The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  “Those are just rumors,” Aarush immediately protests. He thought the entire night about the man who died in the school in Shams Gali.

  “Can you really call them rumors? How do you explain the man who hurt the child last night? Was he just a rumor?” the Emir responds, almost disbelievingly.

  “He was a man who had lost his hold on sanity. That is all. I spoke to my people in Khair, Emir. They assure me there is no army of rebels gathering in the province! If I react to these rumors, and let me assure you that is what they are, I will be giving them a credibility they don’t deserve,” Aarush says, avoiding the Emir’s eyes. He doesn’t want the Ifrit reading the truth he is not yet ready to admit to.

  “When do rumors become fact, Rajah? How much do you trust your people? I can tell you right now that the rebellion, whether you believe in it or not, is fueled by propaganda originating from Noor City.” The Emir smiles thinly. “Someone in your government is unhappy with the way Qirat is ruled.”

  Aarush pales. The Emir continues. “You rule half a country, Maharajah, while I rule half a city. It is not my place to tell you how to do your job. However, since the humans have hurt those I have vowed to protect, I have no choice but to be prepared for all eventualities. If there is a war, know that we will fight.”

  Aarush lingers in the pavilion for a while after the Emir leaves. The idea that a traitor lurks somewhere close scares him far more than it ought to. What if he loses the kingdom? How is he supposed to figure out who he can trust? Who he can turn to? That old feeling, the feeling he hasn’t had to battle in a while, resurges in him. He feels like he is in the mythical sea, trying to stay afloat so the country he is holding up in his elevated arms doesn’t sink. But everyone knows what he is not allowed to admit: He does not know how to swim.

  Forever tastes like ash on Fatima Ghazala’s tongue. She didn’t comprehend the immensity of the role thrust upon her until the mechanics of time were applied to it. How many mornings are there in forever? How many nights? What has she become?

  Fatima Ghazala follows the maharani quietly, grateful that no one is demanding any conversation from her. She doesn’t think she is capable of it at the moment. A group of ten women dressed in bright Banarasi saris with fragrant gajra in their hair join the maharani as soon they enter the mahal and leave the guards behind. Fatima Ghazala becomes conscious of their eyes on her, aware that she sticks out like a sparrow among peacocks. Though no one dares to question the maharani about Fatima Ghazala’s identity, the air is thick with curiosity. Fatima Ghazala holds on tightly to the bag the guard returned to her and takes comfort in the oud slung over her shoulder.

  They meet no other royal family member as the maharani leads everyone up to the fifth floor. She opens the door to one of the empty suites and sweeps in. Following the companions into the room, Fatima Ghazala feels overwhelmed by the luxury of Southern Aftab. It is far more ostentatious than Northern Aftab, which, though richly decorated, lacks the vibrance of Southern Aftab. She feels alien in the midst of the rich decor, the exquisite architecture, and the people who have never wondered where they are going to sleep at night or known the thorny edges of hunger.

  “Come here,” the maharani says, holding out her hand to Fatima Ghazala, who moves to stand beside her. “This is Fatima Ghazala,” the maharani tells her companions. “She is my guest and will remain in our company until necessary. You will treat her with respect. You will protect her as you do me.” A murmur of assent goes up.

  Fatima Ghazala looks at the women closer, observing their stiff postures and the way they hold themselves carefully. A part of her recognizes them for the warriors they are. She looks at the maharani with a question in her eyes.

  “They are my guards, though the rest of the world thinks them merely companions. Very few people know the actual role my companions play. In fact, apart from those gathered here, the maharajah is the only other person who knows that my ladies are some of the deadliest fighters Qirat is fortunate to have.”

  “Can you fight? Are you dangerous?” a girl wearing a bright yellow sari asks.

  “Dangerous?” Fatima Ghazala is startled by the question. It is the first time someone has asked her that. She thinks of the Shaitan, dead by her hand. She thinks of her capacity for violence, the potential to wreak destruction in the fire she now carries. “I can be,” she tells the woman.

  “That will do,” the woman replies with a smile. “I’m Indra.” After Indra, the other women introduce themselves. Fatima Ghazala does her best to memorize all the names and faces presented to her. She turns from the introductions to see the maharani looking at her speculatively.

