horizon draws near, and in a heartbeat, Darian and his soldiers vanish, left behind as Aladdin and I cross through impossible space. I draw the land up like fabric pinched between my fingers, and thread Aladdin and myself through like a sharp needle. Aladdin’s eyes stay locked on mine, as his hair and cloak whip in the wind. Tiny grains of sand bead his lashes. He holds his breath, his body rigid, his hands clamped tightly around the lamp.

  Without moving, we pass through desert and sky, through sand and stone, through a mountain rising spectrally in the dark. Mount Tissia. When last I saw it, half a millennium ago, it was bathed in the bloodlight of dawn. You and I stood on its summit, Habiba, and faced the vast armies of the jinn as they rushed to destroy us.

  Then the mountain shrinks behind us and a city appears ahead, a twinkle of soft light on the edge of the vast Maridion Sea. Aladdin’s Parthenia. The city is roughly egg-shaped, divided into districts by high walls and cut through the center by a river running from the northwest, toward the great River Qo and the mountain kingdoms beyond.

  With a soft exhalation, I release what little magic is left in me, and the world slows to a halt. The wind and sand fall away, leaving Aladdin and me standing as if we had never moved at all. We have made a journey of weeks in a matter of seconds.

  I have brought us to a small rocky slope beside the river, north of the city. From here, we can look down toward Parthenia. The city glitters in the night, and I can make out the bobbing torches carried by the watchmen atop the wall. To the east, across the sea, dawn is beginning to break, the horizon a rose-gold line.

  Aladdin starts, sucking in a sharp breath, as if he’s just surfaced after being immersed in water.

  “That was . . .” he begins, then his voice trails off. He looks down at the lamp, and I see that he has truly realized just how immense its power is.

  I point at his wounded shoulder and the cut on his neck. “Wish for it, and I can heal you.”

  “This scratch?” he scoffs. “It just needs a little cleaning. Now what? Isn’t there some kind of price I have to pay?”

  “Just wait for it,” I say, folding my arms and watching him.

  He frowns and starts to reply, only to retch instead, his skin turning ashen.

  “And there it is,” I sigh. “Moving instantly from one place to another almost always results in losing one’s dinner. Not a bad price, compared to most I’ve seen. It’ll pass soon.”

  “I haven’t had any dinner to lose,” he groans.

  He takes a step toward the river but staggers, and I move quickly to his side and slip an arm around him. He stiffens at my touch, nearly pulling away, but he is too weak. I help him to the water’s edge, and with a wince he eases himself down beside it and leans in to drink from his cupped hand. He is shaking too much, and the water spills.

  “Damn it,” he mutters, then laughs huskily. “This is so embarrassing . . .”

  He faints, his hand falling into the water, his cheek planted on the wet sand. His skin is ashen and hot to the touch.

  With a sigh, I look around at the empty landscape. The dunes of the Mahali are far behind us; here the land is rocky and stubbled with wild olive trees and twisting cedars. Somewhere in the underbrush, a jackal barks twice. Moonlight filtering through the trees turns the river into flowing silver.

  The lamp is still hanging on his belt—a stroke of luck. If he’d dropped it when he fainted, I’d have been sucked inside until he awoke or someone else picked me up and set me loose again. As long as it remains on Aladdin’s person, and as long as he remains alive, I am bound only by the invisible perimeter that surrounds the lamp. One hundred forty-nine paces. I have measured it many, many times.

  I turn Aladdin onto his back and tug off his tunic and cloak, until he’s wearing only his loose trousers and leather boots. His shoulder is crusted with blood, and the skin around his wound is sticky. I dip his cloak in the water and gently dab at his skin, my eyes wandering over his chest and stomach, looking for any other injuries.

  Warmth rushes to my cheeks as my fingers come delicately to rest on his bare skin, and I chide myself for my foolishness. I have seen a thousand and one boys, Habiba, many in less clothing than this, but I have never been so foolish as to blush.

  Aladdin groans softly, and I snap
my eyes back to his face, but he remains unconscious. After cleaning his shoulder, I grimace and plunge my fingers into the wound, locating the arrow tip and drawing it out. Aladdin’s eyelashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

  I stanch the wound with a piece of cloth torn from his cloak, then rip off the hem to bind it. The arrow didn’t go deep, and if he can keep the area clear of infection, it should heal well. The cut on his neck, though wide, is shallow and already clotting. I wipe it clean and press a cloth to it. He doesn’t stir again, and I sit back, my legs folded.

  Just as the sun begins to rise, I hear a rustle in the rocks behind us, and a prickle runs up the back of my neck. I stand and turn, staring at the hillside, but see nothing. A wind, sharp with salt off the sea, rattles the branches of the olive trees. I watch for a long moment, fearing wolves or jackals roaming the night. Few are the beasts I have cause to fear, but wolves and all their cousins are no friend to jinn. They hunt us ruthlessly, bearing a hatred we return in equal measure, and they have been known to bring down ghuls in their prime. I hear no feet padding along the ground, no howls cutting the night, and relax a little.

  But when I turn around again, I freeze, my stomach clenching.

  A little girl stands directly in front of me, her hair long and tangled, her eyes milky white. She wears a tattered gray tunic and nothing else. Sores and cuts mar her tiny bare feet. I would feel sorry for her—if she were in fact a little girl. But one look at those sightless eyes, and I know that though she may once have been human, her soul is long gone.

  “Ghul,” I whisper.

  The girl bares her teeth in a smile that comes across as more of a grimace. When she speaks, it is in the tongue of the jinn, which no human can hear: Jinni.

  The ghul hisses, her breath hot and reeking like decayed flesh. I reach out with my sixth sense and feel her reaching back, her thoughts probing like tentacles. At once I retreat, sealing my mind to it, but that quick mental glance was all I needed to recognize her. We jinn know one another by the patterns of our thoughts, the way humans use facial features. Our names are like the meaning behind names, sensations and images rather than words, communicated by thought and not voice. I recognize the ghul as Serpent-Scale, Water-Drips-in-Darkness, Echoes-in-the-Cave. A high-ranking jinni . . . and also one of those present the day you and I fell, Habiba. Before then, she used to haunt the mountains in the north, gobbling up stray children. The northerners called her Shaza—“toothed one.”