“Already?” he groans.
“You should go change,” I say. “You’re to be wed in less than an hour, and you can’t meet your bride looking like you just rolled out of bed.”
He draws a breath as if about to speak, but then sighs wearily and returns to his chamber.
I change my garments, swirling and rearranging them into festive blue and gold silk, my hair loose and long. I watch as artful brown curlicues and flowers coil down my arms and over the backs of my hands. The henna is meant for a bride, not a jinni, and with a sigh I let it fade away.
Aladdin emerges minutes later. He wears the rich set of clothes the tailor made for him the night before: a close-fitting coat of muted gold and beige that opens in a split in the front and back, over loose red leggings, and a red cape that hangs over his right shoulder and brushes the floor in front and behind.
“Wait,” I say. I motion for him to sit, then rake my fingers through his hair, conjuring a comb of jade with a tiger handle that I use to part his hair and sweep it into a neat wave high over his forehead. So rich and dark, that hair; I long to bury my fingers in it and kiss his forehead.
“There,” I say. “Let’s have a look at you.”
He cuts a striking figure and will make a handsome groom. I ignore the pang in my stomach the sight of him causes. Let him go, I tell myself. At any moment my bond with the lamp could break, and my feelings for him must break with it. But my heart is a treacherous star, refusing to dim when the sun rises.
“How do I look?” he asks, and he strikes a ridiculous pose, watching to see if he can elicit a laugh.
“Like a fool.” I shake my head. “But a princely one.”
He takes a step toward me, a hand reaching out. “Zahra, I . . .”
“Don’t speak.” I look down, fussing with my gown. “We should go.”
“Of course. You’re right.” His reply is so soft I nearly don’t catch it.
“Just one more thing . . .” I look around the room, spot a gold spoon on the tray of tea Khavar and Nessa brought, and pick it up. I hold it in the coals of the brazier, which are still hot from the night before. In minutes, the gold is cool enough to shape. With a few quick movements, I peel away most of the gold and use the rest to form a ring. As the metal cools, the outside is impressed with the prints of your fingers, Habiba, which I wear like gloves. It seems fitting, given that the bride is of your blood. Before the metal cools completely, I use my nail to impress Eskarr glyphs into the inside of the band, representing undying love. The ancient symbols, which carry a magic of their own, glow white before fading into the ring.
“Here,” I say. “It’s all right, the metal has cooled.”
Aladdin takes the ring and turns it over. “Zahra, you’re a wonder.”
“It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”
He swallows and nods, then hands it back. “You must carry it for me.”
“I can’t.” I back away, lifting my hands in refusal. The ring bearer must be the groom’s closest friend, one who symbolically carries his deepest trust and affection. Usually that person is his brother or oldest friend.
“I want you to,” he says. “After all, this was all your idea. Please, Zahra?”
His gaze is earnest, and my eyes fall to the ring on his palm. Mouth dry, I nod and take it, closing my fingers over it protectively, feeling small and unworthy.
“We should go,” I say gruffly. “You’ve got a wedding to catch.”
Chapter Twenty-One
THE NOBLES FLOW IN WAVES toward the palace temple, watching and whispering like a flock of doves, and they part for Aladdin, who walks ringed by his guards. The crowd wears a strange blend of dark funeral clothes, in keeping with the traditional twenty days of morning for a king, and bright festive colors for the wedding.
We reach the temple to find it overflowing with people. We are barely able to squeeze in, and the looks that follow us are malevolent. There is little love for Aladdin among this court, which until an hour ago had been expecting their own beloved prince to be the one standing at the princess’s side today. But I do spy a few smiling faces among those nobles Aladdin managed to charm in his short time at the palace, and I doubt it will take him long to win over the rest—so long as his true identity goes undiscovered.
Six drummers stand in front of the temple, beating a wedding tattoo that echoes throughout the palace, announcing the arrival of the bride and groom. Around the edges of the room, acolytes swing incense on chains, filling the air with the sweet scent of jasmine and moonflower. Each door is guarded by a priest bearing a prayer staff in one hand and a scroll of holy verse in the other, to ward off evil spirits and discourage jinn from entering. Their efforts are more symbolic than anything, and I pass by without incident.
