The Forbidden Wish

by Jessica Khoury

  “The scroll I was reading talked about it. I wondered if it was true.” He turns around, leaning against the parapet, his arms folded.

  I sigh and sit on the warm stone floor, my back against the potted lemon tree. I pull a fruit that dangles at my elbow and turn it over in my hands.

  “Not all of them. The oldest ones were born jinn, but most of us were . . . adopted. Long ago, there were only two realms: that of the gods—the godlands, as you call them—and that of the jinn: Ambadya. The jinn were the gods’ first creation, and they made them powerful and proud and magnificent.”

  A yellow butterfly lands on my knee, and I pause a moment, watching it as it rubs its legs over its face before flitting off again.

  “And?” Aladdin prods.

  “For many ages the jinn lived in peace. There were the maarids, of the water, small, lovely, petty things. There were the ifreets, creatures of fire, who were few in number but great in power. There were the ghuls, creatures of earth, who even in those days were the most despised of the jinn. They lived in caves and holes, like rats, but were mostly harmless as they could never work together. There were the sila, jinn of the air, rarely seen by the others because they spent most of their lives drifting in the sky, invisible and secretive. And most powerful of all, there were the shaitan, masters of all elements, lords of all the jinn. In those days, Ambadya was much like your world: rich with color and life, beautiful and vast and wild.”

  Aladdin sits beside me, his shoulder against mine. “Everything I’ve heard describes the jinn world as dark and wretched.”

  “It is now. They ruined their world when they began warring with each other. They burned it, twisted it into a ruin. That is why the gods created men. They wanted to start over. And it is why the jinn and the humans have never got along since. The jinn were jealous, their place of privilege usurped. Many times they have tried to take over this world, and every time, the gods interceded.”

  He is sitting very close. My throat goes dry, and I stop to swallow, overly conscious of his warmth and the minty smell of the soap he used to wash his face this morning.

  “Finally, the gods struck them with infertility—no new jinn could be born. But Havok, the god of rebirth, took pity on the jinn and allowed them to replenish their ranks only with humans who were given over to them. These sacrifices were meant to appease the jinn, and they were taken and turned into ifreets and sila, maarids and ghuls. A few were even made shaitan.”

  “Human sacrifices?” Aladdin’s voice is thick with disgust. “I’d heard that in other parts of the world, they still leave children and girls and warriors for the jinn, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “You should. It is the easiest way to ensure that the jinn won’t burn your crops or sicken your livestock. After the gods abandoned the world, temples called alombs became shrines to the jinn, places where people could leave their sacrifices and buy another year of protection.”

  “Zahra . . . were you sacrificed?”

  I haven’t thought about that day in a long, long time. It was a thousand and one lifetimes ago. Ignoring the question, I point to the north, to the mountain sitting in the distance behind a screen of haze. “There is one such alomb on the summit of that mountain.”

  He watches me, fully aware of my evasion, but he doesn’t press me further. His gaze turns north. “We don’t use it. It’s forbidden. That’s why our city is starving. Few cities will trade with us, because they think we should make offerings to the jinn as they do.”

  I nod. “Roshana was the first Amulen queen to outlaw sacrifices. It was a bold move, but it infuriated the jinn.”

  He leans into me, nudging me softly with his shoulder. “So? What about you? What’s it like being a shaitan?”

  I stare at him. “What makes you think I am a shaitan?”

  “I’ve seen you grant wishes, and the way you change your form . . . Well? You are, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I admit. I am part of a dying breed, one of only three left in existence. Of the other two, one resides in Ambadya, ruling the jinn, and the second is likely somewhere beneath my feet, trapped in a bottle.

  “Were you in Ambadya before it was destroyed?” Aladdin asks.

  “Of course not. I’ve been a jinni for four thousand years. Ambadya was razed long, long before that.”

  “Who were you? Where did you live?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I stand up, dropping the lemon, and turn to look down on the city. “It’s too hot out here. Let’s go inside. I’ll teach you how to properly enter a room based on who is already there, and whether they are sitting, standing, or eating.”

