The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  “Come inside?” Fatima Ghazala gives him a curious look. “All right.” She steps over the threshold. Zulfikar halts her progress with a hand on her arm, feeling his cheeks flush.

  “Stay here. I will get your oud for you.” He grabs the instrument from a side table and returns to her.

  “Is this where you sleep?” she asks him, looking around. Zulfikar immediately feels self-conscious of the space. When she looks at his room, in the space where he wears no masks, it feels like she is looking into his soul.

  “Yes. Here.” He hands the instrument over, and she takes it reverently.

  “Thank you.” She pats the oud affectionately before slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m going home now.”

  “Home?” Zulfikar frowns. He doesn’t quite know how this human girl with fire fits into Firdaus’s story—well, he sort of knows, but letting her leave is probably not a good idea.

  “You are not going to tell me I can’t leave, are you?” The girl looks at him. Her eyes have a challenge in them.

  Zulfikar considers. He cannot tell her about the taint until his superiors in Al-Naar authorize him to do so. He can tell her she will be in danger if she leaves, but considering the level of animosity directed toward her by the Wazir, she’ll be in far more danger if she stays.

  “I’m not,” he finally says. “But would you let me escort you back?” Fatima Ghazala shrugs as if she doesn’t care either way.

  Later, Zulfikar reflects that his offer to take Fatima Ghazala home is less goodwill on his part and more a desire to feel her close to him once again. Ever since he took her fire into him and it bonded to his, he feels prickly around her. But not in an unpleasant way. The bond insists that she is important—and perhaps she is—but not in the emotional way that the bond suggests. Zulfikar wonders if he hasn’t made an irreparable mistake by accepting her fire. For her part, she seems entirely unaffected by him, but perhaps he ought to take heart in the fact that she has yet to fling him on the floor and threaten bodily harm for daring to touch her.

  “I am finding it difficult to believe that you are letting me leave,” Fatima Ghazala says. They are riding slowly through the mostly empty streets toward Northern Taaj Gul.

  “Me too,” Zulfikar admits in a mutter. She should be placed in protective custody, but, in their world, in Al-Naar, no one tells the women what to do. They’re the ones who make the rules and the male Ifrit are the ones who enforce them.

  “Because it is most certainly my fault Baba came to his end,” the girl says, a sob in her voice.

  “If you are determined to blame yourself, nothing I say will appease you,” Zulfikar replies. The blame for the Name Giver’s death falls squarely on him, the Emir of Noor City, who failed to protect the one person he most needed to. He wonders how the girl will react if he tells her this.

  Fatima Ghazala shifts on her perch in front of Zulfikar, and he, aware of the girl in a way he wasn’t before, feels uncomfortable. They ride through the streets with Fatima Ghazala directing him until they stop outside the building where she and her sister live. The front of the building is deserted, though the hum of voices coming from within is proof that it is inhabited. Zulfikar dismounts and helps Fatima Ghazala off the horse. He hands her the oud.

  “Be careful. Tell no one of your fire, and if you feel danger at any time—”

  Fatima Ghazala shrugs. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You may have the strength, but you are not infallible. Don’t forget that,” Zulfikar warns her.

  The girl flexes her fingers, as if trying out the strength he mentioned. She beams at him suddenly, and Zulfikar blinks. “What is it?”

  “I like being strong,” she replies.

  Zulfikar shakes his head and gets back on his horse. He looks down at her and suddenly finds himself unwilling to leave. It is not that he doubts her ability to keep herself safe—well, he does. She is human, but then again, she has the fire. He doesn’t know how to quantify her. In the end, all he can do is tell her again to be careful before muttering a brusque goodbye and riding away.

  Fatima Ghazala stands for a moment, watching the Emir’s receding figure. She doesn’t know what to make of him. His name shines in his chest, in the space above his heart. Zulfikar: bladed, brimming with heat, clean, and honest. She should be able to trust him, but Fatima Ghazala feels wary. When she cannot see him anymore, she takes a deep breath and turns to face the entrance to the building.

