by Nafiza Azad
“Not wholly. She is human with Djinn fire.” The Emir walks closer to Aarush. The flames from the torch illuminate the Ifrit’s face. “I tell you with confidence that this knowledge will remain between us.”
Aarush nods. “Of course.” It is his turn to pause now. “What is your relationship to the girl?”
Aarush’s eyebrows rise at the expression on the Ifrit’s face. “I’m not entirely sure,” the Emir replies.
“And the report?” Arush asks. He listens, his face paling, as the Emir relates to him of the happenings in a Shams Gali school not an hour past.
“So that very beautiful person dropping you off on his horse and standing very close to you is an Emir?” Azizah repeats as if unable to believe it.
“Not just any Emir, Azizah. The Emir. The only one that matters here in Noor,” Amirah adds in the same tone.
“His name is Zulfikar,” Fatima Ghazala replies. When the two Alif sisters look at her, she blushes.
“Did you just blush?” Amirah demands.
“I am feeling shy.” Fatima Ghazala clears her throat. She presses her hands to her cheeks, willing them to cool. She has no reason to be blushing because of the Emir. None at all. “All this attention makes me self-conscious.” Azizah snorts.
The stars are out in full force—they usually are—but for some reason, they seem brighter tonight. The rooftop is comfortably crowded as families take some air before retiring to their apartments for the night. Fatima Ghazala, in a shalwar kameez she borrowed from Adila, sits on a bench on the rooftop with Azizah on one side of her and Amirah on the other. These moments of peace feel priceless after the day she just lived through.
“Ustaad Hakim talked to us about the growing momentum of the rebellion against the Djinn in the forest provinces of Qirat,” Amirah says after a period of companionable silence. “They no longer want the Ifrit ruling half the country they don’t live in.”
“Why does it matter to them who rules in the cities they don’t live in?” Azizah asks. “The natives of Qirat living in the desert cities seem content with their Ifrit Emirs.”
“Did the Emir say anything to you about the rebellion?” Amirah asks Fatima Ghazala.
“No. I didn’t think to ask him. How does your teacher know about the rebellion, Azizah?” Fatima Ghazala asks curiously. Rumors have filtered in from the many travelers to Noor City about the murmurings of the Qirati who want the country to be returned to them, but Fatima Ghazala had no idea that there was force behind these whispers.
“His brother arrived in Noor City from Khair the other day. Ustaad Hakim got the news from him directly,” Azizah replies.
One of the women sitting near them, Anu, hears the subject of their discussion. “I heard there’s going to be a war,” she says. Other people, attracted by her words, drift closer, and soon everyone on the rooftop is discussing the probability of war. Fatima Ghazala recognizes the current of fear running underneath their words. The people of Noor are afraid that the lives they have rebuilt will once again prove fragile in the face of forces outside their control.
“War scares me, api,” Azizah says softly, burrowing closer. Her eyes are full of shadows. “Will we have to run away again?”
Fatima Ghazala shakes her head but says nothing. How can she know what the future holds for any of them?
“We can’t keep running away, daughter,” an older woman says. Her name is Ling. She lives on the fifth floor with her husband. “There is only so much we can leave behind.”
The mood on the rooftop grows somber, and soon people start dispersing. Even the stars seem subdued now.
“Well, that was fun, Azizah,” Amirah grumbles. “Maybe next time you can keep your teacher’s dire warnings to yourself.”
“Adila’s back,” Fatima Ghazala says, and stands up. Adila is waiting for them at the entrance to the rooftop. The girls traipse down one flight of stairs and along the corridor to the Alif apartment. They pile inside, calling out greetings to the Alif parents, who are entertaining in the living room, before continuing to the large bedroom at the back of the apartment. This room is shared by the three sisters and now Fatima Ghazala.
Instead of beds, the Alif sisters sleep on futons—Azizah’s idea. This leaves them with more space in the room for their miscellaneous belongings. Two large lamps illuminate the room.
“What did Sunaina Baji say?” Amirah asks Adila, her curiosity getting the better of her.
Adila shoots her sister a repressive look, but Fatima Ghazala shrugs, her heart pounding. “I want to know too.”
