“The one they call Nardukha, the Shaitan, who rules the jinn and all of Ambadya. He is as old as the gods, and none may defeat him. If he knew of the love I bear thee, swift would be his wrath. For this is the first rule of the jinn: that no jinni may love a human. For always must our allegiance be to Nardukha, and none else.”
“Then let him leave his hall beneath the earth and tell me so himself,” said the Queen. “For I do not bow to the laws of fearmongerers. He forbids this and he forbids that, but he is not all-powerful. Even the Forbidden Wish may be spoken, and there is naught he may do to stop it.”
At this the Jinni raised a mournful cry. “What dost thou know of the Forbidden Wish?”
“Thou once told me that none but the Shaitan might free thee from thy lamp, but I know it is not so. For I could wish thee free, and there is naught he could do to stop it.”
“It is true,” the Jinni replied in distress. “But every wish has its price, and the price of the Forbidden Wish is thy life. Thou must swear upon the souls of thy people that thou wilt never speak those words. If thou shouldst suffer for love of me, I would never forgive myself. We have already transgressed the law that divides man and jinn, and I fear our time together is running out.”
“Do not say such things,” said the Queen. “We have today and yesterday, and we will seize tomorrow. We will have all the time in the world if we are clever enough to take it.”
“What use is time against the might of Ambadya?”
“Dear Jinni.” The Queen smiled. “Time is the strongest magic of all.”
—From the Song of the Fall of Roshana,
Last Queen of Neruby
by Parys zai Moura,
Watchmaiden and Scribe to Queen Roshana
Chapter Nine
THE POWER HITS ME like a strike of lightning to my brain.
It radiates in glowing tentacles from Aladdin and coils up my arms and legs. It sinks through my skin and collects in my chest, a pulsing ball of white-hot energy. The hair on my arms stands on end. This feeling is like swallowing the sun. It has been centuries since I felt this much power at my disposal. Aladdin’s first wish was a mere trick, a simple reshuffling of reality. It took just a puddle of magic. This wish calls for an ocean of it.
Aladdin can’t see any of this, of course. He sees me draw a deep, gasping breath, sees my eyes grow wide, perhaps. He watches intently, his face flushed with excitement.
I turn my hands over, where the magic curls in gold patterns and sinks into my skin. Making Aladdin a prince will be tricky. No grand display of fire and explosions. No flourish or fanfare. In the old days, I could have put on a spectacle seen for leagues around—but if Aladdin is to be welcomed into the palace instead of beheaded in front of it, this must be done quietly. I sift my thoughts like sand, searching for hidden jewels.
“Take my hand,” I say.
He looks down at my open hand and winces. “What are you—”
Impatiently—I must release this magic or I’ll burst!—I grab his hand and the world spins and suddenly we are standing on the high cliff overlooking the sea. Far, far below, the waves crash into the rocks, and the moon, suspended over the dark water, seems much larger and nearer than it did in the city.
Aladdin shouts and stumbles backward, away from the edge, his face a bit green.
“What are you doing?” he gasps.
“Thinking.” I stare out at the sea, and my vision is tinged with madness. This much power is intoxicating. I can see the possibilities glowing on every surface of the world, the way a sculptor might see forms hidden in a block of stone. I can change it, mold it, melt it in whatever way I need to grant his wish. My hands itch to begin. My body hums with energy.
I extend one hand and point it at the horizon, concentrating with all my might. Far out on the moonlit sea, magic gathers. The water foams and froths. The air sings and burns. I see the threads of reality, and I grab them and twist them and weave them in new patterns. Water becomes wood; air becomes cloth. I draw the elements together and transform them.
“It’s a ship,” Aladdin breathes. He stands on the edge of the cliff now, enraptured.
“It’s your ship,” I tell him.
In moments, it is finished. The ship is made of red cedar, with three rows of oars and a tall figurehead carved in the form of a roaring lion. The sleek ram beneath it is painted black. A proper warship. A ship fit for a prince.
As the sea around the ship settles, I turn to Aladdin, who is still gaping like an open clam. “Well? Do you want to get a closer look?”