  “We must change your clothes … you probably do not have any clothes befitting one of my companions,” the maharani says without rancor. “Indra, see to Fatima Ghazala’s clothes, the rest of you come with me. The Rajmata wants to lunch together. We also have to see to the preparations for the puja next week.” She turns again to Fatima Ghazala. “Please stay in these rooms until proper attire has been prepared for you. Then, if you wish, you may join me in my work.”

  With a kind smile, the maharani exits the room, her companions following. They leave behind the scent of the jasmine flowers the gajra are made of and a deafening silence. Fatima Ghazala looks around the living room that opens up to a balcony. Two closed doors get her attention; one of them leads to a bedroom and the other to a very large bathroom. Bigger than the apartment that used to be home not very many days ago.

  Fatima Ghazala puts down her bag and embraces her oud, trying to fight off the homesickness that sweeps over her in tremors. She yearns for the practical and abrasive love of her sister and the complete acceptance of the Alif sisters. She forgets how annoyed she is with Zulfikar and wants him because he is familiar. Most of all, though, she longs for the gruff kindness of her baba, for the word-soaked home that was his bookstore, and for that unconditional sense of belonging she found with him.

  She doesn’t know how long she spends perched on a chair in that room dripping with splendor before the knock on the door. She opens the door to admit Indra of the yellow sari. The older girl bustles in hauling a pack containing a dozen Banarasi saris, some costume jewelry, and a fresh gajra. Without wasting time on conversation, she helps Fatima Ghazala put on a green sari with gold-and-red borders. Fatima Ghazala puts her hair up in a bun, and Indra arranges the gajra around it. A matha patti and a kamarband are the only pieces of jewelry Indra recommends. Once she has been changed and coiffed to Indra’s satisfaction, they look in the mirror. Fatima Ghazala almost doesn’t recognize herself.

  “You are quite beautiful, which will only get you the wrong type of attention here,” Indra says. She meets Fatima Ghazala’s eyes. “Keep your head down, but always be aware. No one here is your friend. Try not to attract anyone’s attention, but in the event you do, act demure—no matter how difficult that may be.”

  “What do the companions do?” Fatima Ghazala asks.

  “Our primary task is to keep the maharani and her child safe. Our second task is to help her fulfill the tasks she has to tackle as the maharani.” Indra puts her hand on the doorknob of the door leading out and says over her shoulder, “You will have to leave the oud here.”

  “Oh …” Fatima Ghazala wasn’t even aware of slinging it over shoulder. She takes it off reluctantly and lays it out of sight behind an ornate table. “This room is safe, right?”

  Indra smiles and tosses a key to Fatima Ghazala. “It’s all yours.”

  Zulfikar is sitting alone in front of the fire pit behind the barracks, when he feels Fatima Ghazala’s fire. Frowning, he gets to his feet, peering into the gloom beyond the fire burning in the pit. A minute later, she glides into the light, and another minute passes before Zulfikar remembers it is rude to stare. He sits down and coughs to cover his embarrassment. Smiling slightly, she sits down on the bench beside him. He shifts to maintain a distance between them.

  “I look like a girl, don’t I?” She grins at him. Zulfikar
swallows. The firelight is kind to her.

  “You have always looked like a girl. It’s just that now you look like a woman,” he says, turning away so he is not tempted to let his eyes linger on the curves the sari clings to so lovingly.

  When she doesn’t reply, he risks a look at her face and finds her blushing so hard an entire rose garden has bloomed in her cheeks.

  “Weren’t you too angry to even look at me?” he says, thinking back to the way they had parted earlier that day.

  “I wasn’t angry at you. I just needed someone to blame, and you were convenient. I’m sorry.”

  Zulfikar is startled by how much her simple apology affects him. He grips the edge of the bench with both his hands in case he gives in to his decidedly improper desire and takes her in his arms. “And so?” he asks more brusquely than he intends.

  “So what?” she retorts.

  “Is their security so lacking they let you out at night without guards?” Zulfikar wonders if he should have a word with the maharajah.