  The pink dust on the stone steps leading to the doors is familiar. The air, smelling of heat, chai, and chaunk is familiar. Also familiar are the drawings on the staircase wall. Colorful stick figures rollicking on the landscape provided by the rose-colored wall; childhood leaves its calling cards in the most unexpected places. One little blue sandal sits on the fifth-floor landing, no sign of its mate. Fatima Ghazala walks slowly; each step feels like a revelation. She thinks of her baba, so recently the most important person in her world, and now, less than a memory. Whatever he did to her has changed her innately. Like two halves of one piece finally becoming whole. Like having a voice and finding a song to sing with it.

  The girl she was before the change feels like a story Fatima Ghazala heard a long time ago. Fatima, who was, seems like a reflection observed through a smudged mirror: hazy and distorted.

  On the seventh floor, Fatima Ghazala turns into the corridor and walks down to the apartment she shares with Sunaina. She stares at the beaten blue door and hesitates. She has no key. Will anyone be inside? Does she want someone to be inside? Fatima Ghazala knocks on the door, and not one second passes before it is wrenched open.

  She looks at the woman who opened the door, notes the shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her face. Her sister is at once familiar and strange. Fatima Ghazala feels a surge of love for her, a love peppered by pain. She remembers herself as she was, in the maidaan not two days past, listening to Sunaina call her a burden, an obstacle to her sister’s future happiness.

  “Didi,” Fatima Ghazala tries saying. Sunaina stands in the doorway, looking shocked. For one moment anyway. Then she throws her arms around Fatima Ghazala and weeps. “Where have you been? Are you hurt? Do you know how much I was worried? I thought you were dead!”

  “I apologize for the worry my absence caused you,” Fatima Ghazala says, and is conscious of the lie. She wanted this woman, her sister, to worry.

  “What happened to you?” Sunaina asks, her hands clutching Fatima Ghazala’s hand. She pulls her inside and closes the door behind them.

  Fatima Ghazala looks around the room, reassured by its familiarity. She looks down at the hands holding her and frowns. “There is something I must tell you.”

  Sunaina, face filled with concern, sits down, and pats the space beside her. Fatima Ghazala stares down at her older sister and remembers the night in the maidaan, the thorny words. She puts some distance between them—not much, the room is too small. She notes the look of hurt on her sister’s face and feels a moment of pleasure. Why should she be the only one in pain? Then she stops, realizing that Fatima would never have felt this way. However, Fatima no longer exists.

  “I am Fatima Ghazala,” she says to Sunaina, conscious of a sense of empowerment that comes with putting into words what has become her truth.

  “What do you mean? Fatima Ghazala? Do you feel ill? Do you need a healer?” Sunaina gets to her feet as well.

  “I will only respond when both my names are used,” Fatima Ghazala says. “I cannot speak of why or how.” To explain would require knowing what happened to her, and at this moment, Fatima Ghazala doesn’t.

  “I don’t understand what you mean. Are you acting this way because of what happened? What I said?” Fresh tears spill out of Sunaina’s eyes. Fatima Ghazala watches her sister cry, and her conscience pricks. She ignores it. “Fatima!” Sunaina implores.

  “Please address me as Fatima Ghazala.” If she were still Fatima, she would give in to her sister, just like she did every time they disagreed. Her temper stir
s. “Yes, actually, I am still upset by what I heard, by what you said. I didn’t know that my existence creates an obstacle for your happiness. You should have told me. I will move out as soon as I can.” She takes a breath. “However, calling me by my name has nothing to do with how you think I am a burden. I simply want to be addressed as Fatima Ghazala.”

  Sunaina flinches as if the words physically hurt her, but Fatima Ghazala isn’t done yet. “If only you had spoken to me about your dilemma before speaking to other people about it, things would have been resolved quicker. I know we are not related by blood, but I would have thought you’d have granted me that consideration if only for the sake of the memories we share.” Fatima Ghazala finds that she wants to say more things. Her words want to sting and hurt, but she reins herself in.

  “How can you say this after being missing all night? Do you know how much I worried?” Her sister’s eyes have brimmed over.

  Fatima Ghazala looks at the only family she has left in the world. Fatima would have retreated from this confrontation. Fatima Ghazala refuses to. “If not now, then when?” She sighs. “I love you, didi. Hearing myself spoken of in that manner hurt. I don’t ever wish to experience that pain again.”

