Just as Nalia neared the Gate of the Eye—it was the gate, she could see the familiar copse of trees behind it—the phoenix whirled around, her great wings pushing a breeze into the airless void. The song faded away, already a memory, and Nalia’s companion hovered before her, fixing her with the intense gaze Nalia had come to know so well. Her breath caught and she was seized by something between grief and elation. Words weren’t needed. Nalia knew what the phoenix was telling her.
This was good-bye.
Nalia’s eyes filled and she reached out her hand, her heart burning already with the loss.
“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered.
The phoenix drew closer and allowed Nalia to rest her palm atop her head. The creature’s energy was ancient and strange, all-knowing, all-seeing. It flowed into Nalia, mixing with her own chiaan: powerful, deadly, wise. The phoenix’s opal feathers shimmered, growing brighter and brighter. She opened her pearlescent beak for one last song.
Sing, for the night has gone. Dance, for the sun will rise.
The final note was a pure trill that encompassed all of creation—the beginning, the past, the present, and the distant, unknowable end. As the note reached an ecstatic height, the phoenix burst into flames, gold and white and silver tongues of fire that engulfed the bird completely. Nalia cried out, falling to her knees before her friend. A shower of ash rained down, covering Nalia, a baptism.
A single white feather floated among the ash and Nalia held out her hand, catching it on her palm. As soon as it hit her skin, strands of pure gold swirled around the feather: a delicate chain that the feather now dangled from, its sharp stem encased in a golden ring attached to the necklace.
“Shundai,” Nalia whispered. Thank you.
The feather would be useful later on—now she remembered seeing it in the vision from the lote tree, one thread in the thousands of strands that encompassed all time.
Nalia stood, then slowly, reverently, walked the last few steps to the gate. The phoenix’s power filled her as her own chiaan sang through her skin, mixing with that of Antharoe’s and all the empresses who had accompanied her on the last leg of this dark journey. Nalia raised her palms in seeming surrender, then called forth the lightning within her, summoning the land’s power to her. The gate blew apart in a blaze of violet chiaan.
Nalia stood on the threshold of her realm, gazing up at the sky, shielding her eyes against the sudden light and the clarity of shape and form that had been denied her in the Eye. The Three Widows blazed, each one perfectly full and as bright as the sun, just as she had seen in her vision at the lote tree: the Godsnight. As though aware of her eyes on them, the moons began to shimmer, bright and throbbing like a beating heart.
The tree had told her it would happen, but Nalia had assumed it was a symbol, a metaphor for the change that would be wrought in Arjinna once Nalia claimed the throne. But no—it was really happening, this ancient, horrible prophecy. She could still recall the fear she’d felt during her vision: nothing good would come of this night. A new wave of hopelessness threatened to drown her and Nalia looked away from the moons, focusing on the familiar stars. They winked at her from above, the color of Malek’s absinthe: Piquir’s sword. Jandessa and Rahim. The Great Cauldron, B’alai Om—Bashil’s favorite. All against a backdrop of lime, magenta, and plum swaths of color, the Arjinnan aurora blazing like a Welcome Home sign.
She pressed her palms together and held them to her heart, this heart that mourned and loved and fought and hoped and hadn’t stopped, no matter how much it went through.
Nalia stepped through the gate and set foot on her land.
“My Empress!”
Nalia started, nearly falling over as a bundle of black rags threw itself at her.
“Oh, My Empress! I knew it, I knew you were alive! I knew the gods would not give up on you!”
Nalia stepped back. The jinni was tall, covered in mourning rags, his crimson eyes bright.
“Touma?” Her voice came out as little more than a croak. She’d often spoken to the phoenix, but often in the Eye meant perhaps once every few days. The sound of her voice in the dark had been more terrifying than the silence, a confirmation of just how alone she was.
The Ifrit fell to his knees, sobbing. “A year and a day you were gone.” He pointed to the sky. “They sent you to save us from whatever the Godsnight will bring.”
Nalia stared. “I’ve been in the Eye for a year and a day?”
