by Nafiza Azad
The Raees’s doors are closed. Fatima Ghazala knocks once and opens it without waiting for an answer. The leader of the Ifrit is in a meeting with Mansoor, the interim Emir of Noor City; Fatima Ghazala remembers hearing that sometime in the past hour. They both look at her warily as she comes into the room and closes the door, none too gently, behind her.
“Where is the Wazir?” she asks the Raees. Perhaps it is the silky tone of her voice or the menace in her eyes, but the matriarch frowns.
“What need have you with my son, Name Giver?” the Raees asks.
“Your son is a traitor, Raees. He must answer.” Fatima Ghazala speaks through her fury. “He must pay.”
“What proof do you have?” the Ifrit woman demands.
Fatima Ghazala laughs, a sound stripped of all its humor. “Let me tell you where I was yesterday, Raees. Let me tell you what I did yesterday.” She takes a deep breath, remembering the foul odor of the Qayyid. She swallows, taking comfort in the anger that immediately rises to resist the sorrow. “I killed sixteen Shayateen yesterday, Raees. I took their Names and crushed them in my hands. I became a murderer so they wouldn’t kill any more innocents.” Fatima Ghazala breathes, the sound a gasp. “And in their Names were memories. Memories of your son. Making deals with them on behalf of the humans, sowing chaos, laughing while damning himself. While damning us.” She stares at the Raees, abruptly calm. “You should have had him executed when he killed Shuruq.”
“What do you know of Shuruq, Name Giver?” the Ifrit leader roars. Mansoor starts, but Fatima Ghazala is unfazed.
“What do I know of her? She dies anew every single night in my dreams, Raees! The memory of her is in Ghazala’s fire, the loss of her is in every spark of the flames I carry. The feel of a warm child in my arms, the way she smelled right after a bath, her voice when she called for Ghazala. I know more about her than you ever will.
“My entire life has become a dirge.” Fatima Ghazala’s voice trembles. She turns around and leaves, not heeding the Raees’s strident calls to stay. She climbs the stairs to the rooms she shared with Zulfikar, wanting the scant comfort of being surrounded by his things, by his scent.
The fifth floor of Aftab Mahal is deserted. Fatima Ghazala can hear no servants cleaning or otherwise engaged, but the door to the room she shared with Zulfikar is ajar. An oppressive weight presses down the air delineating the subdued atmosphere of the mahal. Fatima Ghazala pushes the door open and enters, only to come to a stop when she sees the person sitting in a chair in the sitting room. He is holding her oud.
She closes the door behind her. The Wazir smiles sweetly as if her presence is all that he has been waiting for. Her first instinct is to look away, but Fatima Ghazala, with an effort, keeps her eyes on the Ifrit. Her vision blurs. The Wazir’s name is entirely black. The air suddenly smells of smoke.
“You have always loved this oud,” the Wazir says, and Fatima Ghazala tenses. “You took it everywhere with you. It has spent more time with you than even I have.” He breaks the oud in two and throws it on the ground before getting to his feet with a flourish.
Yet another loss.
“Come closer to me, Ghazala. Let us be reunited,” the Wazir croons. “Do you know how much I have yearned for you?”
Fatima Ghazala does not move from her spot, so he takes a step closer. “I would keep your distance if I were you, Wazir.”
“Would you hurt me?” The Wazir raises his eyebrows. “You wound me, Ghazala. I am the only one you love and I love you. More than you can imagine.”
“Love?” Fatima Ghazala scoffs. “Was killing Shuruq an expression of your love, Wazir?”
“You loved the child more than you loved me. That was unforgivable,” the Wazir replies simply.
“And you? You didn’t love the child? She was yours, Wazir.” Fatima Ghazala cannot understand him. She doesn’t want to understand him.
“You know what else is unforgivable? Someone else trying to claim you when you are my wife. How dare he?” The Wazir ignores her question. “I am friendly with the Ghul, you know? Most of the Ifrit think they are just animals, but they are much more than that. They are very receptive to trading.” He smiles secretively.
“What did you give them?” Fatima Ghazala knows she is going to regret asking, but she cannot help herself.
“I didn’t give them anything so much as I took away something.” The Wazir glances at her and pouts. “Oh fine, I just removed protection from a couple of caravans to allow them easier access to the people. I let them into some cities for the same reason. There are so many humans; the death of a few cannot be of much consequence. The peace was grating on my nerves.
“I might as well tell you now. I also had Firdaus killed. And my mother’s taint?” the Wazir chortles. “That was me as well.”
“Why?”
“They took you away from me, so they had to pay.” He comes to stand before her. She looks at him in the gloom of a day almost captured by dusk and shivers. “You were a surprise. I had almost given up hope of finding you again.”
