The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  Late evening … so that means right after the Wazir confronted him. Zulfikar nods his thanks to the soldier, distracted by the memories of the previous day.

  He had been rubbing his horse down just outside the stables when Anwar appeared out of nowhere. The older Ifrit had grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him around. The violence of his action had taken Zulfikar by surprise, and he had withdrawn his scimitar in response.

  Anwar was breathing hard. “I hear you are getting married,” he spat out when he regained a measure of control.

  “I am,” Zulfikar replied, much more coolly than the situation warranted.

  “To my wife!” The Wazir’s eyes bled orange. Zulfikar’s grasp on his scimitar tightened.

  “Ghazala bint Firdaus divorced you, Wazir. She was no longer your wife when she died, and before you protest, she is dead.” Zulfikar’s voice lowered. “Fatima Ghazala is not your wife. She has never been and never will be your wife.”

  “She has Ghazala’s fire! By rights she belongs to me!”

  “She is not a thing!” Zulfikar rarely raised his voice, but when he did, everyone took notice. “She is not an object to be claimed or owned. Do not make me tell you this again.”

  The Wazir stared at Zulfikar for a long moment without speaking. Then he released a breath, and his features eased into a somewhat artificial expression of sheepish affability. “Forgive my outburst. I have been searching for Ghazala ever since she disappeared. I still have the fire bond, you know. It didn’t fade, so I thought she wasn’t dead. I have spent years in this human world searching for her. Only to find that she gave her fire away to a human.”

  “Stop lying, Wazir. Your fire bond was removed when Ghazala won her petition for a divorce from you. The Raees removed both your bonds,” Zulfikar said flatly. “It wouldn’t be a divorce otherwise.”

  “I AM NOT LYING!” the older Ifrit screamed. His voice was thin and hysterical. Ifrit soldiers had poured out from the barracks, all of them poised to defend the Emir. The Wazir noticed them and calmed himself with some visible effort.

  “I am sure you will understand if I don’t stay for your wedding ceremony. Or offer you congratulations,” the Wazir said. He turned around and left as swiftly as he had arrived. Only when Zulfikar was sure he was gone did he loosen his grip on his sword.

  In the present, Zulfikar grins at the good-natured teasing from the soldiers. Anwar is a problem Zulfikar needs to solve. Especially if he expects Fatima Ghazala to live under the same roof as him. Maybe he will let the Raees do the honors. Anwar is, after all, her son.

  He ducks out of the barracks to return to Aftab mahal. The clatter in the driveway warns him to hurry. The bride and her family have arrived.

  Fatima Ghazala and her companions, the Alif sisters and Sunaina, stand in front of the bridal outfit provided by Achal Kaur. They are in a suite of rooms requisitioned for the express purpose of readying the bride for her nikah ceremony. Fatima Ghazala has showered and moisturized. The next step requires her to change into the bridal outfit—the outfit that she and her companions are staring at with various expressions of awe.

  Achal Kaur has excellent but extravagant taste in clothes. The outfit she chose for Fatima Ghazala is a pale gold lehenga choli featuring extensive zardozi embroidery and stone work in gold and silver. The skirt flares slightly. The long sleeves of the choli are made of fine diaphanous material, as is the dupatta.

  “Put it on,” Azizah commands.

  Fatima Ghazala is somewhat tempted to recant at this late hour but grits her teeth and puts on the outfit with some help from her companions. Then she is pricked and prodded. Sheer gold powder is spread all over her eyelids while rouge brightens her lips and cheeks. Her eyes are kohled; she is perfumed at her wrists, throat, and behind her ears. Her hair is tied up in a bun and accessorized with jewels.

  Then the jewelry is piled on: a glittering matha patti, a nathni, earrings, gold bangles, rings, haars around her neck, gold anklets around her ankles, toe rings. As a final touch, the dupatta is placed on her head and fixed into place with a small arsenal of pins.

  Fatima Ghazala looks at her reflection in the mirror and doesn’t recognize herself. She has seen other brides dressed in the same splendor, and even thought that one day she would be among their ranks, but now that the moment has arrived, she is terrified. Is marrying the Emir the right thing to do? Would Firdaus want her to do this? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know what will happen to their marriage once the Raees has been Named.

  Just as she is considering calling the entire thing off, a summons comes for the bride. It takes Fatima Ghazala a moment to realize that she is the one being called. Taking a deep breath, she gets to her feet, holds her head high, and pretends she isn’t trembling.

