The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  The maharani doesn’t respond. She looks at him silently. The quiet presses down on the man from all sides. The maharani’s expression is pleasant, not censorious at all, and yet a flush of shame creeps up the man’s neck, turning his cheeks florid. The man loses all his bluster and speaks again after a minute of strained silence. “My apologies, sahiba. I forgot my place.”

  “The maharajah is currently indisposed. He ate something the night before that appears to be sitting ill with him,” Aruna says graciously. “Until he is well enough to present himself before you, I will complete his responsibilities.”

  Sanchit Goundar steps forward at Aruna’s words. “Forgive my impertinence, huzoor, but your words seem untrue. We demand that you allow us to see Maharajah Aarush and ascertain his health for ourselves.”

  “You demand?” Aruna repeats. “Shall I make some demands too, Sanchit Baba? Shall I demand to send my ally’s soldiers to your house? Shall I demand they search through your rooms so we can see what you are hiding in your cupboards? Shall I demand to know what the printing machines in your warehouse on the outskirts of the city are for? What pamphlets do you print there, Sanchit Baba? Shall I demand to know that?”

  The man, stiff with anger, opens his mouth. Zulfikar chooses that moment to clear his throat and watches as the man swallows whatever he was going to say. He bows, muttering a sullen apology, and stalks out of the room.

  The petitioning goes much more smoothly once people realize that the maharani is not so easily intimidated. Zulfikar is impressed with the way the maharani uses her silence and her grace as weapons. She brings those who would spread discord to heel by letting them languish in this silence.

  Later, when the petitioning is finished and the hall is empty but for the maharani, her retinue, and Zulfikar, the Emir smiles at the petite woman with real warmth. “It was a pleasure seeing you handle your more difficult subjects. You didn’t need my presence to bolster yours.”

  Aruna shakes her head. “Your presence helped immensely. People now know we count upon you as an ally. Plus, I was able to observe which of the landowners reacted negatively to you. Jamshid Chacha did give me the investigators’ report, but I wanted to check in case there are more than those named on its pages. Thanks to you, I have a fairly good idea of who not to trust.”

  “What do you plan to do next?”

  “I am not sure. What would you advise?”

  “Wait. Let the traitors play their hand. A plot of this magnitude is rarely simple.”

  “Thank you. I will send word if anything changes with Aarush’s condition. I hope Fatima Ghazala is doing well.”

  Zulfikar winces, and the maharani notices. “Is everything all right with her?”

  “Let me just say, Maharani, you and I are in similar straits where our partners are concerned. Till tomorrow.” Zulfikar takes his leave.

  Bhavya pauses outside her mother’s rooms. Her anger feels like the first bite of something spicy. That initial taste overwhelms the senses. Later, tears will flow, but at this moment, all she can feel is the heat. Bhavya is both looking forward to this confrontation and dreading it. The former because her anger demands release, and the latter because one of the women inside is her mother. She looks at the Ifrit soldiers standing guard on either side of the door. “Has anyone tried to enter or leave the room?”

  “No, sayyida,” one of the guards replies.

  Bhavya motions to the companions standing behind her. “You may enter first. If either of the two inside attempt violence against me, you have my permission to defend me even if it means hurting them.” The companions nod sharply.

  Steeling herself, Bhavya enters the room. As soon as the Rajmata sees her, she stands up from the chair she was sitting on and marches over. “Bhavya, what is the meaning of this? How dare you confine us to this room? Are we prisoners? Criminals?”

  Bhavya looks at the woman who gave birth to her and feels the first cracks in her resolve. This is her mother. “Why do you not ask what has happened, Amma? Surely you must be curious? Or did you already know of the plan? Is that why you didn’t come to breakfast? Blood is difficult to get out of clothes, I hear.” Somehow Bhavya finds her voice. Somehow she finds the courage.

  The Rajmata flushes. Jayanti, who has thus far been cowering behind the Rajmata, steps forward. “Is he dead?” she asks with indecent eagerness.

  Bhavya does not consider herself a violent sort, but it is all she can do to stop herself from clawing her aunt’s face. She takes a step back and asks her question again, this time formally. “Did you know about the plan to assassinate Maharajah Aarush prior to the attempt on his life, Rajmata Ekta?”

