“I know there is little love for me in this forest,” Nalia said. “And I will not force myself upon you. But before you banish me, before you give up the possibility of us working together to rid this land of Calar, let me tell you what I saw in the Eye, what I learned. It might change your minds. You may always hate me—you certainly have every right to. But please, let me prove you wrong. Let me earn my crown, and if I am not worthy, I’ll go. I will leave Arjinna and you will never see me again. I only want to help our people, and if I cannot do that, I won’t cause discord with my presence.”
“Your crown?” Shirin said. “You say you want to help change Arjinna and yet you still insist on the old ways—a crown for your pretty little head, a palace to live in. It’s only been four years since your kind beat us and killed us. Four years.” Shirin turned to the tavrai. “What if one of us wants a crown, eh? What if we don’t want any crowns at all?”
The tavrai nodded their assent, some cheering.
“I don’t want to rule,” Nalia said. “But the gods have decided otherwise.”
“The gods,” Shirin scoffed. She pointed at the moons. “You mean those assholes? The ones who plan to stamp us all out in, I don’t know, the next few minutes? If the prophecies are true, you won’t have a land to rule anyway.”
“Then what the hell are we fighting for?” Raif growled. “She’s been in the Eye for a year. She survived that hell and she comes home and the first thing she does is go to the palace to help us, to keep Calar from sending more soldiers over the Qaf.” He turned to Nalia. “You need to rest. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”
Before they could turn away, Shirin stepped closer. “What about Solomon’s sigil?” she asked, her voice pitched low so that only Jaqar, Raif, Nalia, and Tazlim could hear.
“I saw her give it to you.” Shirin turned to Nalia. “So which one of you will force all of us to do your bidding? Somehow I’m guessing it won’t be him.”
“You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, Shirin,” Raif said.
Nalia’s eyes fell on Shirin’s. “I was a slave too,” she said. “And I think that ring is the most evil thing that has ever been created.”
“Which is why neither of us will be using the sigil,” Raif added. “I’ve told you before—the ring would only give us another, more powerful master. It would make everything we’ve fought for pointless.”
Raif looked at Shirin. Not a glance, but a real look that took the measure of her. Did he find her wanting? Hadn’t he always?
“What you saw at the prison—me and the ghoul,” Raif said softly. “Remember?”
How could she forget? It was a few hours ago. She shouldn’t have saved him. But almost as soon as she had the thought, Shirin regretted it. No matter what he did to her, she would always save him.
“Lucky for her I didn’t let you kill yourself,” she said. Shirin spit on the ground, the highest form of contempt she could think of. “It would have been better if you’d died.”
Nalia turned to Raif, real fear written on her face, and he pressed closer to her. “I’ll explain later,” he said softly.
His eyes drank her in, as though she was an elixir, a tonic, the only thing he wanted. As if he hadn’t heard a word Shirin had just said. It was so horribly obvious that he’d enslaved himself to her, whether he realized it or not.
How could he? How could he?
Raif turned to Shirin. “The reason why I’m calling a council meeting is not because I want to lead us. It’s because I don’t. And this has nothing to do with Nalia. I made the decision earlier today. You can ask Tazlim if you don’t believe me.”
The words were thorns that wound their way through her insides.
“I’m your second,” she said, her words almost a whisper. “I’m . . . and you . . . what the hell, Raif?”
This was more than betrayal. More than rejection. She’d loved Raif enough to be willing to die for him. She’d kept him alive in his darkest hours, she’d been his shoulder to cry on, his punching bag, and now he was telling her none of it had meant a thing to him, not a thing. She thought of Yurik: From the moment I met you, all I’ve ever wanted to do is make you happy. Raif would never say something like that to her. How could she have been so blind? She’d pushed away the only jinni who had ever given a shit about her—and for what?
“I pledged my blood to you,” she said, her voice finally breaking. She pointed to Nalia. “She and her kind stood by while my overlord raped and killed my mother in front of me, then did despicable things to me. Again and again.” Raif stared, his face going pale. The shock in his eyes gave her a savage satisfaction.