“Nothing. She simply handed me that bag,” Adila says, gesturing to a bulging cloth bag placed beside the door. “It’s full of your stuff.”
Fatima Ghazala feels her eyes prickle, and she swallows. “I see.” An awkward pause lingers as she tries to compose herself.
“Well, I am hungry again.” Azizah stands up all of a sudden. “Abbu bought steamed buns, and we need to eat all of them before they go bad. Right, api?”
Amirah nods decisively. “Let’s go get some. We should also have some chai. You can never have enough chai.”
The younger girls leave, and a pronounced melancholy slips into the room.
“She didn’t ask about me, huh?” Fatima Ghazala says, her voice determinedly light. “Not even once?”
“I’m sorry, habibi,” Adila replies, her dark eyes compassionate.
Fatima Ghazala shrugs. “I’m all right. I really am.” She’s not, but maybe if she pretends hard enough, she will be.
Zulfikar is acquainted with worry: how it worms itself into all your thoughts and flavors all your actions. He knows the ponderousness that accompanies fear: when a slew of misgivings paint the future red. What he was completely unprepared for is the ache that accompanies this particular separation.
He sends his reports to the Raees and her advisors through the fire burning in the pit behind the barracks. He tries, unsuccessfully, to locate the Wazir and later finds out the Ifrit left for his usual patrols of the desert earlier, taking with him two Ifrit soldiers. After dinner, he settles in to stare blankly at a page of the book he is pretending to read. Finally he sits outside on his balcony and contemplates the city.
The hours seem interminably long, and his worries deepen. What if the Shayateen attack again? What if Fatima Ghazala gets hurt? How will he get to her in time? Maybe he should have stayed near her apartment building. Of course, to a certain extent, Zulfikar is worried about Fatima Ghazala because she is the Name Giver and he owes her his protection. But the other reason he worries is one that he does not understand. No, that is not quite correct. He does understand what the feelings burgeoning within him are, but he doesn’t know why or how he could feel this intensely for someone he barely knows. Zulfikar is not ready to trust his heart to anyone again. He may never be.
Fajr comes and passes, the sun rises, and at nine a.m. Zulfikar is on his horse racing the roads to Taaj Gul. It is a rest day, so the city is slower to rise, which suits Zulfikar fine. He tethers his horse to a post outside Fatima Ghazala’s building and, trusting the pull of Fatima Ghazala’s fire, makes his way up the flights of stairs until he reaches the apartment she is currently in.
He raps sharply on the door of the apartment, and it is pulled open by a sleepy-looking girl with a veil haphazardly wrapped around her head. She takes one look at him, her jaw drops open, and she slams the door shut. Zulfikar stares at the door, affronted. Beyond it, he hears a voice yell, “Api, the beautiful man you said is the Emir is at the door!”
Two minutes later, Fatima Ghazala opens the door. Her hair is unbound, and Zulfikar’s breath hitches. She is wearing a pale pink shalwar kameez, her lips are pursed, and her eyes are full of exasperation. Exasperation and—Zulfikar smiles slightly—something else. “What are you doing here?” she asks him gruffly.
“I told you I would come get you today,” Zulfikar replies. “Let’s go.”
“Do you think you can command me to come with you and I will happily oblige
?” Fatima Ghazala asks as if genuinely curious.
“Well, actually, yes,” Zulfikar replies. That is generally the way things work in the human world when you are the Emir.
“Is that how they usually do it in Al-Naar? Do men command and women rush to obey?” she asks next, and Zulfikar flushes. He imagines his sisters’ responses to that question and shudders slightly.
“Not quite,” he says, not meeting the new Name Giver’s eyes.
“It doesn’t work that way here either,” Fatima Ghazala says. “Come in, Ali Abbu and Asma Ammi want to talk to you.” Leaving the door open, she turns to go. “And take your shoes off at the entrance.”
A bit bemused, Zulfikar follows Fatima Ghazala into the apartment, leaving his shoes at the door. She takes him to the living room, tells him to wait, and disappears. Zulfikar sits down on a chair beside a divan and waits. He looks around the small room. The furnishings are worn but clean and tidy. A small window looks out into the corridor outside and provides the main source of light. Little knickknacks placed on dust-free surfaces show the pride this family takes in their home.