  The large airy hall has been partitioned into two sections by a purdah made of swathes of dupatta. A light breeze drifting in from doors leading outside in the men’s section has the purdah fluttering. Fatima Ghazala stops to take in the absurd number of vases full of different kinds of flowers sitting on every available surface around the hall. She beams a thank-you at Azizah.

  Her guests, though not many, straighten when they see her. Achal Kaur weeps busily while the maharani smiles brightly. Fatima Ghazala tries to peer through the purdah, but though the barrier is not as opaque as prescribed, she cannot see much through it. She sits down in a chair at the head of their little group and her companions arrange themselves around her. As soon as she is seated, the imam from Jama Masjid, here to officiate the marriage, starts speaking. He welcomes everyone to the wedding of the Emir of Noor City to Fatima Ghazala, daughter and sister. Immediately after, Ali Abbu and two witnesses come over to the women’s section to ask the bride if she will accept Zulfikar as her husband.

  Azizah gasps loudly when she sees the third witness. The young muezzin keeps his eyes cast down, though a smile lingers around his lips.

  “Shh!” Adila hushes Azizah, giving her a look that quiets her immediately.

  “Do you, Fatima Ghazala, daughter of Jagan and Sangeeta, sister of Sunaina, accept Zulfikar bin Daud as your husband with the maher set at one tune on the oud?” Ali asks Fatima Ghazala. Usually, the maher, an obligatory gift from the groom to the bride, is money or jewelry, but Fatima Ghazala has no need of those things.

  “Let me hear the tune first,” she says clearly.

  There is a pause, and then from the other side of the purdah comes the sound of the oud. The three witnesses from the men’s side try to maintain straight faces, but the Alif sisters do not even bother. Azizah is snickering while Adila has buried her face in her hands, though her shaking shoulders give away her mirth. Amirah has stuck her fingers into her ears. The Emir’s oud playing is that atrocious. Fatima Ghazala, however, looks delighted.

  Thankfully, the piece the Emir is butchering is a short one and over fairly quickly. Ali repeats his question.

  “I do,” Fatima Ghazala replies loudly. The question is repeated two more times, and Fatima Ghazala answers in the affirmative two more times.

  The witnesses return and tell the imam the bride has accepted the groom.

  After a short sermon in which he speaks about marriage and happiness, the imam asks the groom, three times, whether he accepts Fatima Ghazala as his wife. Fatima Ghazala hears Zulfikar accept her loudly three times.

  Thus, they are married. The imam makes a short dua where he prays for the couple’s happiness and leaves as he has another wedding to officiate. To Azizah’s eternal sorrow, he takes Bilal with him.

  The ceremony concluded, it is now time for celebration. The domestic staff is setting up food on tables lined near the entrance to the hall. The soldiers who attended the wedding fill their plates with food and return to the barracks. As the only people remaining are family, the purdah is pulled aside, and Fatima Ghazala gets her first glimpse of Zulfikar. He is dressed in a cream sherwani with a matching turban. His cheeks are a bit red, perhaps from playing her oud, which rests on the divan beside h
im. He is talking to Mansoor but pauses in his conversation as if he feels Fatima Ghazala’s eyes on him. They look at each other. Fatima Ghazala feels her doubts rise to the surface.

  Zulfikar gets to his feet without taking his eyes off her, clearly intent on coming to her side, but he is waylaid by Ali Abbu, who demands his attention. He is forced to postpone his plans, whatever they were, and entertain his guests. Fatima Ghazala is a bit relieved not to have to face Zulfikar just yet and surrenders herself to the attentions of her guests.

  They feast, talk, and laugh until it is time for dessert. Azizah reveals her surprise for the newly married couple: two tables packed with a dizzying array of desserts. From laddoo to jalebiyaan to kunafe to halva to baklava, the table has them all; there is even a tray of beautiful wagashi. Zulfikar and Fatima Ghazala stare at the tables with stunned expressions before they both reach for the same piece of gulab jamun. Their fingers tangle, and they look at each other once again.

  At this point, the maharani and the maharajah take their leave. Sunaina, too, says she has things to do but promises to come by and see Fatima Ghazala the next day. Achal Kaur’s grandson arrives to take her home, and she offers to drop the Alif family home on the way. Ali Abbu grumbles about wanting to stay longer, but Asma Ammi bundles him out the door, barely giving him a chance to say goodbye. Fatima Ghazala clings to the Alif sisters before they, too, are gone and she is left, alone, with her new husband.

