My hands curl into fists, and I grow as heavy as if I were made of marble, rooted to the ground. I can see no mercy, no room for bargaining in his eyes. I have known a thousand and one men like this, Habiba, and I know that he takes pleasure in my pain.
“Then make your wish,” I say in a flat tone, my eyes half lidded.
He leans forward, his gaze fervent. “I wish for all the jinn to bow to me, calling me lord and obeying my every command.”
Holding his breath, he waits, eyes glowing.
I almost want to laugh, but my spirit is still too heavy, so I simply sigh. “I told you I can give you anything in this world. The jinn are not of this world, and so they are not in my power to give.”
Sulifer’s face transforms. He is again the man who beat his son, who watched his niece defy him from her father’s throne. His fury is a swelling wave, dark and deep, rushing like a juggernaut to shore. I can see it getting larger and nearer in his eyes.
And then the wave breaks.
He bursts from his chair, face red. He raises a hand to strike me, but I dance away, shifting to smoke and rendering him powerless to touch me. So instead, he grabs an inkwell from his desk and hurls it against the wall. Black, oily liquid splatters everywhere.
“You cannot subjugate the jinn,” I say, re-forming behind him. “Do you think Nardukha would be so stupid as to let such things happen? You’re hardly the first human to try it, and you won’t be the last.”
I get some small satisfaction from seeing his frustration. Sulifer sits back in his chair to stroke his beard. The wave of anger recedes, falling back into the sea, until once again he is still and cool.
“No matter,” he says, a tremor still in his voice like an angry tic. “There are other ways.”
He falls silent for a moment, his fingers tapping and his gaze distant as he thinks. Then he picks up the lamp and slams it onto the desk.
“Back inside, jinni. I need to think.”
I am almost glad to return to my lamp. There I can sink into a fugue, trying to numb myself to the guilt and terror poisoning my spirit. He sits for some time by the light of a single candle, staring into the shadows and thinking hard.
Then, at last, he calls me out again. I hover before him, little more than a shadow myself, and wait.
“I wish to possess an army,” he begins, “more numerous than the stars, invincible to any and all forces either of Ambadya or of this world, able to overcome any enemy, requiring no sleep, food, or water, and obedient to my every command.”
Slowly my form solidifies, until I’m a girl in black robes, and I breathe in the magic of Sulifer’s wish. His will is like water, patient and persistent, dark and cool. It fills me up until I am leaking with it.
His eyes glitter in the candlelight as I walk past him, toward the balcony adjoining his rooms. It looks out to the palace gardens and the dark hills to the north. This night is blacker than most, with no moon to grace the sky. But the stars are visible, perhaps brighter for the deepened darkness.
The vizier follows me out, watching closely, as if suspicious I will betray him. He need not worry. I will grant his wish, every word of it.
“There is only one thing more numerous than the stars,” I say, looking up to the heavens. “And that is the darkness that holds them.”
I open my hands, palms up, and let the magic flow through me. It spreads and grows and thickens, dark and quiet as oil flowing across glass. In the gardens, in the hills, on the walls around the palace, shapes take form. Shadows with the aspect of men, a hundred, a thousand, a million, more. They grow and then stand, staring around with eyes inky black. Wherever there is darkness, there stands a shadow man, gripping a shadow spear and a shadow shield. They are barely visible at all, for they are the night itself.
A guard patrolling the northern wall stops, blinking at the gloom, uncertain if his eyes are playing tricks on him. He waves the torch he carries, but the shadows only slip behind him.
Sulifer is watching him.
“I give you an army of shadows, O Master,” I say to the vizier. Exhausted from the effort, I lean on the balcony rail. “And here is how you will call them. Once to summon, twice to dismiss.”
I hold out a hand, and on it forms a black ram’s horn hung on a strap of leather. Sulifer takes it, almost reverently. He runs his hands along its curling length, then puts the smaller end to his lips and blows. A deep, rich note sounds across the palace grounds, and the guards on the wall look around in confusion. At the call, all the shadow men turn and stare up at Sulifer, waiting.
