by Nafiza Azad
They reach the mahal, and Zulfikar dismounts first. He waits while she finishes looking around with wide eyes.
“Those gulmohar trees must be beautiful when in bloom,” she says, looking down at him.
“Indeed they are,” he replies shortly. “Will you get down?”
The girl looks from him to the ground and back again. She shrugs and jumps, and it is all Zulfikar can do to catch her. The shock of the contact is enough to fluster him, and his arms tighten for a second before he lets go and steps back.
The girl follows him silently up the stairs to the library. Only when he opens the door to the room does her face light up with pleasure and she says, “What a beautiful room.”
Zulfikar gestures to the seats in the middle of the room and motions for her to sit. The girl hesitates, looking around. “Where is Baba?”
“By ‘Baba’ you mean Firdaus the bookseller?” Zulfikar says. He watches her carefully.
“Well, he doesn’t sell very many books.” The girl has dimples. “But yes, I do mean him. Where is he? Is he not here? Did you lie to me?”
“I did not lie,” Zulfikar says bleakly. “Though I wish I had.”
The girl looks at him uncertainly. Finally Zulfikar yields to the question in her gaze. He nods at the urn standing on a low table in front of the seats. “That urn contains all that remains of Firdaus the bookseller.”
The girl, Fatima Ghazala, stares at him blankly for a minute, as if she cannot comprehend his words. Then she backs away from him, shaking her head, denying his words. Her face twists in pain, and she claws at her head, her eyes tightly closed against whatever she is seeing. She screams, and her fire rises to the surface of her skin.
Zulfikar frowns, unsure what to do, how to respond. Ifrit soldiers who lose control of their fire lose control of their names and thus their forms. They automatically shift planes until they are in Al-Naar. Of course this happens infrequently and only in moments of extreme mental and emotional distress. But for all that she has the fire, Fatima Ghazala is not Ifrit. Zulfikar doesn’t even know if she has a name to lose. If she loses control of her fire, she will most probably die.
“What is going on here?” Anwar stands in the doorway of the library with a strange expression on his face. He looks at Fatima Ghazala and then at Zulfikar. “What is the matter with her? Who is she? When did she cross over? Is she related to the Name Giver … ?”
“Call for a healer,” Zulfikar replies, stepping closer to Fatima Ghazala, who has wrapped her arms around herself and is rocking back and forth. He doesn’t like the look in Anwar’s eyes. “Send word to the rajah’s side. They house healers.”
The Wazir looks reluctant, but Zulfikar’s piercing stare gives him no choice.
Once he is gone, Zulfikar returns his attention to Fatima Ghazala. She is oblivious to the world, locked in some kind of mental anguish. Zulfikar looks at her shaking form for a moment with his jaw clenched. He hates feeling helpless, so disregarding all bounds of propriety, he pulls her into his arms and accepts her fire into himself. Her fire is foreign and stings, but he endures the discomfort as it sinks through his skin and bonds with his fire. When it does, he feels her presence in him increase and understands why a bond between two fires is restricted to those who are married. Zulfikar wonders, with some panic, if he has leaped blindly off a precipice. But how could he stand by and let her die? She trembles in his arms, and he tightens his arms around her.
He holds her until she stops keening, until her grief, having been expressed, becomes manageable. He is aware of the moment she stops holding herself and slips her arms around him. When she finally stops shaking, he pulls away from her.
She stands in front of him, a portrait of grief. Her eyes are shining, and her cheeks are damp. Tendrils of hair have escaped her braid.
“Have you remembered what happened at the bookstore?” Zulfikar asks, gentling his tone with some effort. His need to know grows with each second.
The girl looks at him silently for a moment. Then, as if gathering her thoughts, she speaks slowly. “In flashes. Glimmers. Moments of pain. I was with Baba—” She breaks off and frowns. “No, that wasn’t me. I mean, that wasn’t me as I am right now.” She stops again, looking frustrated. “I don’t know how to explain it to you. I was Fatima before.”
“And you are not Fatima anymore?” Zulfikar doesn’t understand what she is trying to say.
“I am not just Fatima anymore. I am Fatima Ghazala. I didn’t know I had that name before.”