Her time in the Eye had been like her time in the bottle, where minutes felt like years and months felt like seconds. But she’d never imagined . . . A year. Raif had thought her dead for a year. Nalia had been so certain that he was still alive, that the tavrai continued their fight. But what if she was wrong? What if they’d been annihilated long ago?
“Touma, is Raif, is he . . . ?” Her voice caught with wanting.
Please be alive. Please. So much could happen in a year.
“Alive and well, My Empress,” he said, beaming. “He hasn’t done the mourning rituals yet. I think a part of him knew you were coming back.”
For a moment, the scene before her undulated, a wave of light, and she swayed, suddenly lightheaded with relief. Hunger raged through her—when was the last time she’d sipped the heart plant’s nectar? She couldn’t remember having anything to eat in all this time—just the milk from the plant, for a year. How had it kept her alive? Touma rushed to support Nalia, gripping her elbow firmly.
He drew her to the wall and had her sit against it while he manifested food: warm kees—the bread she’d fantasized about during her hungriest moments in the Eye—soft cheese, sugarberries, a steaming cup of chal.
Nalia stared at the food, ravenous, overwhelmed. Her voice caught as she picked up a sugarberry. “Thank you, Touma.”
Touma’s eyes filled with tears again. “An empress, and yet you eat the food of the poorest jinn as thought it were a banquet of the gods.”
She smiled. “This is the first food I’ve had in a year, Touma. It’s . . .” She ate the berry and its juices spread across her tongue, sweet and tart. “Delicious.”
He cried even harder. “Oh, My Empress,” he wailed.
She ate a few bites of the bread and cheese, then sipped on her chal as Touma went through handkerchief after handkerchief, manifesting them in quick succession. Suddenly he stopped, choking on his own tears as his eyes fell on Solomon’s sigil, which still hung from Nalia’s neck by a leather cord.
“Khatem l-hekma,” he whispered, using the Moroccan name: ring of wisdom. “We thought it had surely been lost forever.”
His eyes grew fearful and Nalia knew Touma was reliving those years when he’d been forced to be a slave to a human king, then punished for the rebellion Tazlim had led. Three thousand summers in a bottle, and he’d spent his first free year sitting by this gate, honoring her. How could she ever reward such devotion?
“Hide it,” he whispered, gesturing to the ring. “Don’t let them see.”
The way he said them sent a shiver down her spine. Were the tavrai that awful?
Nalia placed her palm on Touma’s cheek. “Everything will be all right. The tree told me.”
Touma frowned. “Yes, we most certainly need to get you to a healer, My Empress.”
Nalia sighed. How could she ever explain the journey she’d undergone and the riches it had bestowed upon her? And she didn’t need a healer, she needed her rohifsa.
A white light burst into the air, beyond the ridge of the Qaf range, just over Ithkar.
Raif.
“What are the tavrai doing in Ithkar?” she asked, fear replacing the joy of her arrival. She had to get there right away—to help Raif, to keep him alive.
Touma told her of all that she’d missed in a quiet voice as they made their way toward the Forest of Sighs on foot for fear an Ifrit patrol would catch sight of her violet evanescence and warn Calar of Nalia’s return. The journey was long, too long. Every second when she wasn’t with Raif was torture.
“An alliance with the Ifrit?” Nalia said, worry spiking in her voice. She placed her hand on Touma’s arm as she caught the red of his eyes. “No offense. You know what I mean.”
“None taken, My Empress. I don’t like these brutes any more than you do. We may have the same color eyes, but that’s where our resemblance ends.”
“I know.”
Nalia’s mind reeled. Zanari was leading a battle on the other side of the portal, Raif and Taz were storming the prison, and Calar had manifested monsters that seemed unkillable.
“Touma, we have to go to Ithkar—”
“You must see a healer first,” he said firmly. “My Empress, I say this with all respect: you are not looking like you can fight a battle right now.”
Maybe he was right. But waiting . . . knowing Raif was so close . . .