“Give them a command,” I say.
He licks his lips, then starts when a shadow man appears at his elbow. The vizier looks the soldier up and down and cannot help but smile.
“Kill that guard,” he says, pointing at the man on the wall.
The shadow vanishes, and in less than a moment, a scream goes up below. The guard howls as a black spear cores him, then disappears, and he drops to his knees. His scream cuts off then, and he falls heavily.
Sulifer laughs.
“This is perfect!” he says. “This is—this is even better than the jinn!”
He turns to me, triumph bright in his eyes. “This is a force to conquer the world.”
“Yes, O Master,” I reply.
He turns back to the waiting shadows and blows his horn twice, and the shadow men vanish, sinking back into the darkness from which they were born. Twice more Sulifer summons and dismisses the shadow army, until he is satisfied no trickery is afoot.
“Well done, jinni,” he says at last. I can see he is more pleased with himself than with me. He spent hours thinking of that wish, checking it for any cracks or loopholes.
I’ll admit, it’s a fairly solid wish, as wishes go.
Sulifer turns to go inside, and I linger, looking around at the shadows that wait to spring to the vizier’s bidding.
When he commands me back to my lamp, I go with a bitter smile.
• • •
It is one hour before dawn and Aladdin’s execution.
Sulifer is fast asleep, the lamp resting beside his pillow. I drift smokily inside it, indistinct, unhappy fog, until I suddenly hear footsteps in the room. Four guards stand at the entrance to his chambers, but these steps come from the direction of the window, below which is a three-story drop.
Curious, I stir and slide against the walls of the lamp, feeling for the intruder. The footsteps draw closer, soft and slow, and a thrill runs through me when I recognize Caspida. Perhaps all is not lost.
I let my sixth sense wash over her. Her hands are still decorated with her wedding henna, but she looks far from bridal. Her black waistcoat and leggings hug her athletic form, and there are blades of every size and shape tucked into her belt, shoes, and even her tight braid.
Moving carefully, she lifts the lamp. When the bond forms between us, I am stunned at how remarkably familiar it feels—so much like being bonded to you, Habiba. Caspida hovers a moment longer over her sleeping uncle, her free hand straying to a knife at her belt.
But then there is a knock at the door, and she freezes.
“Lord Vizier?” calls a voice. “It is nearly dawn, my lord.”
She ghosts across the room, tucking herself behind the door as it slowly swings open. A guard pokes his head inside, and Caspida springs on him. She hooks an arm around his neck, plunging his head down to meet her rising knee. He drops, unconscious, and she drags him into the room. Sulifer stirs but does not wake.
Two more guards stand watch, and before they can shout out, Caspida drops one with a kick to his groin and a blow to his head, and the other with a blade across his throat. He sinks, blood running down his chest, and she steps over him, wiping scarlet specks from her cheek with a shaking hand.
Breathing a little harder, Caspida wraps the lamp in her cloak, ties the ends together, and slings
it across her shoulders before heading out into the hall. She sets off, drawing her knife from her belt.
Faster and faster she moves, until she’s running through the halls, making for the nearest exit. But then the creak of an opening door stops her short, and she sucks in a breath when Darian steps into the hall. He stiffens at the sight of the princess, and he looks around, his hand moving to his sheathed sword.
“Cas?”
“Hello, Darian.”
“What are you doing here? I’ve orders to throw you in the dungeon. Cas, they’re going to execute you!”
Caspida’s forehead wrinkles. “Cousin, surely you don’t believe these ridiculous accusations. I was fooled by Aladdin as much as anyone. More so, in fact. I agreed to marry the bastard. You think I don’t want his head as much as you?”
He bites his lip as he studies her, his gaze conflicted. “Ever since we were kids, Cas, it was supposed to be you and me.”
“I know,” she groans, rubbing her temples. “I’ve been such an idiot. My first duty has always been to our people, Darian, and I thought I was fulfilling that.” She lifts her eyes to meet his, and tears dangle from her kohl-lined lashes. “I can’t expect you to forgive me, but I must beg it of you anyway. I’ve been monstrous to you.”