  She meets her sister’s eyes, and it is Sunaina who looks away first. Finally, she says, “You are right. You are not Fatima. Fatima would never have said something like this.”

  “No,” Fatima Ghazala agrees. “But, didi, she still would have felt these words. Is that any better?”

  The Alif sisters take the news better than Fatima Ghazala thought they would. After the initial round of teary hugs and scolding from the Alif parents, the Alif sisters and Fatima Ghazala retreat to the relative privacy of the open roof. It is not entirely abandoned, but the hour of the day means that people are either out working or cooking their evening meal. The children are still in school.

  They take refuge under a shelter constructed by four posts, the roof of which is gauzy white fabric. The overhanging edges of the fabric flutter feebly in the hot breeze. Amirah pours them sharbat, and they all take long drafts of it.

  After wiping her lips daintily on her embroidered handkerchief, Azizah fixes a gimlet eye on Fatima Ghazala. “What happened to you? You seem different. I can tell because I’m a great observer of people.”

  “That’s what she calls her stalking of Bilal,” Amirah adds, and yelps when her younger sister nudges her none too gently.

  Fatima Ghazala laughs out loud at this, delighting in the simple companionship the girls offer. Her smile dims when she meets Adila’s sadder eyes. “What happened to you, habibi?” the oldest Alif sister asks.

  Fatima Ghazala has no desire to revisit the events of the past day. However, some people deserve all the truths she can give them. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” She takes a deep breath. “Firdaus Baba died.” She releases the breath in a shudder. “Before he did, something happened to me. Don’t ask me what, I do not know. But when I woke up, I was no longer Fatima but Fatima Ghazala. I have fire … Djinn fire.”

  “Djinni fire? Are you Ifrit?” The three girls scoot closer to Fatima Ghazala and lower their voices.

  “I don’t know,” Fatima Ghazala replies. “I don’t think so.”

  “So you are not Ifrit, but you are Fatima Ghazala,” Adila says slowly.

  Fatima Ghazala nods firmly.

  “Well, that’s a mouthful.” Azizah grins.

  “It’s nothing we can’t handle, though,” Amirah says, reaching for more sharbat.

  “I will have you know that Bilal is still in excellent form.” Azizah changes the subject. “His azaan last Maghrib was particularly beautiful.”

  “And yet you still drag your feet when it’s time to pray,” Amirah retorts.

  It is not that they aren’t curious or don’t want to know more, but the sheen in Fatima Ghazala’s eyes and the tremble of her lips asks them to retreat, to save their questions for another time. Adila slips her hand into Fatima Ghazala’s and holds on tight.

  Zulfikar manages to avoid the Wazir until after Maghrib. He is sitting in front of the fire pit behind the barracks, looking into the flames and seeing nothing when the Wazir finds him.

  “What have you done with the human?” Anwar demands.

  “There are much more important matters to discuss at this time than a human girl,” Zulfikar says softly. “Even one with Djinn fire.” In the orange glow cast by the fire, he looks closer to his Ifrit form than he ever has while being in his human shape.

  Zulfikar looks at the Wazir and sees a brief expression of unadulterated rage on the older Ifrit’s face. “Did you get news from Tayneeb?”

  Zulfikar struggles to maintain a calm expression even as panic threatens to engulf him. He remembers what he was taught before he assumed the position of Emir: He cannot evince any fear or panic to anyone, human or otherwise. Some burdens are his alone to carry.

  “Well?” Anwar prompts.

  “The Name Giver’s power failed to manifest in any of the four apprentices.” Zulfikar feels sick even saying these words. He looks around belatedly and sighs in relief at finding the area empty apart from himself and the Wazir.

  Anwar’s eyes widen at the news, and he sits down on the wooden bench beside Zulfikar. “What are the elders doing about this? What did the Raees say?”

  “The academics and the mystics are investigating, but they are limited in what they can achieve. For a full investigation, they need access to the location of Firdaus’s death. Which is where we come in. Have you tracked down the merchant who sourced the book for the Name Giver?”

  “Not yet. I have sent some Amir soldiers after his caravan on the Silk Road. As soon as they locate him, I will go.”