It was slow going, moving from shadow to shadow. The light from the Three Widows made Nalia feel exposed, even more so because she was unaccustomed to anything but the impenetrable darkness of the Eye. Her eyes ached, blinded, and she held up her hand, shielding herself from the moons. The land was unusually quiet, the villages deserted, the Forest of Sighs dark and impenetrable. The more they walked, the better Nalia felt: she was ancient and newborn, a vessel for all that was of her land and all that would be. Past and present and future resided beneath her skin and yet a growing horror took root in Nalia. Something was deeply wrong, an evil that she felt in the very marrow of her land. In the time Nalia had been gone, Arjinna had become diseased, dying all around her. Gone was the luster of its vegetation, gone was the energy that thrummed through the dirt, the air, the water. The chiaan had been sucked dry from the land, leaving her world half dead.
As if he could read her thoughts, Touma sighed. “It is a bad time, very bad time. I have to go to Ithkar to restore my chiaan—I am one of the few lucky ones who can do so. The shadows do not go there. The Djan?” He gestured to the barren countryside. “Where can they find chiaan? It’s a bad time, My Empress,” he said again, “a very bad time.” Then he smiled, his eyes shining as he gazed at her. “But not anymore!”
There was a caw in the air then, a furious flapping of wings. The skin on the back of Nalia’s neck prickled, the sensation so familiar, it was like slipping on her old battle leathers.
Nalia-jai.
She heard his voice in her head at the same time she realized what—who—was in the air. She turned, crying out as her gryphon sped across the sky, straight for her. As soon as the creature landed, he bowed deeply.
My Empress.
It was too much to hope for, impossible, and yet . . . Nalia stared at the luminescent eyes that looked back at her: aquiline and somehow all-knowing, every color that existed swirling inside them. And then she saw the blue feathers that rimmed those eyes. Only one of the Aisouri gryphons had those.
“Thatur,” she whispered.
“Welcome home, child.” Then he growled, a sound that was all too familiar. Unfortunately. “You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.”
She laughed and placed a hand on Thatur’s flank, sending her chiaan into him. He vibrated with pleasure, the closest to purring a gryphon could get, and she leaned her head against his warm body, tears slipping down her cheeks. How was it possible? The last time she’d seen Thatur was the night of the coup. He’d been tearing the limbs off the Ifrit around her, guarding Nalia with his wings, his beak. But the palace was swarming with Ifrit and there were guns, so many guns, shooting all the time, everywhere. The floor had been slick with blood—it’d been hard to keep her footing. A bullet had sliced through Thatur’s wing, and as he roared in pain and rage, Haran dragged Nalia down a set of stairs, one hand over her mouth to shut off her screams. Then he’d thrown her in the basement room and forced her to stand against the wall with the other Aisouri. Just before the guns opened on them, Nalia’s mother began whispering the prayer of the dead.
All these years Nalia had assumed he’d died along with the other gryphons. She’d asked around at Habibi, the underground jinn club in Los Angeles where she’d once danced with Raif, and it seemed she’d been correct: no one had seen a Ghan Aisouri gryphon since their mistresses had been cut down by the Ifrit. He’d been the only comfort in her childhood, save for Bashil. The one voice she’d learned to trust in that palace of lies.
“They said you were all dead,” Nalia whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s not possible . . . how are . . . oh my gods. Thatur.”
A sob broke out and Nalia turned, worried, but Touma waved away her concern. “Tears of joy, My Empress.”
Thatur let Nalia cling to him for a moment and then, in customary Thatur fashion, her gryphon gently disentangled himself.
“My Empress. A bit of decorum, if you will,” he said, his voice gruff. His eyes fell on the white feather around her neck. “Raif Djan’Urbi told me he saw you in a vision with the white phoenix. But that isn’t . . . it’s not—”
“It was the phoenix who kept me alive all year. She guided me, taught me things, protected me. She left me this one last thing before her Burning.” It had been less than an hour since her phoenix’s feather fell among the ashes and yet it felt like days ago. “She was . . . my friend.”
“Hala dkar,” Touma whispered. All honor to the gods.