He reached for her and she stepped back, growling. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”
“I had no idea,” Raif said, his voice pained. “Shir—”
“Why else would a little girl stop speaking for over two years?” The tears were falling now and she didn’t care, she didn’t give a damn. “If you knew, would it change anything? Would you kill her now like you should?”
“No.” He didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment. “Nalia was a child when the overlords owned us—we all were. This is not her fault. I . . .” He sighed. “Shir. Look at me.”
She couldn’t. She didn’t want his pity—that wasn’t why she’d said those things. And now his Aisouri was there feeling sorry for her, gods, why had she said any of that—
“I wish we’d rescued you before any of that happened.”
She glared at him. “Well you didn’t.”
Raif’s eyes fixed on hers. “Don’t make an enemy of me, Shirin,” he said softly. “Don’t push me away. No good will come of that.”
“Too late,” she said.
Raif sighed. “As you wish.” He put his arm around Nalia’s shoulders and drew her toward the path that led to his ludeen.
There was no way in hell Shirin was letting them walk away like that.
All Raif wanted was to be alone with Nalia. But they were only five steps out of the communal area of the camp and Shirin was already yelling again.
“Aisouri,” she called.
Nalia turned around and Raif gripped her shoulder more tightly. He knew he’d kill the first jinni who tried to do her harm and he really hoped it wouldn’t be Shirin.
Nalia simply looked at Raif’s second, waiting, betraying none of the fear and fury that Raif knew must be all over his face.
Shirin took a step forward. “You are hereby banished from the Forest of Sighs, by order of the tavrai council. You, your army, its commander, and the bird need to get the hell out.” Her eyes went to Raif’s. “Time to choose, brother.”
He stepped forward, Nalia just behind him, so close he could feel the heat of her body. She’d been back from the Eye for mere minutes and this—this—was how she was welcomed. It shamed him, that the tavrai could be so petty, so incapable of seeing the big picture.
“We’re to have a meeting,” Raif said, his voice even. “But first, we have dead to burn. Do not dishonor them. Prepare the pyres.”
Shirin lifted her chin. “No. Not until this salfit is out of our forest.”
“Fools,” Thatur growled.
Raif looked over at him in surprise.
“This Ghan Aisouri carried Solomon’s sigil for a year and has returned here to keep her vow. She has been anointed by the gods themselves,” Thatur continued. “She wears the white phoenix’s feather around her neck—the only jinni to be in its presence without dying—and you dare, you dare, to speak of her in such a manner?”
They needed to be alone. Now. Raif was starting to hate every jinni who was keeping him from being in his ludeen with Nalia.
“With the ring we could end this war right now,” Shirin snarled, “and yet they refuse to use it, to stand by while more jinn die.”
“On Earth,” Nalia said, “the sigil is called Khatem l-hekma—the ring of wisdom. By exercising the right not to use it, Raif is demonstrating his wisdom. The ring is a threat to Calar, maybe one strong eno
ugh to convince her to step down. But even if she doesn’t, we have an army more than capable of defeating her forces.”
“We don’t need an army,” Shirin said. “Not when Raif can put that ring on his finger and tell Calar to get the hell out of here.” She turned to Raif, her eyes full of fury. He’d seen her look at other jinn like that, but never him. “What are you waiting for?” Shirin gestured to the sky, still dark and glowing with the full Three Widows. “Who knows what the gods will bring next? We need to prepare—”
“You always told me you’d rather die than be a slave again,” Raif said quietly. He stepped forward, his hands out, pleading. “Shirin. If I put on that ring, then you’re a slave again—my slave. Is that what you want? I won’t wear the Master King’s sigil. Not if there’s hope of defeating Calar some other way.”
“So we have this amazing weapon,” Shirin said, “but we’re not going to use it.”
Jaqar turned to the tavrai, a sneer on his face. “Some kind of battle strategy, eh?”
“Calar doesn’t need to know we don’t want to use it,” Raif said. His patience was wearing thin. “Once she learns we have the ring, she’d be a fool to stay here.”
Shirin shook her head. “I can’t see her leaving that throne, ring or no.”