  Aladdin groans. “I’m sick of playing prince. Let’s pick pockets.”

  “No.”

  “Wait a minute, Smoky . . .” He leans in close to study me, mimicking Jalil’s habit of raising one eyebrow ridiculously high when suspicious. I can’t help it—his expression makes me giggle—actually giggle, like a little girl. “Do you even know how to pick pockets?”

  “Of course I do,” I lie. “I’ve picked a thousand and one—”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve done it all a thousand times, I get it.” He raises a doubtful brow. “So prove it.”

  • • •

  “Him,” Aladdin murmurs. “The one with the feather on his hat. He’s got a pipe in his left pocket.”

  We’re in the palace gardens, pretending to admire a massive statue of King Malek. Many nobles are out today, lounging around the pools and fountains, strolling beneath the shade of the trees. Nearly as vast as the palace itself, the gardens spread in a luxurious carpet of green, organized in perfect symmetry. One could walk for hours out here and never find the end of them.

  Our target is a man a bit older than Aladdin, walking in our direction. We stand in a more secluded spot. Our back is to him, and when he passes behind us, Aladdin coughs.

  I turn and run straight into the man and quickly slip my hand into his pocket, but the pipe is too deep to reach.

  “You clumsy wench—Gods above! Are you trying to rob me, girl?” The nobleman seizes my wrist and yanks it from his pocket. My hand comes up with the pipe clenched in it. I stare at him, horrified.

  “I . . .”

  We’re standing by a tall, neatly trimmed hedge, and without another word I grab the nobleman and drag him into the bushes with me; we burst through the other side into a private clearing populated with small, half-tame deer, which startle and flee. Surrounded by tall shrubs and trees, we’re hidden from view of anyone else walking by.

  “I’ll have your head for this!” the man rages. “I’ll have you whipped!”

  Aladdin climbs through the hedge after us. I’m gripping the man by his coat, while he spits curses at me, his face turning bright red and his beard flecked with spittle.

  “What are you doing?” hisses Aladdin.

  “I don’t know!” I stare at him helplessly. “I panicked!”

  Rolling his eyes, Aladdin turns to the man. “Shut it, will you?”

  “I’ve never been so—mph!”

  Aladdin clasps a hand over his mouth, holding him in a headlock. “Easy, old man. Gods, we’re not going to murder you.”

  I let go of him and let out a long breath. The man ceases struggling and glares hard at me.

  “All right, listen up,” Aladdin says. “See, this is all part of a game. A sort of treasure hunt. It was all Prince Darian’s idea, I might add. Between you and me”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“I think he’s a bit insane. But if you want to complain, talk to him. I’m sure he’d be reasonable about it. I’m going to let you go now. Don’t yell, or I might have to gag you and let you sit here till dark.”

  Slowly he releases the man, who whirls angrily but doesn’t shout out. He straightens his hat and coat, looking from Aladdin to me.

  “I never . . . Young people these da
ys!”

  “Yes, we’re a rotten lot,” agrees Aladdin. “Go on, now. If you run into Darian, be sure to give him a piece of your mind.”

  The man hurries off with many backward glances, his face still red. Then Aladdin lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his face.

  “I got the pipe,” I say, holding it up.

  He stares for a minute, blinking, and then bursts into laughter. A few curious deer stick their heads through the shrubs to see what the racket is. Aladdin doubles over, laughing loud enough to startle birds from the trees overhead, and after a moment, I start laughing too. I haven’t laughed this hard in a long, long while, and it feels wonderful. We sit on the grass and laugh until our faces are red and we’re out of breath.

  “You are the worst thief I have ever seen,” declares Aladdin.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got it, didn’t I?”

  “My grandmother could pick pockets better than that! Though that’s not quite fair; my grandmother was the best pickpocket in Parthenia. She taught me all her tricks. Drove my mother crazy.”

  Taking advantage of the private spot, I shift into a tiger and roll on the grass, groaning with pleasure. The few deer remaining panic at the sight and dash off.