• • •
“This,” says Aladdin breathlessly, “is incredible.”
He is standing proudly at the bow, relishing in the beauty of my magic ship.
“I’m glad you like it,” I mutter. I lean weakly against the rail, my stomach churning. The moment I transported us onto the deck’s ship, I felt a wave of regret.
“Are you seasick?” asks Aladdin, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Shut up, human.”
After conjuring the ship and transferring the pair of us onto its decks, I enchanted the oars and set them rowing, but the wind is against us, and every wave strikes the hull like the slap of a whale’s tail. I’ve always hated the sea. So dark and deep and wet. It swallows things and never lets them go.
With a shudder, I flick my hand at the oars and speed us up a little.
It must look as though we’re coming into port like any other ship, which is why I conjured it at such a distance. The story goes that Prince Rahzad rai Asnam, youngest son of the Shah of Istarya, set out to explore and make his fortune. After a terrible run-in with a tribe of vicious maarids, only he and his servant, the lowly but lovely Zahra, survived. Now we limp into the Parthenian port, seeking refuge at the king’s court.
Alas. I gaze about the beautiful ship and try to decide how best to destroy it.
“Aladdin, you may want to stay close to me.”
“Why? What are you—no! Not my ship!”
“Duck!” I send a torrent of water blasting over his head to snap the mast and rip the sails. Aladdin looks on with dismay.
A few waves thrown about, some teeth marks in the planks—maarids are particularly nasty biters—and finally a gouge in the hull finish the job. I do the work quickly, fighting nausea all the while. Aladdin looks close to tears as his beautiful vessel is blasted apart.
Suitably beaten and battered, the Artemisia now lurches across the water like a drunken duck. Aladdin and I huddle against the mast and do our best to look wretched, which really isn’t difficult at all, as the rocking waves make me ill and irritable, while Aladdin is withdrawn and pensive. As the final touch, I change our clothes to expensive but torn and dirty robes of silk and damask.
Aladdin’s appearance is a problem; the princess and her handmaidens have all seen his face, and it’s unlikely we’d be able to explain that away. So I let a bit of magic sink into his features, creating a glamoured mask. It isn’t a foolproof spell—permanently altering his appearance would call for another wish. But it’s enough to discourage recognition. When the princess looks at Aladdin, she will see only a young man who may slightly resemble the thief from the Rings.
As we wait for the tide to carry us to the harbor, I drill Aladdin on his new identity, making him repeat it over and over until he throws his hands in the air.
“I’m not saying it one more bleeding time, jinni!”
Miffed, I cross my arms and look away. “I don’t want to end up murdered by one of your jinn-killers.”
“Neither do I. Look, I’ve got this all under control.”
Unconvinced, I give him a doubtful look, and he grins. “Smoky, if there’s one thing I am, it’s adaptable.”
• • •
And so we arrive in Parthenia, the travel-weary but dashing Prince Rahzad rai Asnam of Istarya and his servant g
irl. Everything happens in a whirl once we are towed into the harbor. Soldiers whisk us through the city, past gaping crowds, to the palace. There we are handed over to a group of bearded ministers, who ply Aladdin with questions while escorting him through the echoing halls. Aladdin, giving them simple one-word responses, bends his head this way and that, taking in the splendor of the Parthenian court. The palace is marble and sandstone, all smooth curves and vast, empty spaces filled with whispers and roaming peacocks. Rich carpets and tapestries add color to the walls and floor, and we pass many courtyards babbling with fountains. Nobles lurk in the corners, watching and whispering, gathering in a train behind us.
Aladdin is pulled aside and dressed in fresh clothes, fine silk and cashmere in tones of rich green and gold. I, for the most part, am forgotten, left to shadow my master in silence. I don’t mind a bit. I use this time to scan the palace, searching for some sign of Zhian, but it seems my search will not be that simple. I can sense nothing of him.
“Your Highness,” says an approaching minister, his beard long and perfectly combed, his head covered with a tall cylindrical hat of purple and gold. “I am Jalil rai Feruj, the Minister of Diplomacy here in King Malek’s court. You’re from . . . where did you say? Forgive me. The name was unknown to me.”
