The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  “All right.” It occurs to Fatima Ghazala as she follows the Shaitan farther into the haveli, down a flight of stairs and into the basement, that she is being rather blasé about the entire venture. Perhaps it would behoove her to be more afraid, but rather than fear, she feels the welcome heat of anger. The Shayateen do not intend to kill her, but even if they did, Fatima Ghazala has thorns that will not make killing her easy for them.

  The room the Shaitan leads her to is dark and smells strongly of decay. No light is allowed to pass through, no flame burns. Fatima Ghazala wonders if she is going to have to talk to the darkness, when someone strikes a match. Two candles are lit. Someone hisses at the sight of the wavering flames. Fatima Ghazala reaches for her fire and feels it come to life and cover her skin with an orange sheen. This leads to some growling, but Fatima Ghazala has always been a contrary sort and keeps her fire out and burning.

  When she sees the score of Shayateen glaring at her, however, she wishes she had stayed in the dark. All of them have that frozen beauty common to the Shayateen, though some of the faces look more brittle than the others. They are all so pristinely dressed that Fatima Ghazala, for one wildly inappropriate moment, wonders where they do their laundry. The menace emanating from them is strong. One of them takes a shuffling step closer to her, and Fatima Ghazala draws out a dagger she swiped from Zulfikar what seems like an eternity ago.

  “Control yourselves,” a voice says from deep in the gloom. The Shayateen immediately subside. They part in the middle, and Fatima Ghazala gathers something momentous is about to occur. And sure enough, in the next moment, a Shaitan steps into the light. He is immense, this Shaitan, and yet a strange sense of fragility clings to him. His skin is pockmarked and hangs off his body in folds. His face is actually decaying. But it is his eyes that concern Fatima Ghazala the most. If all childhood nightmares gained intelligence and evil intent, and congregated in one area, they would look like this Shaitan’s eyes.

  Fatima Ghazala looks at him with the Name Giver’s eyes and finds his name covered entirely with the black taint. She takes a deep breath, belatedly realizing that coming with the Shaitan might not have been the best idea, but as she reminds herself, she had no choice.

  Fatima Ghazala meets the Qayyid’s eyes. Her heart thunders.

  Gripping the dagger tightly in her hand, Fatima Ghazala lifts her chin. If the Qayyid so much as even looks as if he is going to attack, she plans to slice her arm and douse the Shayateen with her blood. A cold pulse of fear beats in her neck, her throat is completely dry, and she cannot quite contain the tremble in her hands.

  “You are the new Name Giver of the Ifrit,” the Qayyid speaks. His voice sounds like a concrete block being dragged on a gravelly road. Fatima Ghazala flinches at the sound. Another pulse of fear washes over her followed by a feeling of reassurance. Zulfikar. His fire is a reminder of her strength.

  “I am,” she replies even though it wasn’t a question.

  The Qayyid looks her over as one would a new toy. Fatima Ghazala holds on as tightly as she can to her courage.

  “What do you know about the Shayateen?” the Qayyid finally asks.

  “I’m afraid we didn’t cover anything after ‘evil,’ ” Fatima Ghazala replies.

  The Qayyid makes a rumbling sound. It takes Fatima Ghazala a while to realize that he is laughing.

  “Typical of the Ifrit,” the misshapen Shaitan growls. The Shayateen echo his anger. “Listen well, little Name Giver. We cause chaos. That is our very purpose. Without disorder, there will be no order. But do we ever get acknowledged for the part we play in the universe? No!”

  A whole round of nos accompany his disavowal. “The universe moves toward chaos. Chaos is natural,” the Qayyid continues. “We are natural. The unnatural ones are the Ifrit, who create order when there should be none, who go against the universe. And yet we are the ones vilified!”

  “Perhaps you should stop killing people, then,” Fatima Ghazala says, her fear spiced liberally with anger now.

  “What greater pleasure is there than ending a life that was once full of possibilities?” The Qayyid sighs dreamily.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Fatima Ghazala is abruptly sick of being in the same room as these monsters promenading as people.