  Husband. Fatima Ghazala sneaks a look at Zulfikar and finds him looking at her. Embarrassed, she whirls around, presenting him with her back.

  “Hey,” he protests. “Let me look at you.”

  Fatima Ghazala turns around warily. “A bit too much, isn’t it? How do brides dress up in Al-Naar?” she asks.

  “Similarly, I suppose. I didn’t pay them much attention.” He smiles at her. Fatima Ghazala swallows and turns away. It is not like she doesn’t know him, so why does he feel like a stranger right now? Is it because their relationship has so obviously changed? What if she lets herself be persuaded by his sweetness? He is her husband, whatever that means. What if she gives in to her feelings? But what happens when the Raees is here and Zulfikar no longer needs her help with the Ifrit?

  “The fire bonding ritual? Do we do that here?” Fatima Ghazala gestures to the empty hall around them. Zulfikar looks startled by the stiffness in her voice, and a perplexed expression settles on his face.

  “No, the human servants are around, and while the ritual is no secret, I would rather not shock them with any displays of fire,” he says a little formally. “Let’s go up to our room.”

  Our room? Fatima Ghazala’s eyes widen. She is going to share the same room as the Emir? She knows that normal couples do, but … are they a normal couple? Northern Aftab is full of empty rooms, so wouldn’t it better if she had one of those? Fatima Ghazala is not sure she can endure sharing space with someone who is not her sister or the Alifs. Zulfikar notices her hesitation.

  “Do you not want to share a room, Fatima Ghazala?” he asks softly.

  Fatima Ghazala looks at him and takes a deep breath, wishing she could stop being nervous. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything,” Zulfikar replies.

  “We didn’t get married because we love each other. Will our marriage, our relationship, be a true one?” Fatima Ghazala keeps her eyes downcast. Her face is hot as she asks her questions.

  “Do you want it to be a true one?” Zulfikar asks in return. “I do, of course I do, but if you don’t, I will respect your wishes.”

  “How do you know if it is truly what you want and not what the bond you have with my fire wants?”

  “I don’t,” Zulfikar admits. “I no longer care. Our marriage does not have a time limit. I won’t abandon you when the Raees gets here or petition her to dissolve the fire bond. You are the only one I want.”

  Fatima Ghazala abruptly feels too hot. If she blushes any more, she is going to catch fire. “All right. Stop. My heart can’t take much more of your words, Zulfikar,” she says, and his lips quirk. “I am willing to give this … us … a chance.”

  Zulfikar moves toward her then, his intention obvious on his face. Her pulls her into his arms and crushes her to him, jewelry and all. “Thank you.”

  “It is too early to thank me. I have never even been in a relationship, and I suddenly have a husband. You will have reason to regret in the coming days, I am sure.” Fatima Ghazala’s voice is muffled, squashed as she is against his chest. She pushes away from him. “Let’s go up to … our room?”

  Zulfikar leads her up the fifth floor, where the rooms he uses are located. Fatima Ghazala has seen his room, though she didn’t enter it the last time she was there. Zulfikar pulls her over the threshold and closes the door behind them. Fatima Ghazala looks around. The door leads into a sitting room, which leads into the bedroom. A gauzy curtain separates the living room from the bedroom. She moves into the bedroom and is enchanted immediately by the attached balcony. Two closed doors connect other rooms to the bedroom. One of them, Fatima Ghazala is sure, is the bathroom but the other one is a mystery. Zulfikar’s presence is dominant here. His books, his clothes, his scent. Fatima Ghazala wonders if, as the days pass, the room will come to reflect her existence as well.

  “Will this suffice?” Zulfikar asks, more self-consciously than Fatima Ghazala expected him to. She nods and his face eases into a pleased smile.

  “Let’s do the fire bond ritual now,” she says. She wants to get it over and done with. Mostly so, if she is honest with herself, she can change her clothes. Fatima Ghazala wonders where her belongings are. She looks around the room once more but cannot see them.

  Zulfikar and Fatima Ghazala stand in the middle of the room, facing each other.

