Freedom's Slave

by Heather Demetrios

  “I doubt she’s their clean-up crew,” Shirin said. “Feels off to me.”

  “If Samar and Noqril give us the go-ahead, Shirin and I will try to intercept them on their way back to the palace,” Raif said. “You and the others defend the village and deal with anything she sends your way.”

  Taz nodded toward a bank of trees behind them. “Samar’s back.”

  They waited for the fawzel jinni to join them, watching as he crept along the line of trees, careful to stay out of Calar’s range.

  “I evanesced in the trees so my smoke wouldn’t draw attention,” Samar said, crouching down beside Raif. “She has a small company of soldiers in the glen—about five minutes’ walk away. That’s it.”

  Raif peeked over the boulders. Calar still stood there, a smug smile on her face. She turned and said something to Kesmir. He frowned and backed away slightly.

  “Whatever it is, we need to be prepared,” Raif said.

  Something was very wrong—but what? The beach was littered with the corpses of her soldiers and yet the empress seemed so . . . pleased . . . with herself. Raif started forward, motioning for Shirin to follow him.

  Taz went to rejoin the soldiers in the village, while Samar made his way back to a thick stand of trees so that he could make his transformation in secret. Raif and Shirin cut across a wheat field, the stalks rustling slightly as they drew closer to Calar’s location. It was a gentle sound, out of place in this death-filled terrain. Like skin moving against sheets. Nalia.

  Raif was exhausted, which was precisely where Calar wanted him to be. Still, he couldn’t throw away this chance. She was so rarely away from the palace.

  Shirin scooted closer to him as he gently spread the stalks of wheat aside. Calar was several feet away—too far to kill before she realized their presence. All she seemed to be doing was observing the scene below, silent. Utterly still. Raif set his hands on the bare earth, drawing its energy into his skin, his eyes never leaving Calar. This was the woman who’d killed Bashil, who might as well have killed Nalia. He wouldn’t rest until there was nothing left of her but bits of flesh for vultures to feast on.

  Calar picked up the small stone that hung from a chain around her neck and began whispering over it.

  “What is that crazy bitch doing?” Shirin muttered.

  Just as Raif was about to release his chiaan, Calar’s general turned his head. For a moment they looked at one another, frozen. Raif raised his hands, preparing to fight, but the jinni simply nodded slightly and slowly stepped away from Calar. Was he helping Raif kill her? Raif didn’t wait to find out. Emerald chiaan flew from his fingers just as a writhing mass of black evanescence burst from the stone around Calar’s neck. The smoke surrounded Calar, absorbing his magic, protecting her. Kesmir disappeared in a cloud of crimson evanescence.

  Shirin fell to her knees, clamping her hands over her ears as a chorus of high-pitched screams emanated from the darkness Calar had conjured. The cloud hurtled away from the empress, toward the tavrai and Brass soldiers below.

  Raif watched in horror as the shadows descended on his troops. From where he stood, all he could hear were agonized cries as the black smoke swirled through the village. Every time the smoke cleared, all that was left behind were dead tavrai. And when the tavrai attacked them with chiaan, it only seemed to make the creatures faster, as though the chiaan were fueling them. Gods, what was happening? For a moment, he stood there, undecided. He needed to go down there and help his troops, but he’d never been this close to Calar. He had a clear shot now that those creatures were on the beach.

  “Stay here,” he said to Shirin. If he did nothing else, at least he’d keep her alive.

  “Like hell I will. Who’s gonna have your back?”

  No one, if I can help it. Kill Calar or die trying. Sounded good to him.

  “Stay. Here,” he said. “That’s an order.” Then he charged toward Calar.

  The empress turned, a smile on her face. “Why, hello there.”

  Her eyes narrowed and Raif crumpled to the ground, clutching his temples as his head filled with blinding pain, as though someone were dragging sharp fingernails across his mind.

  This was the power Nalia had told Raif of—Calar’s psychic weapon, which had killed Bashil and tortured Malek. He felt the empress’s presence inside him, her mind cutting into his, slashing it to pieces with her searing magic. Tearing through his memories as though they were the wrapping on a gift.