  “Do you like stories, Name Giver? I’m afraid this is not the kind that comes with a happily ever after, but even so, it is worth the telling. Fifteen years ago, we killed an Ifrit child in the desert in Al-Naar. It shouldn’t have mattered; Ifrit are vermin. But our act of mercy, our cleansing, divided our people. The majority of our people, cowards all of them, decided that our actions were too extreme, so five hundred of my followers and I were exiled to earth for five years as punishment. First, we despaired. The sun is too cool and the air dirty. Then we discovered humans. Oh, delicious humans with their candle-flame lives and desperation to live, to matter. We chose our victims, stalked them, and blew out the candle flames here and there. Then we discovered Noor City.” The Qayyid shivers as if in delight.

  “So many people in Noor City. So many candle flames. We couldn’t resist … In fact, it would be a lie to say we even tried. It rained the day we attacked Noor. We killed so many people. There was blood, screams, tears, and pain. It was glorious.” Nostalgia softens the Qayyid’s voice. Fatima Ghazala shudders. “All we did was indulge in our nature, fulfill our purpose. Yet the Creator punished us for doing what we are created to do. We were cursed by a God we refuse to believe in.”

  “And so?” Fatima Ghazala cannot keep the horror out of her voice.

  “We are all that remains of the five hundred we once were. The Ifrit killed us. But that was not enough. The Creator tainted our Names and froze our fire. We cannot reach our fire, so we cannot change our forms, and because we cannot change our forms, we cannot leave earth. We haven’t been home in eight years. We had almost given up hope of ever seeing it again. Then you came along.” The Qayyid looks at her.

  “The Ifrit asked us to abduct you. We waited for our chance and found it when you went into the desert. Little did we realize that you, an abomination, are also a hope. You Un-Named one of us in the desert that day, so you can Un-Name the rest of us too. We will be free to return home at last.”

  “Ifrit?” Fatima Ghazala repeats. “Who?”

  The Qayyid gets a crafty look on his face. “A traitor among you. Surely you suspected. He hasn’t exactly been circumspect.”

  Fatima Ghazala thinks back to the Shaitan she killed that day when her life changed so drastically. She is certain that she killed the Shaitan when she Un-Named him and removed the name from his fire. Why these Shayateen think they will return to Al-Naar when she Un-Names them is beyond her. As for the traitor, only one person comes to mind, but surely he wouldn’t fall so low. Fatima Ghazala laughs at herself. Of course he would.

  “I have no reason to help you,” she says to the Qayyid. “I don’t want to help you. Why should I?”

  “The humans are planning to restage the events of eight years ago. Apparently, they want to rid Qirat of her Ifrit overlords.” The Qayyid sounds wistful. “We have been asked to provide our assistance.”

  “What? You are lying.” Surely no human would ally with the Shayateen. Surely not. The screams of the dead still echo in Noor City. The massacre of eight years ago has yet to become memory.

  “I do not deny that I have lied on occasion, Name Giver, but in this instance, I am telling the truth. The traitor Ifrit brokered the alliance,” the Qayyid says.

  “You will not succeed. The Ifrit are present in much larger numbers. You will all die.” Fatima Ghazala is conscious of the shrill note in her voice, conscious of her helplessness. Her anger deepens.

  “Oh, but we do not offer our help in order to succeed, Name Giver. We will kill as many as we can before we die. It will be a pleasant way to go, with spilled blood still hot on our hands.” The Shaitan pauses. “Unless you help us return to Al-Naar, that is.”

  “I don’t know if I can do what y
ou are asking me to,” Fatima Ghazala chokes out, realizing she didn’t have a choice. There is never a choice.

  “Afroz!” the Qayyid barks.

  The young Shaitan who brought Fatima Ghazala to the haveli steps forward. “Try Un-Naming him,” the Qayyid commands.

  Fatima Ghazala smells the damp and the decay; she feels a bone-deep weariness mixed with fear. Her lips tremble, and she presses them together. There is no way out of this, so she straightens her shoulders and lets her vision go blurry. The Shaitan’s name is covered with the black taint, but Fatima Ghazala can see where the pieces are joined together. She pokes at one joint and is unexpectedly assailed by the Shaitan’s memories. Most vivid are the memories of a caravan, corpses in the desert, an Ifrit woman holding on to an oud, and a baby.

  Fatima Ghazala wrenches away and returns to herself, breathing hard. “Fourteen years ago, did you attack a caravan?” she asks the Shaitan.