We are met by Captain Pasha, who escorts Aladdin to a dais in front of the temple, beneath a four-story statue of Amystra, the goddess of warriors and judges. Her stone wings curve around the dais, enclosing it on three sides, while her arms stretch high above her upturned face, holding aloft a sword.
Aladdin stands at the foot of the stair leading up to the dais. He tugs at his collar, his eyes roaming the crowd. Those officials loyal to Caspida stand behind him, while scribes record everything at small wooden desks set to one side of the dais. Little girls strew rose and jasmine blossoms around the temple while singing a soft, sweet melody.
With Aladdin in place, Caspida enters from the left. The princess wears a long, trailing gown of white, embroidered from neck to hem with tiny white roses, with one arm bare and the other draped with sheer silk. Her hands and wrists are covered with red henna that stands out in contrast to her olive skin. Gathered into braids beneath a simple silver band, her hair is studded with the same tiny white blossoms that are also sprinkled on the dais and down the stairs. Caspida’s handmaidens follow her, dressed in shades of green, like the leaves of a rosebush with Caspida as the flower.
Two priests step forward to officiate. One carries a pot of burning embers, and the other a sprig of an olive branch. He taps Aladdin’s shoulders and forehead with the branch, symbolically purifying him, and then casts it into the bowl, where it burns in seconds. Then the priests scatter rice around Aladdin and Caspida’s feet, a symbol of good luck and fortune to come. At last two acolytes take a length of red silk and hold it over the couple’s heads, and the priests begin intoning the words of binding, their sentences interspersed with lines sung by a young acolyte boy with a voice as sweet as honey.
Aladdin is as edgy as a beggar in a guardhouse. He watches Caspida sidelong and tries to mimic her actions. I’m half afraid he’ll run. Caspida, on the other hand, is serene as a swan, her face composed and regal. She doesn’t meet Aladdin’s eyes.
I try to be happy for them, Habiba. Truly I do. And a part of me is happy for them—I have grown fond of them both, and to see them joined makes me believe some stories do end happily. Here is one wish I didn’t twist. Two lives I didn’t ruin.
And yet . . .
Part of me feels shriveled and rejected. I am the weed cast out of the rose garden. I am the crow chased out of the dovecote. I am where I belong, and shouldn’t that be enough? Doesn’t that merit some sense of happiness or, at the least, fulfillment? Haven’t I won the more important prize—freedom?
Then why, Habiba, do I feel as if I have lost something instead?
I force the question out of my mind. There are more important things to focus on, such as the prolonged absence of Darian and Sulifer, which has not gone unnoticed by the gathered nobles. The vizier and the prince leave a hole in the assembly, and it seems I am not the only one this worries. Caspida’s handmaidens are also alert and watchful, keeping an eye on the crowd. A clumsy murder attempt in the baths cannot be their only plan, so what are they waiting for? My eyes sweep the rooftops, looking for a hidden archer, but I see nothing suspicious. Still, something pulls at me,
something that isn’t quite right.
Aladdin and Caspida repeat the words given to them by the priests, speaking vows of troth, fidelity, and love that neither truly feels. A few more minutes, and they will be wed in truth. Instead of feeling relief, I feel as if I’m about to be hanged, waiting for the floor to drop and my neck to break. My unease grows like a swelling wave, rushing inexorably to shore.
Maybe it won’t come. Maybe after his failed attempt to drown Aladdin, Darian cut his losses and ran. Maybe Sulifer decided he’d much rather spend the rest of his life fishing on the coast of Qopta than scheming of ways to manipulate this court.
Tense with unease, I turn back to the ceremony, which is moving to a close. An acolyte brings out a beautiful jade tea set. Once Aladdin and Caspida exchange rings and serve each other a cup, they will be officially wed in the sight of gods and men.