  Get out. He screamed the words at Calar, knowing there was no need to say them aloud.

  Her laugh reverberated inside his skull, high and cruel, drowning out all other sound. Raif writhed as the pain split him in two, struggling against the presence that had slithered into his head. Dimly, he heard her speak somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind. Oh, I couldn’t have dreamed this up, Calar said. You and the Aisouri—lovers?

  He tried to hold on to the memory of Nalia, terrified Calar could somehow take her away, erase Nalia from his mind. He gripped those memories like precious jewels, but a white-hot pain pulsed just behind his eye, drilling into the soft tissue of his brain. Nalia, her lips against his, neither of them caring about the battle that waged around them. Raif saying, I always keep my promises. Nalia, a grin that made his blood run hot, then . . . nothing.

  You miss her, Calar’s voice said, echoing inside him. You stupid, lovesick fool.

  He could feel her exultant rush, Calar giddy with joy, and then, in the distance, he heard a familiar caw. Raif felt her pull away then, tearing through his mind, leaving nothing but a raw, insistent pain in her wake. Head throbbing, Raif looked up just in time to see Calar screeching at the diving fawzel. She raised her hands, grinning as Samar sped toward her.

  There was a flash of crimson light and then an explosion of feathers rained over Raif. He looked up. Samar’s body—back in its jinn form—was somersaulting through the air. Seconds later, he fell to the hard earth, his blue eyes open, his chest still.

  “Your turn,” Calar said, standing over Raif. Her eyes shone. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Just as she prepared to cut him down, a stream of dark-green chiaan aimed at Calar shot toward the empress: Shirin. Calar let out a roar of rage, then threw a fiery ball of chiaan that hit Shirin square in the stomach. She fell to the dirt, convulsing. Raif expected Calar to finish them off then and there, but she swayed on her feet, her face deathly pale. Even evil tyrants, it seemed, could overdo it. Raif suspected her voiqhif worked much the same as Zanari’s: great power, but a magic hangover like nobody’s business. In seconds Calar had evanesced, the place where she’d stood deserted but for wisps of crimson smoke.

  Raif crawled to where Shirin had rolled onto all fours, heaving. He was barely holding on to consciousness—a beheading would have been a mercy right then. It felt as though Calar had sliced a scimitar down the middle of his head.

  “You okay?” he croaked.

  “Yeah,” she gasped. “This just . . . hurts . . . like a bitch.”

  “Maybe try following orders next time,” he said, groaning as his head throbbed.

  She grimaced. “Raif?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.”

  He bit back a smile and together they managed to stand, arms around each other’s shoulders. They huddled over Samar—noble, selfless Samar, who had lost everything because of Raif’s search for the sigil. The Dhoma lay in a pile of his fawzel feathers, his long hair splayed out beneath him.

  “Fire and blood,” Raif cursed, staring at the place Calar had been just seconds before. “We almost had her.”

  All he wanted to do was kill Calar. He’d never felt so violated, his memories stolen, sullied. Nalia. Nalia. Calar had seen so much. And now she’d taken Samar’s life.

  “I’m going to kill her eventually,” he said, placing a hand on Samar’s chest, then closing the Dhoma’s eyes. “You will be avenged, brother.”

  “I have no problem helping you out with that,” Shirin said.
<
br />   Two clouds of evanescence swarmed toward them: gold, and red. Moments later, Taz and Noqril were standing beside them. Noqril caught sight of Samar on the ground and let out a rough cry, falling to his knees beside his tribesman.

  “We’re retreating,” Taz said. Raif started to shake his head, but Taz pointed to the battle below. “Look at the village,” he said. “Look and tell me we should stay here and fight.”

  Raif looked.

  All he could see were shadows ripping through the jinn that remained. The field was littered with corpses. Tavrai and Brass soldiers lay crumpled above the bodies of the Ifrit they had killed only minutes before.

  I did this, Raif thought. He’d known something was wrong about Calar being there. He should have gotten his jinn out. But instead he’d stayed because the desire to punish Calar for Nalia’s loss had been stronger than his desire to protect his troops.