“If I wear the ring, I’d be choosing for Arjinnans,” Raif said. “The whole point of this war is that they have the right to make their own decisions. Give the Brass Army a chance. Give Nalia a chance.”
“Where is the Raif Djan’Urbi who danced on the tables when he heard the Ghan Aisouri had been killed?” Shirin said. “The one who said he’d rather die than bend the knee? Your father gave up his life so that we could be free of royal rule. No tavrai will spill blood for her. I certainly won’t.”
“I want Arjinnans to choose,” Nalia said. “I have no intention of forcing myself upon the realm.”
“And what if we choose to execute you for your crimes?” Jaqar said. “I have no doubt you’ve got a lot of tavrai blood on your hands.”
“Then you’d better be prepared to string me up right next to her,” Raif said.
“Well. I guess there’s nothing else to say.” Shirin shook her head. “Meeting or no meeting, you’re one of them now. See you on the other side of the battlefield.” She turned to go.
“The enemy is in the palace, Shirin,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she said softly, looking back at him. “Not anymore.”
Raif took in the tavrai standing before him: old, young, some friends of his father’s, some too young to remember Dthar Djan’Urbi. He’d never had so much ill will directed toward him. He saw hatred—hatred—in their eyes. Betrayal. They didn’t understand. Why couldn’t they understand?
“Those of you who wish to join us”—he threw his hand toward the forest floor and a green line of chiaan shimmered between them—“cross this line. We believe in an Arjinna where you can love who you want, and a land free of bloodshed.”
“One ruled by a Ghan Aisouri empress,” said Jaqar. “Don’t forget that.”
Raif hesitated. He’d bent the knee already, claimed her as his empress. He could no longer call himself a true son of Dthar Djan’Urbi. But that didn’t matter as much anymore.
“Yes,” Raif said. “One ruled by a Ghan Aisouri empress—if that is what the realm desires.”
“What if the realm doesn’t want that?” Shirin said.
“Then I will serve Arjinna as she wishes me to,” Nalia answered, spreading her hands in a show of submission. “The gods showed me in the Eye—I will lead our realm and bring it back from ruin.” She glanced at Raif. “But I won’t be doing it alone.”
The look she gave him lessened the misery of losing his people. She was alive, here, and he wasn’t alone anymore.
“The choice is yours,” Raif said. “I’ve made mine.”
The line glowed, reflected in the eyes of his brothers and sisters.
No one stepped over it.
35
THE TAVRAI’S REACTION TO NALIA AND TO THE RING WAS a confirmation from the gods: if she didn’t lead, the realm would be reduced to packs of snarling dogs, each one fighting for control, spinning the realm into further chaos. Hers was a war with many fronts and she needed time to sort it all out: Calar and her shadows, the divided loyalties of the Ifrit, the tavrai, the Brass Army, and all the jinn who were simply trying to stay alive. If she hadn’t spent a year with the white phoenix or lain beneath the lote tree, she wouldn’t have thought it possible to untangle the mess the realm was in.
She could feel Raif’s sadness in his chiaan as he stared at the glowing line he’d drawn between him and his family. Nalia hadn’t expected any tavrai to cross the line and it hurt, seeing his soldiers reject him. She knew how hard it was for Raif when he turned his back on them and began walking away, his shoulders drawn in. The tavrai watched, silent. She followed his lead, her hand in his, Taz and Touma and Thatur staying well behind in order to ensure their safety. Their little party was halfway to the clearing where the Brass Army waited when a cry arose from the tavrai. Nalia turned just in time to see the hulking jinni who had stood beside Shirin throw another jinni into the dirt and begin pummeling him.
Raif turned, a look of recognition crossing his face. “Aw, hells.” He cupped his mouth with his hands and when he spoke, his voice was a furious growl. “Jaqar, stand down!”
The jinni ignored Raif, the sound of his fists hitting flesh echoing in the clearing.
“Who . . .” Nalia’s voice died as she caught sight of the jinni’s face as he flailed in Jaqar’s iron grip. The disfigured flesh could have been anyone’s, but his eyes: that particular shade of gold, the almond shape—Bashil’s eyes. She knew exactly who the jinni was.