“I am not Ghazala.” Fatima Ghazala’s hands clench into fists. She prays to her Creator for control. For strength. For the ability to see this through.
He raises a hand, perhaps to caress her cheek or grasp her shoulder. Fatima Ghazala steps back. “We will leave this city. Go to a different one where no one knows us. We will be happy, you and I.”
“I do not love you. I never will,” Fatima Ghazala tells the Wazir as clearly as she can. But he doesn’t seem to comprehend her words.
“I am sure Zulfikar will try to find us. It is too bad you got back before he died, but you made things easier by removing the fire bond.”
“I am still bonded to him,” Fatima Ghazala says, fiercely glad that she hadn’t asked the Raees to remove her fire bond.
“You are lying.” This seems to penetrate the Wazir’s delusions, and he frowns.
“I have no reason to.”
“I have removed all obstacles between you and me, Ghazala. No one will protect you from me anymore.”
Fatima Ghazala’s eyes narrow. “I can protect myself, Wazir.”
“Call me Anwar.”
“I will never call you by your name.”
His eyes flare black, and Fatima Ghazala’s hackles rise. “Since when have you been tainted?” she asks him.
“It happened in a fight with the Shayateen in the desert, three years after I was Named. It is easy to hide it. I thought you would see it, but you wouldn’t even look at me.” He smiles, friendly again. “I am a bit sad that you killed the Shayateen. They were going to help the humans with their war, but I guess the Ghul can do that.”
“You are assisting the rebels?”
The Wazir shrugs expansively. “It is so easy to poke at the fissures in a relationship and cause them to break. I talked with the young rajkumar, mentioned how unfair it was that the Ifrit will be getting rich off the gold mines in the desert cities. How unfair it was that his older brother got to be maharajah while he, more suited to the role, is nothing but a moneyed prince. Nudged some landowners here and there. Humans are always eager for war. I just helped them find a reason for one.”
“Why would you do that?”
“For the chaos, my love. The glorious chaos.” The Wazir shudders as if in ecstasy, then suddenly straightens, all emotion leaching from his face. “We should go now.”
“I am not going anywhere with you, Wazir.” Fatima Ghazala turns her back on him, knowing the action will enrage him. He grabs her forearm, and she lets her fire burn him. He retreats, and she turns. “I do not need any man, Ifrit or human, to protect me, Wazir. Have you forgotten who I am?”
The Wazir hisses. His pupils spill into the whites of his eyes and turn black. “Do you think I am afraid of being burned?”
“If you aren’t, you should learn to be,” Fatima Ghazala replies, calling her fire to burn on the surface of her skin.
“Ghazala,” the Ifrit hisses.
“For th
e last time, Wazir, I am not Ghazala. I do carry her fire, though, which means I know the amount of hate she had for you.” Fatima Ghazala holds herself ready, her body instinctively poised to defend itself.
“You lie!” the Wazir roars. “She loved me!”
“Love?” Fatima Ghazala spits out. “You wanted to own her. You wanted to control her. Your attention was suffocating, and your jealousy knew no limits. She loathed you at the end.”
The Wazir rushes at her, his rage overpowering his cunning and restraint. Fatima Ghazala braces herself for the impact. She needs just a moment to retrieve his Name. Just one moment to destroy it. But she never gets the chance. Hot blood sprays on her face, in her eyes, and the Wazir’s head falls to the ground. Before she gets a chance to even scream, the Ifrit’s head and body are set on fire. Fatima Ghazala falls to her knees, shaking, and raises a hand to wipe the blood away.
The Raees stands before her, the Wazir’s burning body between them. She is holding a sword dripping with the Wazir’s blood. Fatima Ghazala watches the sword fall to the floor, followed by the Raees, who keens as the body of her only child burns.
The pihu of the koyal bird in the tree; the sound of the River Rahat when its waters meet the quays. The red dupatta fluttering in the wind; the small mirrors on it making stars out of sunlight. The sizzle of the meat at the kebab wallahs. Someone flying an orange kite from a rooftop. The azaan five times a day; the hymns on Sunday. The peal of bells at the mandir; the smiling faces at the synagogue. The khejri trees strive on while the date palms are full of grace. Red, pink, and purple bougainvillea leading riots on whitewashed walls. Noor, of the thousand faces, colors, and languages. Noor, where she will always belong, and Noor, which is no longer enough for her.
Sunaina has been saying goodbye to both her city and her ghosts for the past three months. Not forever, no, but at least for the next long while. She opens the door to the bookstore on Kalandar Street that her sister now runs, and enters. The first person she sees is Rajkumari Bhavya, curled up in a chair in a corner of the store, staring into the distance. The rajkumari prefers the dark now. Mirrors make her scream, and her lips no longer know the shape of smiles. Whatever she did, whatever happened three months ago, left her ensnared in sorrow and in silence. Strangely, the only person who seems to speak the same language as her these days is Sunaina’s sister, which is perhaps why the rajkumari spends her days ensconced in the bookstore with little regard for her social status and the obligations accompanying it.