“In the presence of Imohel and these witnesses,” says one of the priests, “this man and this woman have come forth to bind their fates together. What token do you bring as a seal of this union?”
Aladdin turns to me, and I open my fingers to reveal the ring. He stares at it, his hand hovering over mine.
“Take it,” I whisper.
He swallows and picks up the ring, turning it over slowly, light flashing off the symbols carved into the metal. Then his eyes lift and meet mine.
“Zahra . . .” He closes his hand over the ring. “I can’t do it.”
My mind freezes. I open my mouth but cannot even form a thought to speak.
Aladdin turns around and draws a deep breath, lifting his chin. “I’m sorry, Princess. But this has to stop.”
The crowd breaks out into whispers, while Aladdin and the princess stare at one another with equal regret and relief. The priests exchange baffled looks.
“Your Highness, what is the meaning of this?” one asks.
Aladdin draws himself up bracingly. “Princess Caspida, I have nothing but respect and admiration for you. Truly you will be the queen this city needs. But I can’t marry you.”
The princess stands still as stone, her face unreadable. “Why not, Prince Rahzad?”
“I am sorry,” he replies. “The truth is, I am in love, but not with you.”
He turns to me, and my spirit takes flight like a flock of doves, startled and erratic. I cannot move, cannot speak, as he takes my hands in his and looks me earnestly in the eye. He presses the ring into my palm, and the gold feels as if it burns my skin.
“This belongs to you, and you alone. I’ve been so blind, Zahra. So caught up in the past that I’ve failed to see what’s happening in front of me. I’ve been such an idiot, I don’t know how I can expect anything from you. But I have to try. I have to tell the truth, and the truth is . . . I love you.”
“No,” I whisper. “You can’t.”
“I don’t care if you’re a . . .”—he pauses to clear his throat—“a servant. You’re beautiful and wild and kind, and I can’t stop thinking about you.” A sunny, foolish smile breaks across his face. “It’s wrong and stupid and wonderful, Zahra. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but here I am. I love you.”
Silence settles like a chill across the room, and we are surrounded by a sea of astonished faces. A few priests whisper to each other, looking panicked. Someone slips out the back door, perhaps to find Sulifer and tell him what has happened. Captain Pasha and his men grip their weapons and look from the princess to my master as if unsure whether they should arrest him or not.
Aladdin seems to notice none of this. He stares at me deeply, imploringly, waiting for me to speak. But I can’t. I am rigid with shock and fear and . . . if I am entirely honest, a tiny flicker of hope. My hand closes over the ring.
“Far be it from me,” says Caspida in a frosty tone, breaking the silence at last, “to stand in the way of such love. This wedding is over.” She turns to the crowd. “There will still be a feast later and dancing through the night. Priests, thank you for your service, but I believe we’re done here.”
She seems indifferent as the moon. But I can see deeper than the skin and sense she is bewildered and embarrassed, eager to get away. Her Watchmaidens flock to her, pulling her aside with murmurs of concern.
Aladdin watches only me. “I know you must think I’m an idiot,” he whispers, “but will you give me a chance? Will you let me start over?”
I back away, pulling my hands from his.
“Zahra, what’s wrong?”
“I am poison.”
His brow creases. “I don’t believe that.”
I back up until I’m on the edge of the dais, feeling like a cornered animal. He doesn’t understand, just like you didn’t understand, Habiba. Why do you humans insist upon courting destruction? Aladdin’s eyes are hurt, waiting for me to respond, but my voice sticks in my throat.
“Zahra,” he says softly, “do you love me?”
“I—” I shouldn’t. It’s wrong, it’s dangerous, it’s forbidden.
He stares pleadingly, waiting. “Zahra?”
“What of your vengeance?” I whisper, my words unheard in the noise rising from the crowd. “What of your parents? All your life you have lived for this moment.”
He shakes his head. “I’m tired of living for the dead. I want to live for you.”