“Cas . . .” He opens his arms and she runs to him, her body shaking. He embraces her tightly, one hand around her waist, the other caressing her hair. “Cas, it’s all right. Look, I believe you. I know Father will too, once we have a chance to talk about it. Everything just happened so fast today, we panicked. And you ran. Why did you run? It only made things worse for you.”
“Like you said, it all happened so fast.” She lifts her face to look at him. “I panicked too.”
“Oh, Cas.” He wraps her in his arms and kisses her hair. “This is why you need me. Ruling is difficult enough for a man—a girl like you can’t expect to carry this burden on your own.”
“You’re right,” she says softly. Her hands run down his back, gentle and inviting. “I’ve been such a child. So naïve. No wonder I fell for the thief’s lies.”
“Marry me, Cas. Forget him.”
She tenses. “You . . . you’d take me back? After everything I’ve done?”
He smiles and lifts her chin. “It wasn’t your fault, love. He manipulated you. You were alone and afraid, and he offered you strength. Naturally you were drawn to that. But he was a lie, and I am the truth. Let me be your strength. Let me help you see through the deceptions. I can protect you, Cas.”
He bends his neck and presses his lips against hers. Her eyes slide shut, and she melts into him.
“I love you, Cas,” he whispers.
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
He pulls away, his brows drawing together. “What?”
“Oh, cousin.” She cups his face in her hands, her eyes filled with pity. “You want so desperately to be loved. If you’d stop being an ass for five minutes, maybe someone could.”
He begins coughing, and his legs weaken. He topples forward, and Caspida supports him.
“You whore . . .” he gasps.
“Sh. It’ll go easier if you don’t talk.”
Darian’s lips and fingernails are turning bluer by the second, and he fights to breathe. Caspida gently lowers him to the floor, stroking his hair and murmuring consolingly as he gags and twitches. She pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the rest of the creamy red crimsonleaf poultice from her lips. His eyes fix on her, wild and frightened.
“You’ll pass out, then wake in an hour,” she murmurs. “You’ll have a terrible headache for days, but you’ll live. I could have killed you, Darian. But we were friends once, you and I, so I’ll give you this one chance.” She kisses his forehead, then bolts upright when shouting breaks out down the corridor, from Sulifer’s rooms. Dropping Darian, she flees.
Footsteps pound after her, and Sulifer’s angry shouts ring out. Torchlight begins bouncing wildly on the walls behind and ahead. Caspida is trapped.
The princess skids to a halt, her braid whipping as she looks back and forth between the guards sprinting toward her. Then she runs to a window, kicking out the carved trellis covering the opening. She gets one leg over the casement as Sulifer, flanked by guards, runs into view and calls out, “Stop her!”
Caspida throws herself out the window.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WE’RE ON THE SECOND STORY, and her landing is painful. She hits the ground and rolls, but still the impact knocks the wind out of her and wrenches her ankle. Sucking in the pain, she is up and running by the time the guards reach the window.
Arrows slam into the ground around her. Caspida ducks and runs faster, hopping on her wounded ankle.
“Kill her if you must!” Sulifer yells. “She is a traitor!”
The palace grounds are extensive, thick with night guards and with little cover to shelter Caspida as she flees across the wide stretch of grass in front of the palace. A storm of shouts fills the air, and torches flare up along the outer wall, toward which she is sprinting. The lamp bounces on her back until I am quite dizzied.
Two guards intercept her, and the princess doesn’t hesitate. She swings the cloak with the lamp inside, clouting one on the head—and sending sparks of pain dancing through me—while she uses the momentum of the swing to whirl into a kick. Her foot strikes the second guard’s jaw and sends him reeling. Without waiting to finish him off, Caspida dashes the rest of the way, grimacing with pain.
When she reaches the wall, she clenches the cloak in her teeth and begins climbing, finding footholds in the eroded mortar between the bricks. Arrows stud the wall around her, striking sparks as they clash with the stone, before falling away. The walls are nearly as high as the palace, and her climb is perilous, but she continues doggedly on.