A man and a woman, both in their forties, enter the room, and Zulfikar gets to his feet. “Assalaam wa alaikum,” he greets them.
“Wa alaikum ussalaam,” they both respond, and sit down in the settee opposite him. They look at him with piercing disregard, and Zulfikar looks down at his hands, his feet, the floor, and the wall. For a long while, they don’t say a word. Zulfikar feels the walls press against him. Finally, just as he is about to beg for mercy, the man speaks. “So you are here for my Fatima?”
Zulfikar looks at the man in surprise. He didn’t know Fatima Ghazala had parents. The man, Ali, interprets his look correctly. “Fatima might not be a daughter of my blood, but she is a daughter of my heart. Tell me, what are your intentions toward her?”
Fatima Ghazala pops her head into the room. “Abbu, our relationship isn’t—”
The woman, Asma, cuts her off. “Fatima, don’t interrupt your elders.”
Chastened, Fatima Ghazala lowers her head in apology and disappears. Zulfikar swallows. “I understand your concern, sayyid, sayyida,” he says in a conciliatory tone, “but I cannot divulge the reason why it is dangerous for Fatima Ghazala to remain here.”
“I can protect my family,” Ali says stubbornly.
“I am not saying you cannot, sayyid. However, again for reasons I cannot tell you, protecting her is my responsibility.” Zulfikar adds heat to his words.
“I will protect myself, thank you very much.” Fatima Ghazala marches inside the room and glares at Zulfikar.
“You will risk not just this family but all the families in this building if you insist on remaining here,” Zulfikar replies evenly. “You may be able to battle the Shayateen, sayyida, but everyone else will be at their mercy. Surely you do not want that on your conscience?”
Fatima Ghazala blanches at his words. She looks at him angrily for one charged moment, and then her shoulders slump. “Fine. I give up. I will go with you.”
Ali gets to his feet. “You don’t have to leave, beta. We will find another way to protect ourselves.”
“I cannot put any of you in any danger, Abbu. I could never do that. Besides, he”—she gestures to Zulfikar with her chin—“is annoyingly imperious but not entirely bad. He means me no harm.”
Ali turns distrusting eyes to Zulfikar. It’s clear that he neither likes nor approves of Zulfikar, but he keeps his peace while Fatima Ghazala makes her farewells. He tells her to return immediately if she doesn’t like wherever Zulfikar is taking her. On his part, Zulfikar is introduced to the Alif sisters and forced to trail behind as they accompany Fatima Ghazala to the building entrance.
“I’ll come see you soon,” Fatima Ghazala promises them. After a few more weepy hugs, Zulfikar finally has Fatima Ghazala on the horse, riding toward Aftab Mahal. He feels like he has aged about a hundred years in the past hour.
He brings his horse to a walk as they attempt to navigate a road full of fruit-filled carts. The smells of guavas with pink flesh, several varieties of mangoes, ripe figs, and dates candy the air. Fatima Ghazala breathes in deeply.
“I am imperious?” Zulfikar asks, conscious of the way the Name Giver holds herself stiff and apart from him. He fights the urge to pull her closer.
“You remove me from the only home I know and pretend as if your word is law. Of course you are imperious,” she replies stiffly.
Zulfikar wonders how to respond to that. “I do not intend to be,” he finally says, but he can tell that she is not convinced.
They do not speak as they cross the bridge over the desert arm of the River Rahat and ride into the palace grounds. Zulfikar dismounts from his horse in front of the stables. Fatima Ghazala does not move from her perch on the horse.
“Surely you do not expect me to live with you in Aftab Mahal,” she says, looking around uncertainly.
Zulfikar takes her oud out of the saddlebag and puts it aside. Next he reaches for her bag. Fatima Ghazala reads his intent moments before he can pluck her off the horse and dismounts before he can touch her. Stable boys peer out at her from the stable curiously while Ifrit soldiers arriving and leaving the grounds on various errands salute Zulfikar and pretend she is invisible.
“Follow me,” Zulfikar says, and starts walking. It takes him a minute to realize she isn’t. He stops and turns to see her standing by his horse with a mutinous expression on her face.