  “Hold up your hands as if in prayer,” Zulfikar instructs. Fatima Ghazala complies. Flames appear in his hands. He pours the flames into Fatima Ghazala’s cupped hands. She braces herself, but Zulfikar’s fire doesn’t burn her. “Breathe it in,” he says, and once again Fatima Ghazala complies. Zulfikar’s fire prickles inside her. She feels the moment his fire comes in contact with hers. Feels the moment it bonds with hers.

  Her consciousness expands to include the Emir. She can feel his heart racing. She can feel his desire, a fever simmering under her skin. Fatima Ghazala stumbles, assailed by emotions, both his and hers. Zulfikar doesn’t move to help her though she can feel him wanting to.

  “It will be worse if I touch you right now,” he says. He retreats from her to sit in a chair across the room, though his eyes do not leave her for a second. Fatima Ghazala shudders. Even his gaze feels like a caress. Abruptly her eyes fill with tears. If this is how he felt when her fire bonded with his, how could he resist wanting her? His desire is false, called into existence by that bond. His love is false. Fatima Ghazala looks at him, sitting still, cognizant of the conflict within her. He doesn’t say a word, but then, he no longer needs to. She can feel his anxiety, trembling like butterfly wings against her skin, his fear that she’ll turn him away. She should. She should set boundaries, protect her heart, but how can she? How can she deny herself his heat?

  She doesn’t want to. The admission costs her, and Fatima Ghazala ducks her head, wanting to escape Zulfikar’s gaze. This bond makes her feel both strong and vulnerable. Her fire feels fuller; it echoes the strength of Zulfikar’s fire. She doesn’t want him to know that the bond he didn’t want is one she welcomes. While his feelings are constructed of Djinn fire and magic, hers were born through conversation and curiosity.

  “I would like to change clothes,” she tells him, deliberately changing the subject.

  Zulfikar gets to his feet uncertainly. He can sense her emotions, but he can’t read her mind. “Your dressing room,” he says, opening one of the closed doors.

  Fatima Ghazala follows him into the room and is taken aback at the opulence of the clothes neatly arranged in there. One side has the Emir’s clothes, the other hers. A vanity table with a mirror leans again
st one wall and a sideboard full of jewelry occupies the middle.

  “This … ?” Fatima Ghazala looks at Zulfikar.

  “Your friend Azizah told me you needed a new wardrobe to suit your new status.” He grins slightly. “She said you couldn’t be trusted to get your own clothes, so she got them for you.”

  “Ah.” Fatima Ghazala reminds herself to thank the younger girl even though she had gone overboard with her purchases. She chooses a relatively simple shalwar kameez made of soft pale green cotton to change into, then makes the unwelcome discovery that she will need help to get out of her wedding outfit. She looks at Zulfikar, who is looking at her expectantly, having discerned her conundrum.

  “Will you help me?” she asks, her cheeks hot.

  “Turn around.” Zulfikar helps her remove her dupatta first, all the pins accumulating in a little ceramic bowl on the vanity table. The jewelry comes off next. He catches her hennaed hands in his and makes an expression of pleasure at the intricate designs. Then he turns her around again and unfastens the hooks holding her choli together. His fingers are cool against her bare skin.

  “You can do the rest,” he says, just a bit hoarsely. Fatima Ghazala turns to him, sure her heart is going to explode.

  Their gazes collide. She thinks of something to say, but before she can, he leans down and captures her lips with his. His lips are soft, and the kiss initially gentle. She slips her arms around his neck, wanting more. Zulfikar coaxes her lips open and deepens the kiss. Fatima Ghazala squeezes her eyes shut and concentrates on the kiss, the slide of his tongue against hers, the sweetness and the bite of his fire. She is breathing hard when he finally lifts his head, her hands clutching his shirt.

  Before she can react, he kisses her again. A shorter kiss, no less intense for its brevity, before he pulls away reluctantly. He caresses her cheek once before leaving the room.

  The Emir doesn’t get a day off, not even on his wedding day. His presence is required at the merchant guild for a meeting that stretches well into the afternoon. After that he has to go broker peace between two Bedouin clans who both want the other to stop trading with Noor City. It’s a delicate and lengthy process requiring multiple cups of hot, sweet cardamom-flavored tea and nutty baklava as they talk around a fire pit just outside the northern city gates. By the time Zulfikar returns to Northern Aftab, the clock hands have crept past ten in their pursuit of midnight. He walks up the many stairs, wondering if Fatima Ghazala is angry with him for being late, wondering what she will make him do before she forgives him. Mostly, he is wondering if he can coax more kisses from her.