A thought occurs to Zulfikar, and his eyes widen. Surely not. It cannot be possible. The Name Giver’s daughter, who was also Named Ghazala, is dead. Has been dead for the past fourteen years.
Zulfikar has more questions, but before he can give voice to any of them, the door opens and the Wazir enters, this time with a healer in tow. The two men stop short at the sight of Fatima, standing calmly before the Emir.
“I am perfectly well—unless you cure grief too? No? I didn’t think so.” The girl shakes away the healer’s ministrations. “Though I would appreciate food and lots of dessert.”
Zulfikar dismisses the healer and steps out into the corridor to call for refreshments for Fatima Ghazala. When he returns to the library, Anwar is pressed facedown on the tile floor. Fatima Ghazala has her knee against his spine to hold him in place while she twists his hand behind his back.
Zulfikar opens his mouth, then closes it. “What is the meaning of this?” he manages.
“I don’t like strange men touching me,” the girl says, her eyes almost molten in their intensity.
“He touched you?” Zulfikar asks, looking at the Wazir’s position.
“He tried to touch me,” the girl corrects him. She lets the Wazir go and stands up, wiping her hands on her tunic.
The Wazir gets to his feet, his face tight with rage. Zulfikar looks at the older Ifrit and notes that for the first time since he has known him Anwar is ruffled. The Wazir’s clothes are creased, and there is a tremor to his movements. “Explain yourself, Wazir.” The offense is a serious one, and were they in Al-Naar, the Wazir would have been in chains.
“She has Ghazala’s fire, Zulfikar!” Anwar bites out. “Why does she have Ghazala’s fire? Where is Ghazala? Where is she?”
Zulfikar feels his breath rush out of him. His suspicions have been confirmed. He tilts his head and looks at the girl. She meets his eyes without flinching. Her brows are furrowed, and she is looking at the Wazir as if he is some new insect that has recently crawled into existence.
“Ask her name, Anwar,” Zulfikar says to the Wazir, not anticipating the explosion to come when he finds out. Instead of providing answers, the girl is just increasing the questions that Zulfikar will need to resolve before he faces the Raees. Though when and how he will face the Raees are also questions he doesn’t yet have answers for.
“Why would I want her name?” Anwar sneers. “I want to know where Ghazala is, not the name of some inconsequential human.”
“Why would I want to give him my name?” Fatima Ghazala asks, and Zulfikar is forced to concede. There is no reason she would want to give the Wazir anything, not the way he is behaving.
A knock on the door interrupts them. The food is brought in and laid out. Fatima Ghazala fills her plate and eats with relish, savoring every morsel. Anwar does not take his eyes off her, but the girl doesn’t give the older Ifrit man another look.
Once she has finished eating her meal and the five different kinds of dessert that accompanied it, Fatima Ghazala washes her hands with water in a basin provided for the purpose and wipes her lips. “Ask your questions now,” she says. Zulfikar straightens, unconsciously reacting to the command in her voice.
Anwar immediately repeats his question. “Where is Ghazala?”
Fatima Ghazala does not give any indication that she has even heard the Wazir’s question. “Well?” she says to Zulfikar.
“You dare ignore me?” the Wazir hisses. “Know your place, sayyida!”
&n
bsp; “And what place is that?” The girl keeps her face averted from Anwar. Her loathing for the man is practically a scream. Zulfikar decides to maintain his silence and simply observe for the time being.
“You are human,” Anwar says as if that explains everything.
“I didn’t realize being human is a sin,” Fatima Ghazala retorts.
“We are the saviors of your kind!” Anwar grinds out.
“I saved myself, sayyid. And two others besides me. To my knowledge, no other human in the city escaped alive. Tell me again who you saved.”
“You— No, more importantly, why do you have Ghazala’s fire? Where is she?”
“Who is this Ghazala he speaks of?” Fatima Ghazala asks Zulfikar.
“She was his wife … until she chose otherwise,” Zulfikar replies as blandly as he can manage. He doesn’t miss the poisonous look Anwar shoots him.
“I do not know who Ghazala is,” she says, still looking at Zulfikar, “or was. I also do not know why I have her fire.”