“Istarya,” says Aladdin. “Far to the south.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Jalil nods, but his eyes are still clouded with confusion. He beckons to a boy standing nearby with an armful of scrolls, and the boy hastens forward. Jalil selects a scroll and unfurls it, his brow knitting. “Istarya . . . Istarya . . . you must forgive me, Your Highness. My memory is so weak of late.”
I step forward and grasp the edge of the map, smiling at the minister. “If I may, my lord?”
While he is distracted, his eyes on me, the last drop of magic from Aladdin’s wish leaks from my thumb and trails across the parchment, turning to ink.
“Here it is,” I say, pointing.
Jalil looks down and blinks, his gaze settling on the tiny island at the bottom of the map. “Ah! Of course. Well, allow me to escort you to His Majesty’s throne, for he is eager to meet you.”
“Lead on, old man!” Aladdin slaps the minister on the shoulder, then, noting the stunned faces around him, coughs and attempts a bow. “I mean, um, thank you, my lord.”
The hallway to the throne room is tasteful but ornate, sculpted into a series of fantastic arches, each carved with detailed vines and leaves and supported by blood-colored marble columns. Tall windows between the arches let in sunlight that makes the stone bright with colors and patterns, revealing the delicate white veins of the deep red marble, as if the columns are made of exposed muscle.
The king’s throne room is set in the center of the palace, like the hub of an enormous wheel. We pause outside tall doors of polished teak wood carved with grapevines. On either side, stone lions as tall as three men stretch their mouths in unending silent roars, their sightless eyes glaring down at us.
The doors are opened by stoic guards with peaked helmets, and we walk into the grandest room I’ve yet seen in Parthenia. The chamber is enormous, divided into three long, narrow sections by the double rows of stone pillars that march from one end to the other, supporting a roof that vaults upward into three massive domes. Pigeons circle the space above, cutting through beams of light that pour through square holes in the ceiling, filling the air with the sounds of wings beating air, their shadows flickering across the columns. On the walls, enormous carvings depict detailed battle sequences, some of them recalling Amulen history I witnessed myself, such as the sacking of Berus and the surrender of King Madarash of the Baltoshi Islands.
My eyes fall on a bas-relief that chills me: It is of you, Habiba, standing atop Mount Tissia, Neruby burning in the background. You are on your knees, looking pious and tragic, as an ugly jinni with horns, wings, and claws crouches on your back and prepares to tear out your throat. I think that one is supposed to be me. Below the relief are carved the words “The Fall of Roshana the Wise.”
I turn my eyes away and do not look at any more of the carvings.
On a throne set on a high dais in the center of the room, flanked by tall stone gryphons painted to look startlingly real, sits the man who inherited your great legacy. Surrounded by the majesty of this grand hall and dwarfed by his stone gryphons, the king of the Amulens is small and sickly, slouched in his throne beneath heavy leopard-skin stoles. His complexion is pale, almost translucent, and his hands tremble. The yellow tinge in his eyes betrays the source of his condition: simmon smoke.
The mighty Amulens are ruled by a drug addict.
Caspida stands to one side of the throne, her hand perched on her father’s shoulder, as if she is pouring her own strength into him. She looks quite transformed from the girl who spat and sparred in the Rings the night before, though her eyes are a bit tired. She wears a gown of pale gold, with sheer red silk draped over her shoulders. Tassels hung from the hem of her dress brush the tops of her sandals, which are studded with gemstones. She regards Aladdin’s glamoured face without a hint of recognition; her eyes are cool and appraising, and a little suspicious.
I sense a flutter of panic from Aladdin at the sight of Caspida, but he calms when my glamour holds and recognition does not flare in her eyes.
As Jalil and Aladdin approach the throne, I hang back in the shadows of the pillars and watch closely. Guards stand at the base of each column, so still they might be statues themselves, and they don’t stop me from walking along the wall beneath the friezes. Other servants move in the shadows, and nobles gather in groups of four and five, talking in hushed whispers while regarding Aladdin with open curiosity. I blend in with them, a shadow myself, within full hearing and view of the dais.