  “Yes,” the Shaitan replies with a smile, as if remembering something pleasant. “We fought an Ifrit woman. We didn’t yet know their blood is dangerous to us.”

  Fatima Ghazala wets her dry lips. “Why did you attack the caravan? Why did you kill those people?”

  “They were there,” the Shaitan replies.

  “No other reason?” Fatima Ghazala asks disbelievingly.

  “What other reason would we need?”

  “Can you Un-Name us, Name Giver?” the Qayyid interrupts. “Can you send us home?”

  The question is not can she, but should she? What right does she have to play God with these creatures? On the other hand, how can she let them live? They killed her parents. Twice. They killed the city. If she lets them go now, they will kill again. But if she takes their lives, what will that do to her?

  “Well?” The Shaitan leader is impatient.

  “First, I need a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, a proper meal, and water.” Mostly Fatima Ghazala needs time to think.

  The Qayyid, as if certain of her decision, smiles. His decaying teeth fill her vision. “You shall have them.”

  Zulfikar thinks of the one hundred and one things he will say and do to Fatima Ghazala once he finds her, once she returns to him because she will; she has to. He will not accept any other alternative. He is standing at the entrance to Northern Aftab not sure what to do next. He knows what he most wants to do, but his obligations will not permit him to do that. Frustrated, he drags a hand through his hair and considers his options. Ah, he needs to visit Achal Kaur and ask her help with locating the traitorous rajkumar.

  “My mother doesn’t look very well today,” Anwar’s oily voice says from behind him.

  Zulfikar tenses, but the Wazir seems oblivious to his hostility and smiles serenely. “It hurts my heart to see her in pain.” His words are at odds with his expression.

  “Is there something you need to report, Wazir?” Zulfikar keeps his voice chilly.

  “The Ghul are back, Emir. Seventy humans were killed in the city of Baaz yesterday. The Emir of Baaz sent a message requesting aid,” Anwar says, handing over a letter.

  “We can’t spare soldiers right now,” Zulfikar says. “All of them are needed to help with Noor’s defenses. Send our apologies to the Emir of Baaz and ask him to request aid from one of the other cities.”

  “As you wish,” the Wazir replies, and turns to go. He stops as if a thought has just occurred to him and turns around again. “I heard that you misplaced your new wife. I do hope you find her again.” He smiles sweetly and leaves.

  Zulfikar bites down a curse and moves toward the stables. He does not have time to engage in hostilities with the Wazir, but once everything is returned to its proper place, he plans to talk to the Raees about her son.

  It has been a scant five hours since the attempt on her brother’s life, but Bhavya feels like an eternity separates her from the girl she was this morning and the person she is now. She looks down at her brother’s sleeping form and some of her tensions ease. His color looks much better now than it did before.

  The healer rises from the bedside. Both Aruna and Bhavya accompany him a little ways to the other side of the room. “The wound, while deep, is not dangerous. The sword did not cut through any organs, so given time and proper care, the maharajah, barring any complications, should regain good health.”

  The maharani staggers, weeping her relief. Bhavya puts her arm around Aruna. She turns to the healer. “Please remain here until the maharajah wakes up. Should you have a need for anything, one of the maharani’s companions will provide it for you. Do not leave the room, but if you do, speak of the maharajah’s health to no one.” The healer nods, bows once, and returns to Aarush’s side.

  “Bhabhi.” Bhavya gives Aruna a hug, and the older woman wipes her tears, a gritty determination in her eyes. “You will need to go down and talk to today’s petitioners. Sanchit Goundar, especially, is clamoring to see Bhaiya,” Bhavya says. “I would talk to them but …”

  But they both know that the men would not take Bhavya seriously. She is, after all, only a rajkumari. Aruna nods grimly. “I will handle the ministers and the landowners if you will talk to the general … and the Rajmata.”

  “Oh yes, I would have insisted on speaking to them even if you didn’t ask me to,” Bhavya replies. “And Vihaan?”

  “I will leave him here with my companions.” Aruna looks at one of the companions, a tall girl who came from Darsala with her.

