Blood Passage

by Heather Demetrios

  “Let me manifest a real rope for you when I get out of here,” she called down. “I don’t want this thing to disappear on you.”

  He waved to show he’d understood and Nalia turned back to the dawn sun that grew brighter the higher she climbed. Its rays splashed across the amethyst walls of the cave, surrounding Nalia in glittering violet light. She couldn’t look down, didn’t want to see how far the fall would be if she slipped. It was terrifying, the height, the knowledge that she had to trust a somewhat psychotic, dead ancestor to get her out of the cave alive. Then: a breeze—wind flowing into the cave, carrying the scent of the awakening earth, of outside, of freedom. She was almost there, so close. Her master was dead at the bottom of the chasm, everyone she loved was still trapped inside, but Nalia was rising, higher and higher.

  The last rung.

  Nalia pulled herself out of the darkness, and into the light.

  43

  THEY WERE IN THE DRA VALLEY IN THE MIDDLE OF A palm forest, hundreds of miles from the Erg Al-Barq, where Nalia had channeled the lightning. The fanlike trees grew in every direction, as far as Nalia could see. A stream gurgled nearby. Succulent dates hung off the branches and lush vegetation grew at her feet. It felt as thought she’d risen from hell and entered the Garden of Eden.

  Zanari was the last jinni to leave the cave. She hauled up the rope ladder Nalia had manifested, then bent down and kissed the earth before crossing to where Nalia stood in the shade of a palm. Zanari clapped her on the back, beaming. “You’re officially a free jinni. How does it feel?”

  Nalia took in their surroundings, her heart a collage of emotions. So much had happened in the cave, more than any of them could ever have anticipated. “Good,” she said. “But it’ll feel even better once I kill Calar.”

  “How about tonight?” Zanari asked, her eyes mischievous.

  Nalia grinned. “Works for me.”

  The hole that opened into the cavern began to close. The ground shook as the earth crumbled in on itself, concealing the world beneath its surface. Nalia turned away, thinking of Malek’s body lying in the cave’s depths, with only Haraja’s remains for company. She hoped her fire had released him. She couldn’t bear the thought of him trapped down there, his ghost forever seeking a way out.

  And suddenly it was too much: Malek, the ring, and everything that had come before. It threatened to suffocate her, all this loss and power.

  “I need a minute,” she said to Raif. “Come find me after you contact your mother.”

  Now that they were out of the cave, Raif would be able to see how the tavrai were doing. Zanari was already sitting in a circle of earth, using her voiqhif to track the Ifrit. He nodded and rested a hand on her arm before joining the others.

  Nalia walked, then ran, blindly, weaving between palm trees and shrubbery. She didn’t know where she was going, just needed to be alone, gods it had been so long since she’d been alone. She halted at the bank of a river lined with fragrant palms, staring.

  Bashil shrieks as a school of rosefish shoot between his legs. He loses his balance in the river and falls in, then looks up at Nalia, shocked.

  She laughs with her mouth open, tasting the sky. Then she pulls him up so that the water is once again around his knees. The air is warm, the sun hot on their backs.

  “You’ll never catch one if you’re scared of them, gharoof.” She bends down and sets her hands a breath above the water. She is Marid now, using her power with the water to coax the fish back.

  Bashil stares, mesmerized, at the churning river that has gone suddenly still beneath his sister’s palms. “How can you do that?”

  She smiles. “Purple eyes, remember?”

  He reaches out, one tiny hand on her back for balance while the other skims the surface of the water.

  The memory cut deep and, once again, Nalia saw the chiaan spill out of her brother’s dead body, his spirit evanescing. Nalia wanted to crumple to the ground, to rage at the gods, to go to sleep and never wake up. Before the lightning, before the dream last night, maybe she would have. But the dead empress’s words rang in her head like the solemn toll of a bell:

  Long live the empress.

  Raif had said the very same thing to her, just before he nearly died to save Nalia’s life. They hadn’t talked about it, but the memory lingered, ever present. Why would the leader of the Arjinnan revolution have those be his last words?