  “We need a new Name Giver as soon as possible.” Zulfikar gets up and paces. He doesn’t understand why the power hasn’t passed on to an apprentice yet. No precedence exists in any of the books in any of the libraries in Tayneeb where the Name Giver’s power hasn’t manifested in someone new after the previous Name Giver’s death.

  The Wazir shrugs. “There is no imperative need for the Name Giver at this moment. We have enough soldiers. No specific conflict simmers to warrant any increase in our need for them. I think we will be all right until they resolve the problem.”

  Anwar has not been told of the Raees’s condition, of the taint that even now is trying to eat her sanity. The Raees cannot stay in Tayneeb or even Al-Naar. If her control ever slips— Zulfikar shies away from the thought. He needs to talk to Fatima Ghazala one more time.

  “It is more important to know how the human girl got Ghazala’s fire,” the Wazir says suddenly. “You might be too busy in the next few months to give her your full attention. I would like to lay claim to her.”

  Zulfikar’s eyes narrow. “She’s not an object. Do not speak of her as such.”

  “It is within my right—” Anwar says hotly.

  “And what right is it that you speak of?” Zulfikar cuts him off.

  “Ghazala was my wife!”

  Zulfikar gets to his feet, suddenly furious. “If the records are correct, she released herself from that bond and pursued no other relationship with you before her disappearance.”

  “Even so.”

  “I refuse your petition, Wazir. And I repeat, Fatima Ghazala is not an object to be claimed.” Zulfikar’s tone is as cold as his anger is hot.

  The Wazir’s jaw tightens, and he opens his mouth, presumably to argue.

  Zulfikar preempts the older Ifrit’s protest: “You do realize that Fatima Ghazala is not a reincarnation of Ghazala.”

  “She has her fire,” Anwar repeats, refusing to be persuaded.

  “But not her soul,” Zulfikar says, and walks away.

  A landscape littered with the bodies of people she loved, people she knew, and people she greeted. A fire extinguishing whatever remained of hope. Faces, beautiful enough to pull poetry from mirrors, hiding monstrous selves. The River Rahat running red with the blood of the dead. Her sister bleeding,
burning with a strange light. Her sister, whose blood kept them alive from those who killed everyone. Her sister gone. Ashes remain.

  Sunaina’s eyes snap open, and for a moment, she lies in bed, breathing hard. Her dream is fading quickly, but the fear that choreographed it remains. She turns her head to check on Fatima Ghazala and sits up with a gasp. Her sister’s skin is covered by an orange-yellow glow that lights up the room. Fatima Ghazala is making sounds of distress, as if under the thrall of some nightmare. Sunaina gathers up her courage and climbs out of bed, her feet curling on the cold stone floor. She moves closer to Fatima Ghazala’s bed and reaches out to shake her shoulder but yelps and moves back even before her fingers make contact. The orange-yellow glow burned her. Sunaina looks down at her fingers, and terror washes over her.

  What does this mean? Has Fatima changed in ways Sunaina doesn’t understand? Ways she doesn’t want to understand. What if this Fatima Ghazala is not her sweet sister but a djinni? A Shaitan? The same kind of creature that killed her parents. What if this Fatima Ghazala is here to kill Sunaina? No … What would her death achieve? But then again, when have the Djinn ever done anything logically? Fatima Ghazala cries out suddenly, and Sunaina jumps, tripping in her haste to move away. Her heart pounds furiously, and her throat is parched. She moves to the kitchen and with shaking hands pours herself some water. Standing in the dark, she sips the water, trying to calm herself. She needs to sleep before that creature wakes up for Fajr. Sunaina finishes her drink, takes a deep breath, and slips back into the bedroom. She stands looking at the sleeping figure before climbing back into bed. Her heart pounds. Sleep will not be a possibility tonight, but she can pretend.

  Fatima Ghazala wakes up with a gasp. She cannot remember her dream entirely, but glimmers of it linger. A young child, about three, maybe four, with big gold eyes and a solemn smile. One minute smiling, the next minute cold in her arms. Fatima Ghazala raises a hand to her eyes and finds them wet. This despair, this feeling of loss. This is the third time she has dreamed about the child. Shuruq, her name is. This knowledge is innate.