The king makes an effort to sit up straighter as my master bows low before him, but his eyes are dull and uninterested. There is power in this room, but it does not sit on the throne.
The court crier, a barrel-chested man wearing a tall peaked hat, is announcing the king: “. . . Malek son of Anoushan son of Arhab son of Oshur, King of Kings, King of Parthenia, King of Niroh, of Beddan and of Mon Asur, Chosen by Imohel, Blessed by the Gods, Favored of Amul, King of the Amulens . . .” On he drones, listing a seemingly endless litany of titles, until at last he turns to face the king and introduces Aladdin.
“I present to your Exalted Majesty for your pleasure, Rahzad rai Asnam, Prince of Istarya.”
The list ends there, almost humorously brief compared to Malek’s. Aladdin, throughout the length of the arduous introduction, remained bent at the waist, as he’d been instructed by Jalil. Now he rises, face blank, and waits for Malek to speak.
Except Malek has fallen asleep.
Jalil coughs and looks down at his feet. Aladdin, reddening, starts to say something to him, but the man on the other side of the throne bends and whispers in the king’s ear, and Malek blinks furiously and looks down at Aladdin. Then the man straightens and fixes his eyes on my master, and one of his hands lingers on the side of the throne.
While Malek greets Aladdin with a formal rehearsed speech, offering him hospitality and wishing him health, I watch the man who’d awoken the monarch. The similarity between him and the king is apparent, now that I look for it. Vizier Sulifer is the heartier, stronger version of his older brother, his flesh filled out where Malek’s caves in. They have the same brow, the same arched nose, and the same round jawline—traits also shared by Sulifer’s son, Darian, though of course he is not present. It will take the king’s nephew at least a week to make the journey back to the palace. So these are the Anadredcas, the Amulen dynasty who inherited your great legacy, Habiba.
When the exchange of formal greetings ends, Malek slumps in his throne as if fatigued and lets Sulifer take over. The other men seem to accept this with relief, as if they see their king as a figurehead or a puppet. As if they are thinking, Finally, the fool is finished.
Only Caspida looks concerned for him, and she squeezes his shoulder, her eyes flickering to Sulifer as he steps forward.
Aladdin’s eyes are deceptively blank as he regards the man who killed his parents. Sulifer stands in front of the throne and stares back at him. He wears robes cut in precise military fashion, dyed deep blue and hemmed with silver. A ceremonial sword, its sheath inscribed with Amulen script, is tucked into his red sash. His head is bare, his long graying hair sweeping his shoulders, his beard trimmed short and sharp. There is a cunning in his face that makes me uneasy. Perhaps I should have shifted into a spider, to hang in Aladdin’s ear and whisper advice.
But no. If he is going to truly pass himself off as a prince, he must learn to be a prince. To think like one, to scheme like one, to look wolves like this Sulifer in the eye and be unafraid. This is a crucial moment for us both. I gave him the ship, the clothes, the story he needed to gain entry into this room. But if he is to truly convince these people of his false identity, he must do it here and now—and on his own. I can only stand in the shadows and urge him on silently. I’m adaptable, he told me. I hope he wasn’t lying. Both our fates depend on it.
Sulifer questions Aladdin about his arrival in Parthenia, and my master repeats the story yet again.
“We have not heard of this Istarya before,” says Sulifer.
“I’m not surprised,” Aladdin replies, his voice strong and clear. “It is very small, and our people do not often venture this far north.”
“But you have,” states Sulifer.
“We heard of Parthenia’s strength in fending off the jinn. Naturally I was intrigued, so I came to learn from you, if I could, how you have withstood these monsters. Your bravery and skill are unparalleled, from what I’m told. Not many cities are willing to anger the jinn, and instead they leave offerings to appease them.”
I exhale in relief, feeling a glow of pride. There is not a breath of hesitation in him, not a tremor in his voice. He is as skilled a liar as I have ever known, and I have known a very great many liars, Habiba.
The Forbidden Wish Page 8