  Nalia could still feel the weight of the crown on her head, a phantom circlet of amethysts worn by the Ghan Aisouri for centuries, even by Antharoe herself. In the dream, she’d had no choice—the crown had had a will of its own, forcing itself upon her. Though Nalia couldn’t explain how or why, she knew something had been set in motion, something vast and far beyond her control. The Nalia Aisouri’Taifyeh who had walked into the cave was not the same one who climbed out of it.

  Empress. Empress.

  No.

  Never.

  What was she thinking? The last thing the jinn wanted was another empress. And it was the last thing Nalia ever wanted to be. It was laughable, the idea of her sitting on the throne. A sad, sick joke that after throwing her realm into ruin she would be the last one standing.

  Nalia slipped off her clothing and waded into the river. The water was too cold, but she didn’t care. It felt good to bathe in sun-dappled water, to feel the wind on her face. There wasn’t a human in sight, but there was life everywhere: birds called to one another and small animals rustled through the grass on the riverbank. It had been so deathly quiet in the cave, the only creatures inside it intent on killing them. Nalia drank the air in sips, then gulps, the memory of the cave’s closeness all too fresh in her mind. It had reminded her of all those times that Malek had put her in the bottle. Not being able to evanesce from the tomb-like cave, trying not to panic at the thought of a whole desert lying on top of her . . .

  There was the sound of stomping through the brush and then Raif’s voice, calling her name.

  “Nalia?”

  She hoisted herself out of the water, but instead of putting on the gray mourning rags she’d worn in the cave, she manifested a simple purple tunic, black leggings, and knee-high black boots. She wasn’t ready for Ghan Aisouri leathers yet, but the sawala she’d worn in the palace as her everyday uniform would do. As she got closer to going home, she could feel the realm reclaiming her, bit by bit.

  Home. The word wrapped around Nalia and she went still, basking in it. Home. She could go right now. Right now. She was a free jinni, all her obligations fulfilled. She grasped Solomon’s sigil with her fingers. What would it be like to return to Arjinna, with the lightning inside her and the sigil around her neck?

  “Nal?”

  She turned. Raif was striding through the palm forest, his face lined with worry. He stopped when he saw her by the river, the worry dissipating a bit as he took in her wet hair and new clothes.

  “Ready to go home?” he asked softly.

  His eyes were red from lack of sleep and the thick stubble on his face was practically a beard. In the light of day, she could see how much he looked like his father. It was strange to be in love with a boy that so resembled the man she’d been taught to hate.

  “I’ve been waiting for three years,” Nalia said. “Yes, I’m ready.” But was she? Her stomach twisted at the thought of the tavrai. Would they accept her, or reject her on sight? She frowned.

  “It’ll be okay,” Raif said, as if he’d heard her thought. But his voice was strained.

  Nalia nodded. “I know.” That was a lie and they both knew it. “How’s your mother? The tavrai?”

  Raif looked away. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “She . . . she didn’t answer when you—”

  “No.”

  Gods, please don’t let her be dead. But it was the only explanation for hahm’alah not working—unless Raif’s mother was unconscious or ill, as Bashil had been before Calar. . . .

  Nalia wrapped her arms around
him, trembling. “Don’t give up hope yet,” she whispered.

  When would it ever stop?

  Raif’s arms stayed at his side as his forehead dropped to her shoulder. She gripped him tighter, as though she could somehow hold him together, this broken boy who’d lost so much already. After a few moments he straightened up and stepped away. He’d been a soldier nearly all his life. Loss—even one this monumental—was something he’d been trained to accept.

  “We should go,” he said. “The Dhoma are anxious to see their families.”

  As he started back into the palm forest, Nalia grasped his hand. “Hey.” He turned around. “When we get home, Calar won’t know what hit her.”

  His eyes settled on the ring around her neck and Nalia stepped closer. “Once she knows you have the ring, she’ll have to stand down,” she said. “And if she doesn’t, then I’ll make her. I’m more than happy to do that. We won’t need to use it, Raif.”