“Father!” she cried.
And her world was remade yet again.
Instinct took over and Nalia launched herself at Jaqar, caring little for her stature as the heir to the throne. Empress or no, she was going to save the last surviving member of her family.
Jaqar looked up, a menacing grin crossing his face just as Nalia landed a blow to his jaw. He stumbled back, leaving her father in the dust. She could have used magic, but Nalia wanted to feel his bones give way beneath her flesh, to show Jaqar she could fight him any way she pleased.
Ajwar Shai’Dzar stared at his daughter, tears falling down his ravaged face. A faint smile slipped across his lips before he fell into a coughing fit, blood dripping down his chin. Raif yelled and Nalia turned just as a burst of Jaqar’s green chiaan hit her in the chest. She stumbled back, gasping. Raif sprinted toward her, but she raised a hand.
“I’ve got it,” she said. Raif stopped, uncertain. “This is my fight.” She faced Jaqar, flexing her fingers. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
He pulled out his scimitar, his voice dripping with hatred. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to kill one of your kind, you worthless bitch.”
Thatur roared, stamping his claws against the hard-packed dirt.
“That’s it,” Raif said. “I’m killing him. I’m killing him right now.” Raif moved forward, a dagger in each hand, but Thatur stopped him with one of his powerful wings.
“The empress is the finest warrior in the land. Let them see for themselves what happens when someone dares to cross her,” he said. “They won’t soon try it again.”
Nalia gestured to Touma, who stood a few steps to her right, chiaan bleeding from his fingers. “Touma—my father,” she said, without taking her eyes away from Jaqar.
Despite her exhaustion and the strain Calar’s attack had taken on her, Nalia’s adrenaline was coursing through her: she itched for the fight. Nalia hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted this—fists and blood, shooting chiaan like iron-tipped arrows. If she’d had this in the Eye, it would have reminded her she was alive, that the power she’d been born with had not abandoned her. Nalia didn’t want the grace of the court. After the massacre of her people and being a slave on Earth, she liked getting her
hands dirty. Craved it.
Touma helped Nalia’s father to his feet and out of the ring that had instantly developed around Nalia and Jaqar.
She stood still, watching. Waiting.
Jaqar gave a yell and evanesced—faster than she’d ever seen a non-Aisouri twist his body into smoke. He landed beside her just a moment later, but Nalia had already slipped out of his reach, graceful and swift despite her dark year in the Eye. She reached inside for the reserve of chiaan that filled her body, and her hands blazed with blinding violet light as she drew the magic to the surface of her skin. Nalia threw her chiaan at her opponent, the magic surging over him like a wave. Jaqar flew into the air and landed heavily on his side. She heard a bone crack, his agonized scream.
“Are we done?” she asked.
He spit and she stepped back before it could hit her. “Not nearly,” he growled.
Jaqar pushed back to his feet and lurched toward her just as Nalia evanesced, landing directly behind him. She kicked Jaqar’s legs out from underneath him, but as he fell, the blade of his scimitar swiped across her middle. The metal found its mark, the pain a bloom that spread across her abdomen.
“Nalia!” Raif started into the ring, but halted as Nalia reached her hand up, her eyes on the sky above.
A bolt of lightning flashed, a blinding cobra of light, followed by an earth-shattering clap of thunder that sounded directly above the forest. As a second bolt sped toward them, Nalia reached out her hand, halting it with her chiaan just before it pierced Jaqar’s chest. The air sizzled as the lightning remained suspended between flesh and sky. Nalia drew its energy into her, the Ifrit side of her magic gorging on the electric blade’s energy. It rushed into her, filling Nalia with its scalding power. It tasted like the sky, like the beginning of the worlds, like spicy peppers. She stood over Jaqar, her eyes locked on his, straining against the power of the bolt. For the first time, the hatred in his eyes was replaced with fear, a terror so deep his body shook.
“I will never force you to bend the knee,” she said, loud enough for all the tavrai to hear, “but touch one of my people again and it will be the last thing you do.”
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