“Do you think I will believe you?” Anwar replies.
“I do not think of inconsequential things,” Fatima Ghazala says. “Ask your questions.”
Anwar stands up; violence a promise in the lines of his body. Zulfikar clears his throat, reminding the Wazir of his position and his presence.
“This is important, Wazir. If you cannot restrain yourself, perhaps you ought to absent yourself for the rest of this meeting.” Anwar glares at both the Emir and the human and sits back down without another word. “Will you tell me what happened in the bookstore?” Zulfikar asks gently.
Fatima Ghazala’s eyes become cold, and the spark that animated her features fades away. She takes a deep breath and releases it. “Fatima went to deliver a book to Baba. She gave him the book, and the book killed him. He gave her his hand, and he killed her. When I opened my eyes, I was in the old mahal. Fatima is a memory—no, that is incorrect. She is not dead. She is here. I am her, but I am more. I am Fatima Ghazala.”
Zulfikar feels the pieces fall firmly into place. Things make much more sense now. The reason why Firdaus protected the girl, the reason why he was so attached to her. The old Name Giver had known the human girl carried his daughter’s fire. Zulfikar looks at the girl and finds her looking back at him.
“What is it that you aren’t telling me?” she asks him.
“Ghazala, my wife, was Firdaus’s daughter. The Emir probably doesn’t want to tell you that any grace the old Ifrit showed you is due to your having her fire,” Anwar says with a malicious smile.
“Ah.” Fatima Ghazala doesn’t flinch. Without looking at him, she responds, “I don’t mind if the only reason he was kind to me is because of the fire I unwittingly possess. What matters is the kindness itself—though it seems the concept of it is foreign to you.”
“The book didn’t kill Firdaus,” Zulfikar says before Anwar and Fatima Ghazala descend into an argument. “He killed himself.”
“No.” Fatima Ghazala refuses to believe that.
“Did he say anything before he set himself on fire?”
“I said he didn’t!” Fatima Ghazala insists hotly.
“Did he?” Zulfikar will not be moved.
“I can’t remember.”
“Try!”
“Enough!” Fatima Ghazala stands up. She raises a trembling hand to her eyes and wipes them roughly. “It’s going to be Zohr soon. I need to take a bath and change my clothes. Please arrange it.”
Zulfikar looks dissatisfied but nods. Anwar’s eyes are narrowed in thought, and his attention remains focused on Fatima Ghazala, though she betrays not the slightest sign that she is aware of it.
Eight years ago, Maharajah Arjun, in a desperate bid to save the city of Noor and thus the country of Qirat from the invading Shayateen, gathered the remaining soldiers of his mostly decimated army and met the Shayateen in battle in the desert outside Noor City. With him was Sandeep, his eldest son and heir. The king, the crown prince, and the soldiers were all killed.
The first emotion Aarush was cognizant of when he got the news of his father’s and brother’s deaths was not grief but fear. At twenty, he was neither desirous of nor ready for the responsibility and burden of the crown. However, he couldn’t refuse what his father and brother had died to protect. How could he refuse when he was alive and they weren’t? When they had fought, and died, for their country, their people, while he sat at home, the spare heir, the just-in-case son? Aarush had argued with his father; he’d wanted to accompany them to battle. Twenty was old enough to die. His father had refused him every single time.
The mantle of the maharajah is oppressive; the gazes of his subjects always ask him for things he will not be able to give them. Aarush tries to be just, tries to care, but there are days like today when he would much rather retreat from the world and the many people laying claim to his attention and spend it in silence. Once upon a time, he harbored dreams of becoming a celebrated poet. Once upon a time, he spent days stuck inside his compositions.
But poetry has no place in politics, and so his verses wilted.
Aarush sits in the throne room, a grand hall with lavishly appointed seats for the maharajah and the maharani at the front, divans on the sides for the royal family, their relatives, and favored courtiers, and space in front for the masses to stand while waiting to supplicate the maharajah for whatever boon they seek. The final supplicant has just left, and Aarush is eager to escape the entirely overwhelming room. He gets to his feet.