  Aladdin lies beside me, his hands flung wide, eyes closed, and face turned to the sun. The sky is brilliantly blue, and the grass lush and deep. I stretch out, relishing the cool dirt under my claws. Then, with a sigh, I shift back into a girl and sink into the grass.

  “If you had a wish to spend,” says Aladdin suddenly, “what would you do with it?”

  My eyes are half shut, my thoughts slow and lazy. “Spend a day in Ashori, eating grapes.” I don’t add that I’d also be free, without a lamp or a master in sight, staying as long as I pleased and answering to no one.

  He rolls on his side, head propped on his hand. “Really? Grapes? You could wish for anything—but you’d wish for grapes?”

  “I take it you’ve never had an Ashori grape.” I shut my eyes and imagine it. “They’re sweet and plump and perfectly crisp . . . the last Lampholder used to order them by the shipload.”

  “Huh.” He pulls up a small white daisy that’s sprouted in the grass. “I must have one of these grapes.”

  I open one eye. “Is that a wish?”

  He makes a face and tosses the flower at me. It lands on my cheek, and I pick it up and twirl it between my fingers. I could lie out here all day, not moving an inch, feeling the sun above and the grass below. With a contented sigh, I stretch my arms wide, raking the grass with my fingers—and find myself brushing Aladdin’s hand with my own. I pull it away quickly, my cheeks warming. He laughs a little.

  “Sometimes,” he says, “I forget you’re supposed to be four thousand years old. You act as shy as a girl of sixteen.”

  “I do not!” I sit up and glare at him.

  He grins and shrugs, sliding his hands under his head. There are bits of grass stuck in his hair, and after a moment’s hesitation, I reach over and flick them away.

  Aladdin watches me silently, his throat bobbing as he swallows. I drop my gaze.

  He pulls out the pipe I stole and sticks it between his teeth.

  “What do you think?” he asks around the stem. “Do I look noble?”

  I snatch it away, and his teeth close with a clack. “Don’t you know that will kill you?”

  He stares at me a minute, a mischievous light coming into his eyes. Then suddenly he lunges at me.

  “Give it back!”

  “It’s mine! I stole it!”

  “I saved you from getting flogged!”

  He makes a grab for the pipe, and I roll aside, holding it out of his reach. With a wicked laugh, he tickles my side, and I drop the pipe as I hasten to shove him away.

  Aladdin picks up the pipe and brandishes it triumphantly, while I lie in the grass and laugh.

  “Who knew jinn were ticklish?” He sits cross-legged and taps the pipe on his knee. “I should tell Caspida. I’ve discovered the jinn’s greatest weakness! Sure, they hate iron, but wave a feather on a stick and they’ll run to the other side of the world!”

  “That was a dishonorable move, thief.”

  “As if I had any honor to begin to with.”

  I lift my eyes skyward and start to lean away, but then Aladdin reaches out and grabs my wrist, stopping me. I look up at him questioningly, and freeze.

  His eyes are staring deep into mine, suddenly curious and thoughtful, and a strange wind rustles through my body. I go very still, not even breathing, as his hand lifts and he runs his finger so gently, so softly, along my jaw. He gazes at me as if seeing me for the first time, his lips just slightly parted.

  For a moment I’m certain he’ll say something he will regret, and apprehension wells up in me.

  But then he draws back with a husky laugh, his eyes slipping away. “Grapes.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE TWO WEEKS PASS SLOWLY, until at last we arrive at the day of Fahradan. Darkness falls, but the festival will not commence until midnight. After a stiff, long dinner with the nobles—Darian failing to make an appearance—Aladdin returns to our rooms to find a new set of clothes has been laid out. They are resplendent, showy garments, scarlet and gold, complete with cape and feathered turban. Aladdin regards them with dismay, then goes to his room to put them on.