  Shirin’s fingers tightened around his shoulders, a hoarse cry all she could manage as she took in the scene below them.

  “How?” Raif asked, cold with horror. “How?” It was as if Calar had somehow bottled the Eye and could unleash it upon them at will.

  “I don’t know and I have no idea how to fight them,” Taz said. “They . . .” His face went pale. For a moment, Raif thought Taz was going to be sick. “They were . . . were . . . ripping out their souls.” He grasped his head with his hands as though he could somehow tear the memory from his mind. “It didn’t matter who it was: us or Ifrit, the shadows just . . . consumed them. We have to retreat, Raif. We cannot fight this.”

  “But all those villagers—”

  “The shadows went for the jinn on the beach first,” Noqril said. “They’re dead. There’s no one to save.”

  A whole village, wiped out, just like that.

  Raif swore, his body shaking with rage. He’d been so godsdamned close to killing Calar, closer than he’d ever be again. He reached up and threw a burst of white chiaan into the air. Immediately, the few soldiers they had left began to evanesce. From where he stood, it looked as though they’d lost over half of the troops they’d brought to the beach with them—a third of the tavrai and Brass Army.

  Shirin, still doubled over from the chiaan Calar had hurled at her stomach, grabbed his hand. “You’re gonna have to get me out of here, brother.”

  It was the one thing he could do. Raif envisioned the tavrai camp as Shirin leaned against him. In moments they were gone, leaving the burning village behind.

  When they touched down in the camp, Raif collapsed, exhausted. He didn’t even make it to his ludeen. Instead, he lay on a soft tuft of grass, closed his eyes, and prayed he’d dream of Nalia again.

  Before she opened her eyes, Nalia knew that something was different. Instead of the Eye’s scent—something akin to the cold air of human ice rinks—she smelled burning wood.

  Raif.

  She sat up, her body sore from what appeared to be a stone floor she’d been sleeping on. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, or how she’d arrived. There was very little light, just a flickering orange glow from two pillars of flame that stood on either side of a familiar gate. She knew where she was: the City of Brass.

  No matter that it was forever hidden beneath the Sahara. No matter that all its entrances had been destroyed before Nalia had ever set foot in the Eye.

  Raif.

  She had to find him before the Eye took her away, had to tell him that she was alive, she was almost sure of it. Something was bringing them together.

  Nalia stood, running along the wide avenue that led to the palace she’d spent a night in not so long ago. Sleeping on a pallet she’d manifested, Raif across the room because she wouldn’t let him near her.

  “Raif,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use and quiet for fear of the cave’s monsters she knew all too well. But Haraja was dead—the hideous creature that had stalked them on their quest for Solomon’s sigil could no longer hurt her.

  “Raif!” she called. There was the sound of feet pounding against hard-packed earth and then he was there, running out of the alley where he’d once kissed her.

  Raif didn’t stop running until she was in his arms. Nalia clung to him, shaking, sobbing. She didn’t know if she’d survive being taken from him again. His lips found hers, his tongue gently lapping up the tears that streamed down her face. She kissed him with a ferocity that surprised her, as if she could somehow absorb him into her, take Raif into the Eye and never let go.

  She hadn’t had her fill of him, but Nalia forced herself to pull away, her arms still entwined around his neck. “Raif, something’s happening to us. I don’t know what it is, but . . . I think we’re really here.”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead. “That’s exactly what I’d want to hear,” he murmured. “I’ve imagined you saying those words so many times, Nal.” Pain lashed his face. “But . . . this isn’t happening. I’m going to wake up and you won’t be there—just like I did last time.” He held her tight against him. “And you won’t be lying next to me, no matter how much I wish you were.”

  “Raif . . .”

  “Shhhh,” he whispered. “We need to make the most of this time. We don’t have much. And I don’t know if we’ll ever have it again.”

  He picked her up and she clung to him as he made his way to the palace. He was right, of course he was right.

  The room they’d once slept in was empty, but her pallet was still there and he sat down on it, still holding her to him. He smelled like smoke and sweat. Flecks of dried blood coated his arms.