  Bhavya sees her mother start at the question and reads the answer in the older woman’s face. “Why, Amma? What could make you sentence a child of your womb to his death? What has Aarush Bhaiya done to deserve death?”

  “Your brother has forgotten what it means to be the maharajah. He married the daughter of a concubine and muddied our bloodline. He refuses to see that Qirat has been severed in two. He fraternizes with the Ifrit, not seeing that he is but a pawn to them. He even keeps one of those creatures in the mahal! He sees no difference between himself and the peasantry!” Spittle flies off the Rajmata’s lips.

  “Bhaiya doesn’t know what it means to be the maharajah?” Bhavya laughs a little hysterically. “And you do? Tell me, did you never talk to Baba? It was he who taught us that there is no difference between people no matter their origin or economic status. He was the one who sought out the Ifrit and begged them for help. I don’t remember you stopping him then. Are the Ifrit only to be tolerated when we need their help?”

  Her heart is made from glass and currently in pieces, but Bhavya will be damned if she will cry. “You are our mother. We are supposed to respect and protect you, but, Amma, we are also the raj. Our obligations to the people of Qirat take precedence over our duties to you.” Bhavya takes a deep breath and meets her mother’s eyes.

  “You and Jayanti Bua will be exiled to the ashram in the mountains of Northern Rupikala,” Bhavya says, naming a neighboring country, an ally.

  “You have no authority here,” the Rajmata replies, sounding amused. “I have strong allies, Bhavya. Once they get word of my imprisonment, you and your supporters will have no chance.”

  “Apparently, I do, Amma. Did you think I would wait timorously on the sidelines and allow you to arrange my life? Did you think I would play doll for you after you and Aaruv killed my brother? I’m my father’s daughter, Amma.” Bhavya looks at her aunt, who has the grace to flush under her gaze.

  “Aaruv will not let you send us off anywhere!” Rajmata Ekta asserts coldly. “You have no idea what you are dealing with.”

  “Aaruv will find out about your departure long after you are gone.” Bhavya smiles thinly. “Surely you didn’t think I would announce my plans to the world before executing them. I studied strategy with the same tutors as Aaruv, though I think he absented himself when the teacher covered ethics and morality.”

  Bhavya watches her mother realize the sincerity in her words. The first sign of panic: the sheen in her eyes; the second: the tremble in her lips. And yet, she still has not asked even once about her older son.

  “Amma, if you go willingly and without making a fuss, you might get a chance to come back some day. Maybe Aarush Bhaiya will find it in himself to forgive you for the betrayal. I won’t, but he is the nicest of us all.” Bhavya looks at her mother and once again feels that sensation of something within her shattering. “If you and Bua protest, we will have you gagged and tied.” Bhavya looks over her shoulder, and the companions hold up the gags and pieces of rope they have been carrying. “I do hope you choose to keep your dignity, but the decision is entirely yours.”

  “I should have married you off as soon as you turned sixteen,” the Rajmata spits out, and turns away.

  “I am very glad you didn’t,” Bhavya replies. “I won’t stay to see you leave.”

  Sunaina stands in
her dark workroom, watching little rays of light that have entered through the crack under the door gleam off the glassware she uses to create her concoctions. The room smells of roses; Sunaina has been trying to perfect her recipe of the infused oil she creates with the flower. She idly wonders why Fatima Ghazala hasn’t come around yet. Surely the Emir has told her about the events that occurred earlier this morning. Was it just this morning?

  The door to the workroom opens, and upon recognizing the silhouette, Sunaina lights a lamp, illuminating the glassy-eyed rajkumari standing in the doorway. Bhavya is freshly dressed in a pale yellow sari with pink and blue embroidery all over it. Her hair is perfectly coiffured and her jewelry is tasteful. Her face, though, is frozen, and she moves jerkily. Sunaina watches her silently.

  Bhavya pulls out a chair at the worktable and arranges herself on it. She studies the tabletop as if it contains all the solutions to her troubles. “I just sent my mother into exile.”

  “Can you do that?” Sunaina asks, surprised.