“It comforts me to know you weren’t alone, child,” Thatur said.
Nalia nodded. “I wouldn’t have made it without her.”
I missed you, Nalia-jai. She heard the words in her head, clear and strong, the connection with her gryphon unbroken after all this time.
I missed you, too, she thought to him. I missed you every day.
She felt the rumble of his purr where her hand rested against his flank, the vibrations running through her.
I still require a full accounting of your whereabouts these past four summers, he added.
I know, she thought.
And I don’t approve of this Djan’Urbi, you should know that right away.
Nalia’s eyes widened. How did he know about her and Raif?
Oh yes, he said, noting her surprise, I’ve heard all about it. And I have . . . opinions, My Empress. Strong ones.
You’ll come around, she thought, grinning.
Thatur humphed, a combination growl/caw. We’ll see about that.
“How are you feeling?” Thatur asked, out loud, for Touma’s benefit.
Nalia took stock. Now that she’d eaten a bit and gotten some fresh air, she felt wonderfully restored. Her chiaan thrummed through her, more powerful than ever before, thanks to the empresses in the Eye.
“I know I don’t look it,” she said, glancing at Touma, “but I feel . . . good. Really good.”
“Then I have a request.” Thatur took in her thin frame and frowned. “But perhaps it isn’t a wise course of action.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Tonight Raif and the tavrai are breaking into the prison in Ithkar,” he began.
“I know,” she said. “Touma already told me everything.”
Thatur nodded, then turned to the Ifrit beside Nalia. “Kesmir never gave the signal.”
Who was Kesmir?
Touma’s eyes grew wide. “Is he . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” Thatur said, his voice heavy.
Touma noticed Nalia’s confusion. “Kesmir is the Ifrit I spoke of—Calar’s lover. Former lover. He is now Tazlim’s rohifsa.”
“Tazlim’s what?”
Thatur nodded his head. “Much has happened since you’ve been gone, My Empress.”
Clearly.
“How can we rescue this Kesmir?” she asked.
“That will require more soldiers on our end, I’m afraid. It will have to wait. Now, what I’m about to request is a lot to ask—I know you must be tired from your . . . journey. But there is a way you can be useful during tonight’s battle. If you were to go to the palace—”
“The palace?” Touma nearly shouted. “Are you out of your mind?”
Thatur
gave the Ifrit a withering look. “As I was saying, if you were to go to the palace and alert Calar of your presence—she might hold back her troops. It would buy the tavrai time to get the prisoners out.”
Nalia’s heart sank. She’d have to wait even longer to be reunited with Raif. And yet she’d waited a year—what were a few more hours? Her land needed her, and if going to the palace would protect Raif, then there was no question of what she would do. Distracting Calar might save his life and countless others. Nalia glanced once more at the moons. How long did she have before the plagues of the Godsnight started? It might be impossible to find Raif in the chaos.
“Of course,” she said.
“My Empress,” Touma said, “I must object. You’re unwell—”
“I’m fine. Truly.” The gods hadn’t kept her alive just so that she could die as soon as she walked through the Gate of the Eye.
“Are you, child?” Thatur asked.
He wouldn’t have made the request if he’d thought she couldn’t do it. Thatur had always known her limits, always required that she reach them—and then go a little further. He’d felt her chiaan just now, he knew what she was capable of. But for the first time in her life, Thatur was giving Nalia a choice. He was still her teacher, still her battle companion—but he was now her subject and she his empress.
That would take some getting used to.
“I’m fine,” she repeated. “Now, what did you have in mind?”
“There are dead to burn,” Thatur began. “It would be wise to ensure your caste is sent to the godlands before Calar hides them.”
The swaying skeletons of her Aisouri sisters. She’d never seen them hanging before the palace gate, but she’d pictured it more than once. Thatur was right: once Calar learned that Nalia was in Arjinna, the first thing she’d do was hide those skeletons, just to spite her. And, if she were honest, Nalia wanted to make sure Calar knew that she’d returned and that the Ifrit empress’s days on the throne were numbered.
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