“I told you yesterday that I am not a sack of rice, didn’t I?” The Name Giver, for all that she is mostly human, has an authority to her voice that Zulfikar finds difficult to not react to. “I am not asking you for the secrets of your existence, Emir. I just want to know where you are taking me. Is that too difficult a question for you?”
Zulfikar blinks, aware that he is being cruel. She is possibly afraid of what the future holds for her. Yet, being kind to her feels like he is giving in to his feelings, and Zulfikar will be damned if he allows that to happen again. “Among the Ifrit, it is best to obey without asking questions.”
“I am not Ifrit, Emir. Nor do I want to be.” The Name Giver lifts her chin and only the slight wobble of her voice gives her away. “Forget it, I’m going home.”
Zulfikar catches her arm. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he genuinely is. “I truly am. We are going to Southern Aftab. You will be staying with the maharajah’s family.” Zulfikar catches her gaze and holds it, trying to impress upon her his good intentions. Through the bond he can feel her distrust of him, and it hurts him. “I just want to keep you safe. Please?”
Fatima Ghazala finally nods and allows him to lead the way across the mahal grounds.
“There are things I must tell you that I don’t yet know how to,” Zulfikar says, knowing he sounds vague but unable to help it. “I know you have many questions—”
“How long do I have to stay here? When can I go back to being me instead of the Name Giver?” Fatima Ghazala asks. “I have been extremely patient, don’t you think? Can’t you tell me that at the very least?”
Zulfikar stops suddenly and stares down at Fatima Ghazala, confused. “Go back to being you?” he echoes her question, frowning.
“Yes?” the Name Giver says. “If I accomplish whatever Baba wanted me to, can’t I return to my life? Go back to being a messenger?” She looks at Zulfikar, and her face pales when she reads the answer in his eyes.
There they are,” Aruna says softly.
Aarush turns his attention away from his wife to look in the direction of her gaze. The Emir is talking—no, arguing with a girl who does not at all seem scared or overwhelmed by the Ifrit. They are too far away for Aruna and Aarush to hear the topic of the argument, but it is clear from the way the girl turns her body away from the Emir that no resolution was found.
They walk closer, and Aarush is struck by the unintentional synchronicity of their movements. The girl is willowy with dusky skin that shines with youth and vigor. She moves with a grace that r
eminds Aarush of a gazelle he saw once while on a hunt in the jungles of Asur. Her eyes are the same gold color as the Emir’s, with the same startlingly direct gaze. Aruna walks forward with a smile when the two reach them, and Aarush realizes with a start that the girl is very young, perhaps younger than Bhavya. Her composure, however, gives her a depth that his sister currently lacks.
“Maharani, Maharajah, my greetings to you.” The Emir inclines his head toward them.
The girl, perhaps realizing it is her turn to make some greetings, also inclines her head in a perfect echo of the Emir. This is all the deference she is going to show the royal couple. Aarush exchanges a smile with Aruna.
“This is Fatima Ghazala,” the Emir says with a look at the girl. “Please take care of her.”
The girl draws a breath as if to respond to the Emir’s words but turns aside at the last minute, choosing to keep her words unspoken. Her eyes are bright and her lips are pulled tight, but she doesn’t look once in the Emir’s direction. Aarush feels a spurt of pity for the Ifrit.
“Aruna is going to take Fatima Ghazala on as a companion,” Aarush says to the Emir.
The maharani smiles and, with exquisite grace, draws Fatima Ghazala away. “We will be leaving first,” she says to Aarush and nods to the Emir. She gestures for a guard to take the bag Fatima Ghazala is carrying. Aarush waits for the girl to make a farewell of sorts to the Emir, but she leaves without another look at either man.
“You’ve made her angry,” Aarush says to the Emir, whose eyes do not waver from the receding figure of the girl.
“I told her a truth she didn’t want to hear,” the Emir says quietly. Aarush feels his reality hiccup.
“Will that truth affect my people? My family?” he asks.
“Her truth won’t.” The Emir turns assessing eyes on Aarush. “As we spoke last night, the truth about the Qirati rebels might.”