  Bhavya shrugs. “My word is law because I do not consider the alternative viable. If she remains here, her allies will rally behind her, adding their support to my younger brother’s claims to be the rightful maharajah of Qirat.”

  “Are you certain your brother is part of the conspiracy?” Sunaina asks softly.

  “No,” Bhavya admits. “I have read the reports, though, and his recent actions make more sense now. He doesn’t realize that he is but a pawn for the people behind him. He will be a puppet king.”

  “Have they located him, then?”

  “The Emir said that Achal Kaur’s messengers will find him for me.” Bhavya sighs suddenly. “I am so exhausted, Sunaina. I want to pretend today didn’t happen. I want to turn back time to when I was oblivious to this world and these people, but I can’t, can I? I can’t leave my bhabhi to weather this storm by herself.” She wipes away a few tears that stubbornly resist all her efforts to maintain her composure. There is a catch in her voice when she asks her next question. “Do you know where I can purchase monkshood?”

  Sunaina opens her mouth to ask why but stops herself, suddenly wary. She doesn’t want to know why the rajkumari wants to purchase a deadly poison. Her throat goes dry, and she swallows. A brief but thick silence springs up between them before Sunaina names the proprietor of a small shop that carries rather esoteric items, among them deadly poisons.

  The rajkumari thanks her and gets up from her seat.

  “Can I help?” Sunaina asks before she can stop herself. At this point, Bhavya reminds her of Fatima Ghazala when her sister is trying to hide the hurt she feels.

  Bhavya looks startled. “With what?”

  “Whatever you are planning.”

  “Thank you. But this is something I have to do alone. I am the rajkumari of Qirat, after all.”

  Zulfikar is in the weapons room in the barracks, looking over the available blood-edged swords, when one of Achal Kaur’s messengers shows up with the address at which the traitorous brother is to be found. He sends the messenger to Southern Aftab with strict instructions to deliver the address to no one other than the rajkumari. He has no idea what the princess is planning to do with the address. Nor does he want to speculate. He has been impressed by the steel in the young girl’s character as she shouldered part of the maharajah’s responsibilities, maintaining a cool head in the face of what could have nearly been a tragedy. Zulfikar wonders for the hundredth time whether he will be dealing with a tragedy of his own. He sends a swift prayer to his Creator for Fatima Ghazala. Though he is constantly trying, he can barely feel her through their fire bond.

  As soon as Achal Kaur’s messenger leaves, one of the patrolling units returns in a state of excitement. Zulfikar finds out that three warrior Ghul have been sighted outside Noor City. Hearing this, Zulfikar gets into his armor and saddles up his horse. At least hunting Ghul will distract him from worrying about his missing Name Giver.

  Fatima Ghazala watches the night arrive through the spaces in the forest canopy, creep out from between the trees and run, fleet-footed, up the mountain. She sees the night arrive at the haveli through the smudged glass windows in the bedroom she was moved to, and with it comes the end of her respite. This room is in a marginally better condition than the one she was originally placed in. It has no dust. Though Fatima Ghazala spent the hours she asked for thinking, she can see no other way out of this predicament than through death. She cannot, should not, has no right to act as judge and executioner but life has left her with no choice. At least no other choice she can live with.

  A summons comes for her not one minute after she finishes praying Maghrib. The mountain air is cold, and the scarf she wrapped around herself less than twelve hours ago feels flimsy now. Shivering, Fatima Ghazala follows a Shaitan down to the basement, her steps less uncertain this time around. She calls her fire as soon as they descend into darkness and uses the glow cast by it to navigate her way to the room where they are all gathered.

  The same rotting smell, the same sounds of breathing, air sucked through thick throats, and the same encroaching darkness. Before anyone else can speak, Fatima Ghazala breaks the silence. “If I am going to Un-Name all of you, I need light and space.”

  She is provided with both. There are sixteen Shayateen in the room. The plan is that they will be Un-Named individually with the Qayyid going last. Fatima Ghazala has concerns, of course she does. Doubts fester, but she can see no other way through this. So they begin.