“Hand!” cries a voice from above. Khavar and Nessa are leaning over the top of the parapet, and they grab Caspida’s hands and pull her up.
“Looks like it went smoothly,” says Nessa, frowning at the oncoming wave of soldiers.
The guards posted on this section of the wall lie senseless, hands bound with their own belts. But farther down the walls, to the right and left, others are now charging our way.
“Cas, you all right?” asks Nessa.
“Let’s just keep moving,” says the princess stonily.
Khavar already has a rope tied around the rampart, and she throws it wide. Without waiting to check if it’s secure, Caspida wraps the end of the cloak around her hands, grabs the rope, and slides down, planting her feet against the wall to slow her descent. The other girls follow.
Ensi and Raz are waiting below, furiously fending off a handful of guards. The air glitters with crimsonleaf powder, which Ensi slings in wide arcs. The quarters too close for Raz to use her bow, she makes do with a small curved scimitar.
“Hurry!” Ensi cries. “I’m running out!”
Caspida, Khavar, and Nessa drop to the ground in quick succession, just as the one remaining guard reaches Ensi and raises his sword, poised to take off her head with one strike.
Moving in a blur, Caspida whips out a knife and throws it. The blade sinks into the man’s shoulder with such force that he drops the sword and stumbles backward, screaming.
“Let’s go!” Caspida yells.
The girls cut right and race along the outer wall. When guards take position above and begin firing arrows, they dive behind an abandoned cart of cabbages.
“What now?” cries Ensi.
“We have to go south, through the city,” says Caspida.
“This is a disaster,” moans Khavar. “Poor Gao is so stressed.” She strokes the head of her snake, which emerges from her collar.
“Your snake is stressed?” hisses Nessa.
“Everyone quiet!” Caspida orders. “Get this cart moving. Stay low, and it’ll block t
heir shots.”
The girls, still crouched, grab the side of the cart and begin rolling it forward. Arrows pound into the other side and sink into the cabbages with a wet sound very much like flesh. Bits of leafy greens rain down on their heads.
“Ugh,” says Ensi. “I hate cabbage.”
Caspida hazards a look over the cart, ducking swiftly when an arrow drives into the wall above her head. “Not much farther.”
I have a sickening sense of where we are going, and trapped as I am, there is no way to plead my case, to make her see the truth. Panic begins pulsing through me. I swirl around and around, curling and twisting with dread. Stop, please, let’s talk, let’s think this through, I can help you . . .
The girls reach the wall separating the palace district from the common one and hurtle over it like a troupe of acrobats, dropping to the other side, oblivious to my cries.
Caspida glances up and down the wall. “They’ll not stop here.”
The city is waking as the girls hurry through the streets. Though the sun is still hidden, the sky is turning faintly lighter, and the smells of baking bread and brewing tea waft through the air. The girls are forced to slow their pace, to blend in to the early crowd of yawning commoners on their way to set up stalls in the market. Caspida leads the way, moving with familiarity along the alleys and side streets that bend crookedly between the looming buildings. The others keep a sharp eye out, all of them walking in a tight knot, still hidden in the predawn gloom by their dark clothing. Caspida ties the lamp to her belt so she can draw her cloak around herself, her hood low over her face.
“Guards to the left,” murmurs Khavar. “Don’t look, but they’re coming this way.”
“Have they seen us?” asks Caspida.
“Not yet. We should split up. They’re looking for a group of girls. Separately we’d have a better chance.”
But it’s too late. The guards catch sight of them, shouting out and drawing their weapons. The Watchmaidens peel away in all directions, and the princess bolts into an alley. She ducks into a doorway, swiping aside the curtain covering it and overturning a stack of pots behind it, bursting in on a startled family sharing a loaf of stale bread. A baby in the room begins to cry. Caspida holds a finger to her lips, slipping into their midst, drawing her cloak tightly around herself and covering the lamp.