  She ran her fingers over his skin and he sighed.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “A battle. The Ifrit. They killed a—” He stopped himself, shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “What?”

  Raif’s eyes went dark with sorrow. “Not now, rohifsa. I don’t want to be there. Let me be here with you. Just you.”

  He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. Her lips traveled the length of his jaw, his neck.

  “Tell me our story,” she whispered, laying her cheek against his heart.

  “After the war is over,” he said softly, his lips against her hair, “we’ll have a house and some land. We’ll make love in our field under the Three Widows, as much as we want, whenever we want. Our two children will look exactly like you. . . .”

  This time, when the darkness descended, she closed her eyes against it and held on to Raif until the Eye snatched her out of his arms.

  16

  GOLDEN EVANESCENCE SWIRLED AROUND TAZ AS HE prepared to leave the battlefield. Below him, the jinn were shifting into smoke one by one, desperate to get out before the shadows could feed on them. Taz leaped off a cliff, his arms extended to the sunrise, and evanesced in midair. But instead of returning to camp as he should have, Taz’s mind refused to picture anything but the one place he was simultaneously dreading and longing to go: home. His family’s plantation was the site of some of his best and worst memories. It was impossible to imagine the kajar without his family, without the serfs who’d crushed the grapes for savri beneath their feet, skirts and pants pulled up high to avoid stains from the fruit.

  Taz gave himself over to his magic as his evanescence turned him into a ball of cinnamon-scented smoke. He’d been fighting for hours and he needed to rest. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, but just as his body was about to disappear, Taz felt a tug on his arm and realized in horror that one of the Ifrit, hidden, no doubt, among the cliff’s rocks, had managed to grab hold of him. There was nothing Taz could do as skin turned to smoke. All he could see was a cloud of crimson evanescence mixing with his golden smoke and then—

  He touched down at the edge of a large, burned field. As his body began to materialize, Taz reached for his scimitar. The hold on his leg disappeared, and through the wisps of evanescence, Taz spied the Ifrit who’d caught hold of him: the jinni who’d been standing beside Calar—her general.

  Taz raised his weapon, but the
other jinni immediately held up his hands and backed away. “I’m not here to fight,” the Ifrit said.

  Taz snorted. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  The jinni wasn’t handsome by any means: he had a crooked nose, as though it had been broken several times, and an ugly scar across one cheek. But his eyes were distracting. The ferocity in them, those long lashes that skimmed his bronze skin . . .

  “Let me guess: you’re Calar’s lapdog,” Taz said.

  The Ifrit raised his eyebrows. “Good guess.”

  “I saw you on the hill.” Taz stepped closer. “Tell me, were you sufficiently entertained by Calar’s monsters?”

  “No.”

  “Really? You seemed riveted.”

  The Ifrit sighed, his eyes filling with the sadness Taz had seen in the eyes of his fellow enslaved jinn—it was an epidemic, this hopelessness.

  “The pain of another brings me no pleasure,” the jinni said. “Not anymore. I’ve seen enough horrors for one lifetime. I tire of violence.”

  “And yet you still fought today.”

  “There was no choice but to fight,” the jinni said. “If I hadn’t joined my soldiers, Calar would have grown suspicious. And if she had, this conversation we’re having wouldn’t be possible.”

  Taz had to admit that the jinni’s performance on the battlefield seemed to support this. The Ifrit general’s skill at killing his enemies was exceptional, but he did so only in defense, only when necessary. More often than not, he’d been reprimanding his soldiers for hurting civilians. Taz had noticed this many times throughout the battle.

  “Be that as it may,” Taz said, “I’m not leaving this field without shedding your blood.” He raised his scimitar in one hand while the other held a ball of glowing chiaan.

  The other jinni simply stood there, a far too easy kill. Taz lowered his weapon.

  “If you aren’t here to fight me, then why in all hells did you come?” Taz asked, exasperated. He was tired, anxious to see his family’s plantation, and he wanted to go to sleep for a very long time. But before that, he wanted to see how many of his jinn had survived the battle in that village and honor the ones who hadn’t. Samar.