  To Un-Name a Djinn, whether Ifrit or Shaitan, Fatima Ghazala has learned, all she needs to do is pull apart the Names that were joined to give the Djinn a shape in the human world. Without a joined name, the Djinn will revert to smokeless fire and return to Al-Naar.

  Fatima Ghazala sits in the middle of a small room off to the side of the main room. As the Shayateen are not inclined to trust her, the Qayyid accompanies her. He breathes loudly, wetly, sitting in a corner of the small room, filling it with his malodor. Fatima Ghazala wonders how many nightmares she will have of this moment.

  The first Shaitan enters the room. He is tall and thin with a perfectly symmetrical face and eyes the complete black of the Shayateen. He doesn’t appear to be more than an adolescent. He stands in front of Fatima Ghazala, looking eager and excited. She looks at him and tries to see past the illusion of humanity his shape offers. For one panicked moment, she cannot.

  “Do it, Name Giver. Set him free,” the Qayyid growls from behind her.

  Fatima Ghazala takes a deep breath and lets her vision blur. However, instead of Un-Naming the Shaitan, she removes the tainted Name from its position in the chest of the Djinn. The Shaitan’s physical form immediately changes into that of smokeless fire. The blackened Name pulses on Fatima Ghazala’s palm. She closes her hand around it, crushing it until all that remains of it is ash visible to no one except her. It takes a moment for the Shaitan who is now smokeless fire to realize his end; he screams, just like the Shaitan in the desert did, just like all the people in Noor City did when they were killed, but the shrill sound is heard by no one except Fatima Ghazala. Not even the Qayyid breathing loudly behind her hears his subordinate’s scream. Terror threatens Fatima Ghazala, the death heavy on her conscience, but a bite of Zulfikar’s fire keeps her going, keeps her in the moment. The smokeless fire fades with the silent scream, and the Qayyid calls the next Shaitan in.

  As Fatima Ghazala removes the Names of the Shayateen, she gets a taste of the horrors they have committed against the humans, the Ifrit, and even each other. Her world becomes smokeless fire and screams only she can hear. In the Shayateen’s memories, she relives Laali’s last minutes and feels the desire a Shaitan had to kill Adila. Her hands burn from the heat of the Shayateen fires that fight her attempts to extinguish them.

  Fatima Ghazala finds the traitor Ifrit littered in many memories of different Shayateen. He shares in their chaos. Not a single memory of a single Shaitan is redeeming. The taint doesn’t affect her, but with every Name she removes,
Fatima Ghazala feels her soul darken. No matter how she justifies her actions, she knows that one day she will stand before her Creator and answer for the lives she is ending.

  Finally, it is the Qayyid’s turn. Fatima Ghazala’s hands are blistered. She looks at the Shaitan in front of her with a sense of dulled astonishment.

  “What are you waiting for?” the Qayyid demands, obscene in his eagerness.

  “Were you never once sorry for what you did?” A naive question, Fatima Ghazala knows, but the human part of her cannot comprehend the magnitude of evil in the being in front of her.

  “Is a stone ever sorry for being hard?”

  “Are you not afraid of facing our Creator?”

  “I don’t plan on dying just yet, Name Giver. I still have some blood left to spill.” The Qayyid makes an impatient sound. “Get on with it.”

  Fatima Ghazala lets her vision blur for the sixteenth time. She looks at the shimmering black word in the Qayyid’s chest and exhaustion nearly robs her of her consciousness. Even his fire has shades of black. Fatima Ghazala plunges her hand into the fire and wrenches the Name out, crushing it in her hands. It dissipates in the air, leaving behind a foul stench. The Qayyid gives a roar of surprised pain that is abruptly cut short when the universe reclaims him on behalf of the Creator he rebuffed till the last minute.

  Fatima Ghazala sinks to the floor, shaking. The stone is mercifully cold against her burnt hands.

  An eerie silence envelops the streets of Northern Taaj Gul. This part of Northern Noor is usually never at rest. While the residential areas deeper in the city fall into slumber after the clock strikes eleven, Taaj Gul, due to its proximity to the northern gates, is always bustling with pedestrians and hawkers peddling their wares. Restaurants are always open and chai wallahs always have kettles steaming with milky tea ready for the thirsty. Tonight, all of that is missing.