  “Indra, I know you do not need to me to spell out these things, but I will anyway for my peace of mind.” Aruna clenches her hands into fists. “When we leave these rooms, do not let anyone else in until we return. If the healer demands to leave, let him, but do not allow him to reenter for any reason. Trust no one. Not even those who claim to be our allies. Keep my husband and son safe.”

  “I will, sahiba. I will defend them with my life,” Indra solemnly promises.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you ready to face the monsters?” Bhavya asks Aruna.

  “You mean the men?” Aruna grimaces. “I am. First, though, I need to send a message.”

  “I wish you luck, Bhabhi.” They exit the room guarded by no less than eight of the maharani’s companions. Bhavya turns to leave.

  “Bhavya.” Aruna, accompanied by four of her women and Janab Jamshid, stops her sister-by-marriage. “Think with your head and not your heart.”

  Bhavya nods smartly and walks down the corridor. She is followed by another four of the maharani’s companions, who are proving themselves invaluable. Bhavya’s first meeting is with Vikram Khatri, the general of the Qirati army. The man is in his midthirties with a lean face and piercing eyes. He is always well groomed; his uniform is decorated by the medals he has been awarded in his illustrious military career. Because Qirat is not currently involved in any wars, most of their military effort is confined to border patrols. The majority of the soldiers are on base in the Southern grounds of Aftab Mahal. The palace guards and the king’s guards fall under the purview of the general.

  Bhavya sees the man’s surprise followed by his contempt when she walks into the maharajah’s office though he schools his expression quickly. Bhavya walks to Aarush’s chair and sits down in it.

  “Rajkumari—”

  Bhavya cuts him off. “Are you a traitor, General?” She has the pleasure of seeing his face slacken with further astonishment.

  A moment later, he springs to his feet. “What are you accusing me of, Rajkumari Bhavya?”

  “This morning, there was an attempt on the maharajah’s life by his guards,” Bhavya relates with much more composure than she feels.

  All the color rushes from the man’s face, and his eyes widen. Still on his feet, he pivots as if to leave.

  “Sit down, General. I have not dismissed you yet,” Bhavya reminds him.

  “I swear to you, Rajkumari Bhavya, my loyalty is and will always remain with Maharajah Aarush.”

  “Can you prove this loyalty you speak of?”

  “I will do whatev
er it takes.”

  “Bring me the traitors in the army. Bring me the traitors among the palace guards. Bring them all to me within two days, and I will consider it proof enough. Until then, the Emir of Noor City will be in charge of all military affairs. You are to acquiesce to his authority and provide him with any assistance he may need. You are also to listen to and obey him as you would any superior.”

  “I will, Rajkumari. Upon the honor of my father, I will,” Vikram Khatri vows. “If I may ask, what has happened to the traitors?”

  “The Emir of Noor City happened to them, General.” Bhavya looks at the man straight in the eyes. “Their heads were paraded around Southern Aftab as a warning. I hope, for your sake, that you find all the colluders in this conspiracy.”

  Zulfikar watches the maharani precede him into the grand hall of Southern Aftab, where the maharajah usually hears the petitions of his people. When the maharani requested his presence in Southern Aftab, Zulfikar worried that the maharajah’s health had dangerously deteriorated. He will never admit it, but he is rather fond of the young ruler.

  After thirty seconds has passed, Zulfikar follows the maharani into the hall and is gratified to see several richly turned out men go green in their sherwanis when they see him. Not all of them recognize him, of course. Zulfikar has maintained a low profile ever since he assumed the Emir’s office, not being as extroverted as the previous Emir. Those who recognize him as the Emir are quick to inform those who don’t. Soon the grand hall is abuzz with speculations. Whispers try to decipher the reason for the Emir’s presence and the maharajah’s absence.

  Aruna sits on the throne while Zulfikar is seated in an empty chair usually reserved for the royal family. Janab Jamshid signals to the guards to close the doors to the grand hall. All conversations cease. The atmosphere inside the room becomes anticipatory. The maharani gestures for the white-haired advisor to proceed with the petitions. The first one to approach the throne is a short squat man wearing an excessive number of necklaces and rings. Without waiting to be introduced, the man, who is somewhere in his late fifties, demands brusquely, “Where is the maharajah? My petition is of utmost importance, and I want the maharajah to hear it.”