Bhavya bursts into the throne room as if she is being chased by bandits. Luckily the room is empty apart from the immediate members of the royal family and Sanchit Goundar, a landowner and Ruchika’s father.
Aarush takes one look at his younger sister’s face and grimaces. He knows that expression. His advisor, Janab Jamshid, is right behind her, looking more anxious than usual. Bhavya has a way of making people anxious. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Bhavya?” Aarush decides to yield to the inevitable and sits down again. He pulls on Aruna’s arm, and she sinks back in her seat gracefully.
“Why did the Emir call for a human healer, bhaiya?” Bhavya asks him, as if he is the Emir’s personal secretary. Feeling exasperated, Aarush glances at his mother, who is seated on the side with Jayanti Bua. He also glances at Sanchit Goundar, but the man’s face is impassive.
“Come inside and close the door. You too, Jamshid Chacha.” They obey. “Your spies told you about the healer?” he asks, and Bhavya nods, not bothering to deny that she has spies. Aarush turns to Janab Jamshid. “Is the healer back?”
“Yes, Maharaj. He reported that he was summoned to look over a girl who claimed better health when he got there and refused to be examined.”
“Is this girl he was supposed to examine human?” Aarush asks with interest. From all reports, the Emir has no friends, no confidants among his people. For him to be with a girl is particularly interesting.
“The healer cannot tell, Maharaj. She’s young, he said, younger than Rajkumari Bhavya, perhaps.” When Aarush looks at Bhavya, she has a scowl on her face. She does not like this particular turn of events at all.
“No Ifrit woman has ever manifested here before,” Aarush muses out loud.
“Do you think they’re bringing more of their soldiers over without talking to you first?” the Rajmata says anxiously.
“The Emir wouldn’t do such things without reason, Amma,” Aarush reassures his mother.
“Beta,” Jayanti says with a sorrowful look on her face. “You cannot trust things like them. Isn’t it about time we reclaimed our country from those creatures?”
“Your aunt is absolutely right, Maharaj,” Sanchit Goundar says. “Your people are not happy having these Djinn ruling half of Qirat. The rebellion—”
“And how do you propose we find protection from the Shayateen without the Ifrit?” Aarush cuts off the man, keeping his voice genial.
“It is quite probable, Maharaj, that they are no longer a threat!” The l
andowner leans forward, talking excitedly.
“So you would have us risk our lives, our people, our country, on mere suppositions, Sanchit Baba?” Aarush asks softly. The landowner seems to realize he has made a gaffe. “Tell me, Sanchit Baba, where were you during the last war with the Shayateen? My father and my brother put their lives on the line and died protecting not just Noor but all of Qirat. Tell me, where were you then? Safe in some forest haveli as far away from Noor as possible?” Aarush scoffs. “And yet you dare to stand here and trivialize the sacrifices my father and my brother made so you can live?”
The man bows his head and apologizes. Aarush ignores him and looks very deliberately at Jayanti. She blanches and immediately lowers her gaze. “Know this, where the Ifrit are concerned, my father’s words hold true now and they will hold true in the future. Anyone who speaks against the Ifrit speaks against my father.”
“Come. Let us not talk of these things right now,” the Rajmata says in an attempt to defuse the situation. “Do look up, Sanchit. Aarush, it is past time for lunch. Aruna, it is time for Vihaan’s meal too, isn’t it? Come now, let us move.”
Bhavya watches her family members disperse. Her brother still looks grim, but her bhabhi, the maharani, gives her a warm smile in passing. Bhavya is much too preoccupied with the question of the human girl in Northern Aftab to pay the rest of them much attention.
“Bhavya.” Her mother’s voice cuts into her thoughts. “You and I will talk. Follow me.”
The clock has just struck two in the afternoon when there is a knock on the door to Zulfikar’s room. He gets up from the desk, where he was recording his thoughts, and walks across the room to the door. Fatima Ghazala stands on the other side, clean and comfortable in the cotton shalwar kameez she borrowed from a domestic.
“You have my oud,” she says to Zulfikar, and stretches out a hand.
“Ah. I do. Will you come—” Zulfikar stops, horrified at himself. It has been too long since he was in the company of women if he is forgetting the strict rules of propriety.