“Aladdin, we can’t. You must not say such things!” I look around wildly, wondering who can hear us. If Nardukha heard these forbidden words, the price would be catastrophic. “The risk—”
“You are worth every risk. I know what I want, Zahra. Do you?”
“I—”
Suddenly a loud, brassy trumpet sounds across the temple. My skin turns to ice, and I almost expect the Shaitan himself to come roaring in. But it is Sulifer who appears, dressed in a black military coat with a sweeping cape, his dark turban adding to his already considerable height. His beard has been trimmed short, enhancing the streaks of gray that run down his chin. Behind him march two dozen soldiers, all wearing armor and helmets, bearing lances and swords. Darian slips in beside them, his face unreadable.
The vizier pauses a moment, taking in Caspida’s icy expression and my and Aladdin’s clasped hands. Then, with a grunt of dismissal, he strides down the length of the temple yard, and the ring of his and the soldiers’ boots is the only sound to be heard. He doesn’t speak or change his expression until he reaches the foot of the dais.
There he stops, his eyes fixed on Aladdin.
“Guards,” he says. “Seize this man. He is not who he claims to be.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
IN THE SILENCE THAT FALLS, I release a long, slow breath, my eyes falling shut for a moment. My spirit plummets, and I can feel everything around me start to unravel. What gave us away? Did Darian see the lamp after all?
“Use your wish,” I whisper to Aladdin, opening my eyes. “Please.”
“If I do,” he replies softly, “I’ll lose you.”
Caspida has pulled herself together; whatever emotions she’s reeling with after being humiliated at her own wedding, she hides them well.
“Uncle, stand down,” she says. “You are my kin, but I will have you banished or imprisoned if you continue this charade.”
Sulifer doesn’t even blink. “This man stands accused of murder, sorcery, and communion with jinn.”
The blood drains from Aladdin’s face, and an audible gasp sweeps around the room.
“That is ridiculous!” says Caspida. “How dare you—”
“Let him speak for himself,” says Sulifer calmly. “And let him tell us if he is innocent.”
“Of course I am!” Aladdin replies. Dropping my hands, he steps around Caspida and faces the vizier. “You’re mad.”
“Am I?” Sulifer turns to Darian and gestures him forward.
“Enough of this insanity,” says Caspida. “Guards, remove my cousin and uncle from thi
s place!”
Her guards hesitate, but Captain Pasha steps boldly forward. With a wave of his hand, Sulifer brings his own soldiers forward. They lower their lances at the captain, who falters and looks back at the princess. Sulifer and Darian don’t even flinch. They have the power of numbers, and they know it. The audience shrinks away, pressing against either side of the temple, well clear of the bared weapons.
The light in Caspida’s eyes is dangerous. Without breaking eye contact with her uncle, she motions for Pasha to stand down.
“Is it to be war between us?” she asks in a soft voice.
Sulifer raises a hand, palm up. “Let the boy prove his innocence, and I will leave this city today and never return.”
Caspida’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “And how do you propose he do that?”
“Let him be searched,” replies Sulifer calmly. “Surely you cannot object to that, for if he has nothing to hide, I shall be proven wrong in front of this entire court.”
“Very well,” says Caspida after a short silence. “Let him be searched.”
The blood drains from Aladdin’s face.
Sulifer bows, a bit too shallow to be genuine. “Thank you, Princess.”
Darian eagerly ascends the dais and steps toward Aladdin, drawing a knife as he seizes my master by the shoulder.
“You can’t seem to keep your hands off me, can you?” says Aladdin. “First in the baths, and now this. I’m flattered, truly, but my heart belongs to another.”
Darian just grins and wrenches Aladdin’s collar aside, exposing the scar on his bare shoulder. He presses the dagger’s edge against it, until Aladdin winces and blood trickles from beneath the blade.
“I knew who you were the moment I saw this in the baths,” the prince whispers in Aladdin’s ear. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner, but it doesn’t matter now. You’re finished, thief. You’ll be wishing for death before I’m done with you.” He slides a hand down Aladdin’s coat, until he reaches the lump on his hip.