  Fatima Ghazala’s eyes brighten, and she moves nearer to Zulfikar. He nearly jumps but manages to restrain himself. He shifts away again. Fatima Ghazala looks at him with some exasperation but doesn’t comment otherwise. “Did you know the maharani’s companions are actually her guards?”

  Zulfikar shakes his head. He has a bad feeling about this.

  “Well, they are, and I am an honorary member.” She beams at him, and just like that, he is persuaded. “One of the benefits to being the maharani’s companion is that the soldiers on patrol do not stop you when you go out at night.”

  “Please don’t go out at night. Coming to find me is fine, but don’t go out into the city by yourself,” Zulfikar says. Fatima Ghazala shrugs noncommittally, and he gives her a dark look. “Is everything else all right?”

  “Yes. No.” Fatima Ghazala sighs. “I miss home. What do I do?” Her earlier enthusiasm and cheer disappears. She sits with her shoulders drooping.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Zulfikar shrugs off the plain black shawl he had around his shoulders and wraps it around Fatima Ghazala.

  “It smells like you,” she says, drawing it close around her.

  “I didn’t need that observation,” Zulfikar mutters.

  “Thank you.” She is quiet for a moment. “I suppose I can no longer work as a messenger.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I will tell Beeji myself.”

  Zulfikar nods. He is relieved that she is not resisting more.

  “What else can’t I do? Go back home?”

  “Not right away.”

  “I can protect myself, you know.”

  “That is exactly what Firdaus said. He used the very same words.” Zulfikar’s voice breaks. He takes a deep breath.

  “If anyone is to blame for Baba’s death, it is me. I am the one who gave him the book. Right into his hands.” Fatima Ghazala turns to Zulfikar, frowning. “You still haven’t told me how the book killed him.”

  “It wasn’t the book but what was in it that led to Firdaus’s death,” Zulfikar says, thinking of the dark thing he burned.

  “And what was in it?”

  “The taint—it is difficult to explain what the taint is. Bear with me.” Zulfikar pauses. “Do you know that the Ifrit are but one clan of many among the Djinn?”

  Fatima Ghazala nods.

  “The Shayateen, as you know, are another. Our enmity is decreed by the divine. As the night cannot withstand the day, the Shayateen cannot withstand the Ifrit. They are chaos; we are order. Their affinity for chaos is not what makes them evil, mind. It is their complete disregard for good. You have seen the destruction they wrought when they murdered Noor and her people. They are what we fight against every day in our world.”

  “But why did they attack Noor?” Fatima Ghazala interrupts.

  “They don’t need reasons to do things,” Zulfikar replies. “That is what makes them so difficult to understand and impossible to fight. They don’t move with logic or order. Those are dirty words to them. Impulse and chaos are the things that rule them.

  “But the Shayateen aren’t entirely without limits. When their actions move against children, the innocent, and those without the ability to defend themselves, the Shayateen become tainted.” Zulfikar glances at Fatima Ghazala to see if she understands and continues. “I spoke to you about the importance of names to the Djinn, do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “When the Shayateen get tainted, their Names start corroding. We cannot exist without Names, not in Al-Naar and not on earth. Tainted Names mean death, slow deaths. A tainted Shaitan cannot access his or her fire. It is somewhat like being able to see the world but unable to feel the breeze on your skin or seeing the sun without also feeling the heat.”

  “But the taint only affects the Shayateen, right? Not the Ifrit?” Fatima Ghazala asks.

  Zulfikar rubs his eyes tiredly. “I wish that were true. The blood of tainted Shayateen undoes the Ifrit it comes in contact with. Unlike the Shayateen, the Ifrit move toward order. Tainted blood undoes that. An Ifrit infected by the blood of a tainted Shaitan glories in chaos. Our history contains an Ifrit who got poisoned by tainted blood. Before he was caught, he burned cities and villages, killing thousands.” Zulfikar hesitates. “Firdaus chose death over losing his goodness. He knew better than anyone the destruction he was capable of.” Zulfikar stops speaking. The quiet feels full of holes. He glances at Fatima Ghazala and finds her frozen, her face a mask of anguish.

  “Fatima …” he starts, but she shakes her head.