  When he emerges, dressed in all but the turban, I catch my breath, caught off guard. The tight-fitting cut of the long coat accentuates his taut abdomen and broad shoulders and is drawn in around his waist with a thin black belt. The scarlet fabric with its exquisite gold-and-black embroidery brings out the copper streaks in his eyes, and the high collar stops halfway up his neck, brushing his stubbled jaw when he looks down to survey himself. The cloak, which is scarlet on the outside and lined with pale gold fabric, crosses from his left shoulder to drape over his right arm.

  “Well?” he says gruffly. “How do I look?”

  “Um.” I swallow hastily and look away. “You might catch the princess’s eye, I suppose.”

  “I itch all over. If I’d known being a prince mostly consisted of wearing damned uncomfortable costumes like this, I’d never have made that wish.”

  “You itch because you need to shave,” I note. “Sit.”

  I retrieve a shaving knife and creamy goats’-milk soap and throw a wool blanket over Aladdin to spare his fine clothes. He grumbles but goes along as I order him to sit on a stool in the grass, in the light of a strong lantern.

  Aladdin tilts his head back and swallows as I soap my hands and then run them over his cheeks and jaw, leaving a thick lather.

  “Don’t move,” I say softly. His eyes follow mine as I press the edge of the blade to his cheek and gently scrape away the short, coarse hairs. His irises are golden in the candlelight, and his long, dark lashes almost make him look as if he’s lined his eyes with kohl.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” he asks.

  “Don’t talk unless you want your throat cut,” I warn. “I’ve been around a long time. You tend to pick things up.”

  “How long have you been in the lamp?”

  “What did I say about talking?” I sigh.

  “Well? How long?”

  I bend over him, running the blade along the angle of his jaw. “For as long as I have been jinn.”

  “Who put you there?”

  “Why do you care?”

  His brow wrinkles slightly. “Because it seems wrong to keep someone locked away, just sitting around waiting to make other people’s lives better.”

  “Who said I made their lives better? Will you please keep still?”

  “Was it Nardukha?”

  I pause, the blade resting on his cheek. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Well, isn’t he the king of the jinn or something?”

 
; I grip his chin lightly with my free hand, forcing him to keep his mouth shut while I scrape beneath his nose. Gods, how did he come by such perfect lips? And why do I feel warm as a fire? “He is. And yes, he’s the only jinni left with enough power to bind us to lamps and bottles and other such prisons.”

  “Like the jinn charmers?”

  I pull the blade away sharply. “What do you know of the jinn charmers?”

  “Just that they play sometimes in the streets, or outside the city walls. People say their music can charm jinn right into bottles.”

  “Kind of like that,” I reply. “But Nardukha’s magic is much stronger. It not only binds us to our vessels, it strips us of our magic and compels us to grant wishes.”

  “Why does he do it?” he asks, when I pause to wipe the blade clean.

  “Because he can,” I reply flatly. “It’s one of the ways he keeps us under control. If we disobey or threaten him, he enslaves us to humans until we repent and beg for his forgiveness. Even then, he might not relent.”

  “Which did you do? Threaten him or disobey him?”

  I scrape beneath his chin, then down the skin of his neck, taking particular care around his delicate veins, before replying. “Both.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say, isn’t it? No matter how much I ask?”

  With a tight smile, I shave the last of his stubble away. “You know me so well already.”

  I drop a plush cloth over his head and tell him to clean himself up.

  He stands wiping his face while I flit about the room, lighting lamps and opening the silk curtains to let in the cool night air. I can still feel his neck’s pulse in my fingertips. What would Nardukha do if he saw me running my fingers along Aladdin’s jaw? I shudder to think of the answer.

  “We should go soon,” I say. “The dancing will begin in an hour.”

  “Dancing. Wonderful.” His tone is deflated.

  With a sigh, I shut the glass door on the last lamp. The flame burns steady and bright, casting flickering lace patterns through the metalwork encasing it. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how.”

  “Oh, sure, because I’ve had so much time for dancing, in between not starving to death and not getting thrown in prison.” He tosses his facecloth aside. “I know plenty of dances. My favorite is called Not Getting Your Legs Broken for Stealing Figs from That Baker on Pearl Lane.”