  “Actually, I thought of something that might work even better,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

  “There are two thousand jinn in those bottles, right?”

  “Assuming they’ve all survived, yes.”

  His eyes sparked and he got that devil-may-care look that she’d fallen for. “That’s an army.”

  Nalia sucked in her breath. “You want them to fight for the revolution.”

  He nodded. “And with Anso’s powers—you saw what she did to Haraja—and the fawzel for spying, Noqril’s invisibility . . . and with you, of course . . . Nal, we could really win this thing. The ring notwithstanding.”

  “Raif, these jinn won’t want anything to do with Arjinna,” Nalia said gently. “Dhoma means ‘the forgotten,’ remember? The Aisouri—everyone—abandoned them. The last thing they’re going to want to do after nearly three thousand years trapped in a bottle is fight a war they don’t care about.”

  “But look at it this way: if we win the war, then all the Dhoma have a peaceful homeland to return to,” he said. “They won’t have to be stuck on Earth, living in the middle of a desert. They wouldn’t be fighting for us; they’d be fighting for themselves.”

  “And what happens when the Dhoma in the bottle see this ring?” Nalia held up the sigil. The diamond glittered in the sunlight, throwing flecks of gold across Raif’s skin. “Do you think they’re going to trust anyone who thinks this is an acceptable weapon to fight with?”

  “What about Samar and the Dhoma in the camp?” he said, ignoring her question. “Let’s say the jinn in the bottles are too weak to fight right away. Samar and his people aren’t.”

  Nalia sighed. “He’s already said that the revolution isn’t his war. We can’t force them to fight.”

  Raif’s eyes flicked to the ring and Nalia pushed it under her tunic. “Raif. We can’t force them,” she repeated.

  All Raif would have to do was slip the ring on his finger and he’d have every jinni on Earth under his command. The thought was terrifying, even if she did trust him.

  He shook his head. “I know. I would never make them.” He leaned against a palm tree, his arms crossed. “If the Dhoma want to stay on Earth, fine. It’s a free realm. But if they want to be welcomed back in Arjinna, then they need to fight, too. They’ve remained on the sidelines long enough.”

  “It is not for you to decide who is and who is not welcome in Arjinna,” Nalia said. “I agree with you that they should fight. But they’re our people just as much as Zanari or the tavrai.” As she spoke, she felt something within stir, a slumbering part of herself that was finally awakening. “If the Dhoma decide they want to come home, we won’t turn them away.”

  Raif looked at her for a long moment, then inclined his head, relenting. “When you talk like that,” he said softly, “you sound like an empress, you know.”

  That’s because I am one. The thought startled Nalia and she pushed it away. Hala l’aeik, the dead empress had said the night before: It is the will of the gods.

  No, she thought. I make my own destiny. But she wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “Yesterday,” Nalia began, hesitant, “what you said to me before . . . before you were nearly the Blood Passage . . . I’ve been trying to figure it out. I don’t understand.”

  The wind swept through the palms and the sound was like hundreds of silk gowns spinning on the palace’s dance floor.

  “I can’t explain it,” Raif said, his voice suddenly strained. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

  “Me too,” she said, quiet. Tread softly, she thought, as Raif pushed off from the tree and began pacing. She’d never seen him so agitated. “If you don’t want to talk about it now—”

  “No, we should.” He sighed. “I had this sudden, I don’t know, clarity. It was so obvious that you, that you’re . . .” He glanced at her, his eyes confused . . . scared. “I used to hate the idea of you wearing the Amethyst Crown. But sometimes I think . . .” He stopped, turned away from her. “Gods, listen to me. The tavrai would string me up if they heard me talking like this.”

  “Come.” She tugged on his hand, pushing away the disappointment that threatened to overtake her. This was a conversation for later, after they’d rested and eaten. “The others are waiting for us.”

  What had she been expecting him to say? What had she wanted him to say?

  When they entered the clearing above the cavern, the Dhoma were deep in discussion.