  “I will be all right. It hurts, so I need a moment. Just give me one moment.”

  Zulfikar sits quietly and gives her the entire night.

  When Fatima Ghazala’s eyes snap open, she realizes three things simultaneously: One, she is in a strange room; two, the azaan for Fajr has yet to sound; and three, she was dreaming about the child, Shuruq, again. She wipes her eyes and sits up. Though Fatima Ghazala slept on a mattress softer than any she has ever rested on in a room bigger than any she has ever been in, she feels exhausted. She gets up groggily, performs her ablutions in the bathroom, and settles in to wait for the azaan, which sounds five minutes later. The piercing call sounds as beautiful as it always does though the extra distance lessens the intensity of it. Fatima Ghazala thinks wistfully of the rooftop that belonged to her in the chill of the early dawn air; she thinks of the muezzin’s call, so close once that it seemed like he was calling especially to her. She thinks of the charpai in the room she shared with Sunaina, and that sense of belonging she took for granted.

  When Indra arrives at eight a.m. along with maids bearing trays full of food, Fatima Ghazala has dressed herself in a pale pink sari with a rose-gold border. She couldn’t go back to sleep after Fajr, so she spent the time practicing putting on a sari. She tied her hair up in a bun and lined her eyes with kohl. Her lips she leaves bare in anticipation of breakfast. Indra knocks and enters, smiling approvingly when she finds Fatima Ghazala already dressed.

  “Did you sleep well?” Indra asks, and smirks at the answering expression on Fatima Ghazala’s face. All conversation is paused while the maids set out the food on a low table on the balcony that overlooks the courtyard between Northern Aftab and Southern Aftab. The maids leave, and Fatima Ghazala sits at the table perusing the food with silent appreciation. There is a lot to admire: little silver bowls containing crisply fried okra seasoned with spices and chili, leafy saijan cooked with roasted coconut flakes, and savory sambar. Accompanying all this is a separate dish full of freshly made rotis that are still warm to the touch along with a little cup full of seasoned yogurt. And of course, most importantly, a silver teapot filled with masala chai. For dessert, there is a platter of fruits with a creamy custard apple in the center.

  “A feast,” Fatima Ghazala whispers in awe.

  Indra snickers, and Fatima Ghazala gets the sense that she has become a major source of entertainment for the older girl. “We usually eat together,�
� Indra says, “but the maharani thought it would be better if you do not meet any other members of the royal family just yet. So I volunteered to eat with you.”

  Fatima Ghazala nods her thanks, already reaching for a roti. She tears off a piece and scoops up some saijan with it. She pops the morsel into her mouth and sighs with pleasure at the explosion of flavors.

  Indra chews her own mouthful slowly, her gaze not moving from Fatima Ghazala, who catches her staring and raises an eyebrow in question. “Where did you go last night?” Indra asks casually.

  Fatima Ghazala finishes chewing and swallows her second mouthful of food. “I had business to attend to.”

  “What kind of business?” With a practiced move, Indra pours chai into two cups and passes one to Fatima Ghazala.

  “I needed to talk to the Emir,” Fatima Ghazala says, taking the cup with a smile of thanks.

  Indra whistles, surprising Fatima Ghazala. “The maharani told us that you are here at the Emir’s request, but I didn’t put weight to her words—she cannot always tell us the truth—but you actually do know him. Is that why we are supposed to keep you safe?”

  “I can keep myself safe,” Fatima Ghazala says irritably. She eats some okra with a piece of roti and feels better. “I just humor the Emir.”

  “You must be precious to him,” Indra replies, and Fatima Ghazala makes a gagging face. Indra laughs loudly. Her expression grows somber, and after a moment’s contemplation, she says, “Whatever your relationship is to the Emir, I advise you to conceal it from everyone. Rajkumari Bhavya fancies herself in love with the Emir, and she will make your life miserable if she considers you a rival for his affections.”

  Fatima Ghazala narrows her eyes.

  “Do not consider it a challenge,” Indra cautions. “And while I am on the topic of potential trouble, steer clear of Rajkumar Aaruv. He likes beautiful girls and has often tried his luck on us. If he does corner you, try not to hurt him too much.”