  “It’s bound to be extremely disorienting at first,” Samar was saying. “We must do everything we can to help the jinn once they evanesce from their bottles. Phara.” He turned to the healer. “You might have a lot of work to do. I’m not sure how being in those bottles for so long will have affected our ancestors.”

  “I’m up for it,” she said.

  As Nalia and Raif joined the circle, Noqril clapped his hands. “Well, the lovers have finally joined us. Now we can all go home.”

  Nalia shivered at the sound of the word. Home.

  She was almost there.

  Don’t think about her.

  Raif wouldn’t grieve his mother. Not yet. First the ring, then home. There’d be time to mourn later, if the gods had truly taken her from them. He needed his focus now more than ever. Grief was how you made mistakes, how you fell into traps. He needed to be ready for Calar.

  Raif held on to Nalia’s hand as they evanesced to the Dhoma camp. It was the first time she’d been able to evanesce since losing her chiaan. He knew she’d be fine, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He wondered, as he held her hand in his, how much longer he’d be allowed to do this. If she really was the empress, what did that mean for him? For them?

  The air filled with the smoke of every caste. In seconds they were standing on Dhoma land.

  Or what was left of it.

  Raif stared. The desert floor was littered with all that remained of the camp: a lone shoe, a broken sitar, a crushed lamp. The air smelled like Ithkar—fire and death. In the distance, he could see the blue of the lake, little more than a pond now that there weren’t any Marid to ensure its continued existence.

  It was hard to believe how final the carnage was.

  Nalia’s hand slipped out of his as she fell to the sandy dune they’d evanesced onto. “Because of us,” she whispered to herself.

  He remembered the first words she’d said to him, after she’d woken up in Phara’s tent: You should have let me die.

  There was nothing he could say that would assuage her guilt. Though it wasn’t Nalia’s fault, the camp had been ransacked because they’d harbored the last living Ghan Aisouri and the leader of the revolution. If anything, Raif was to blame. He’d brought her here, made a deal with the Dhoma. Raif placed a hand on her shoulder and she gripped it, leaning into him.

  All around him, their Dhoma companions grieved. Anso and Phara clung to one another, weeping. Samar and Noqril cursed as they walked the perimeter of the camp, searching for something—anything—to tell them what had happened. Sunlight ski
mmed the dunes and the wind gusted the fine sand into the air. It was as if the desert had consumed the camp.

  “Captured or killed?” Zanari said quietly, coming to stand beside him.

  “My guess is captured,” Raif said. “Otherwise, the Ifrit would have left the bodies here.”

  The Ifrit never burned their victims, preferring to let them wander as ghosts for eternity rather than giving them peace in the godlands.

  “All those people . . .” Nalia said. “Gods, so many children.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Zanari said, her voice flat.

  Raif squeezed her shoulder, and she rested her hand on his before walking across the dune’s ridge. She settled onto the sand, gathering it around her for more energy. Raif hoped having a task would hold her together for the time being.

  “My sister will be able to tell you what she can see,” Raif said to Samar when the Dhoma leader returned from his inspection of the area where the camp had once stood. “I’m so sorry, brother.”

  Samar nodded. “Can you stay on Earth for one more night?” he asked. “There is, I think, much to discuss. And several bottles to open.” He seemed to have aged in the past few minutes; the lines in his weathered face had carved deeper into his skin, his Marid eyes heavy with despair.

  Raif exchanged a glance with Nalia. He knew she would never abandon these people. It killed him to wait even a second to go home, to find out whether his mother was dead or alive, but did he have a choice? He thought of Samar’s wife, Yezhud, and he nodded as he gripped the Dhoma’s shoulder. It was going to be a long night.

  “You’re not alone,” Raif said.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Friend. Yes, somehow that was what they’d become to one another. It was hard to believe Raif had been Samar’s prisoner not that long ago.

  Samar turned to the rest of the group. “Let’s manifest what we need to camp for tonight, and then we shall see what we can do about getting our people back. And if they are . . . gone forever . . . we will avenge them. Every last one.”