“You are here, didi.” Fatima Ghazala appears in the doorway leading to the back room. Her sister has lost weight. Her cheekbones stand out in stark relief to her hollow cheeks. A universe resides in her gold eyes. But still, she wears her sorrow more gently than the rajkumari. “Has Jung Sori told you the departure date, then?” Sunaina had thought Fatima Ghazala would be opposed to her plans to travel and had been prepared to argue about it, but to her surprise and consternation, her sister had not just agreed but even encouraged her to leave the city.
“We leave in two weeks,” Sunaina reports with a flutter of nerves. When her Han friend invited her to accompany her family on their annual trip to their homeland, Sunaina immediately jumped at the chance. The walls of the city feel less constrictive now that she will be leaving them behind soon.
“Rajkumari,” Fatima Ghazala says, sitting next to Bhavya. The princess gives no indication of hearing her, so her sister pulls her cheek. Sunaina gasps at this impertinence, and Bhavya scowls.
“Pay attention to me,” Fatima Ghazala says shortly.
“What is it?” Bhavya glares at her.
“Didi is leaving in two weeks. Did you know?”
The rajkumari looks confused, then uncertain. “I … maybe?”
“You should go with her,” Fatima Ghazala says without warning.
“Go?” the rajkumari echoes. “Where?”
“Away.”
“From Noor?”
“From Qirat.” Sunaina tries to catch her sister’s eye, but Fatima Ghazala won’t look at her.
“I can leave?” The rajkumari sounds as if she hasn’t contemplated the idea even once.
“There is more to life than the ghosts you are spending it with,” Fatima Ghazala says, as if she is intimate with the ghosts she refers to.
“You think I can escape them?” Bhavya raises hopeful eyes to her.
“You owe it to yourself to try,” Fatima Ghazala replies gently.
“Fatima!” Sunaina hisses. “I would have appreciated some warning before you brought that up!”
Fatima Ghazala shrugs. “You care for her. Why would you say no?”
“Because she is the rajkumari!”
“She’s only a rajkumari in Qirat, didi. Besides, look at her.”
Sunaina turns and looks at Bhavya, who is contemplating her hands with a disturbing intensity. Sunaina capitulates. What else can she do when presented with this picture of misery? “Fine, I will talk to Sori for you, but, Rajkumari Bhavya, you will need to get the maharajah’s permission.”
At her words, Bhavya flinches and gets to her feet. “I need no one’s permission to live my life, especially not my brother’s. I have decided. I will go with you.” She walks out of the store without saying anything else. Sunaina throws Fatima Ghazala a look that promises retribution and hurries after her.
A tribunal composed of the maharajah and the somewhat less corrupt members of his court find Sanchit Goundar, Vinod Rathod, and a number of other wealthy landowners guilty of treason and murder. Though the murder charges are hotly contested, the evidence is undeniable. Rajkumar Aaruv’s body was found at a small house in Imli Nagar, the deed to which names none other than Sanchit Goundar as its owner. As to the motive behind the murder, though the perpetrators insist they weren’t the ones to bring about the rajkumar’s end, speculations from the general populace agree that it was a result of the prince’s refusal to participate in the planned assassination of the maharajah.
The royal family is in mourning. From all reports, the Rajmata was so struck by her son’s death, she suffered a breakdown and has retreated to an ashram in an undisclosed location. Due to the maharajah’s request, the rajkumar’s funeral was a quiet affair, the attendance limited to immediate family members. Funeral rites were assiduously observed, and evening prayers for the prince continue to this very day.
“Enough,” Aarush says, and Janab Jamshid stops reading from a paper that records in flat detail the events of three months past. “Leave me,” he says, and the advisor removes himself from the room. Ifrit soldiers stand guard outside the door to his office. This should have made Aarush feel safe, but the sharp twinge in his side every time he moves reminds him that he is never safe from betrayal.
Aarush signed the orders for the execution of the traitors the morning after the general of his army delivered the cleaned crown to him. Though the general made the delivery without comment or censure, the implications were obvious.
A knock on his door makes him straighten. A second later, his wife enters the room carrying a tray piled with food. “I’m not hungry,” Aarush says shortly. A new silence has crept in between them. A silence choked with blame and guilt.
His wife closes the door behind her and places the tray on his desk. She stands there, the maharani of the kingdom, and regards him quietly for a moment. “It has been three months, Maharaj. Isn’t it past time you stopped sulking?”
“Sulking?” Aarush echoes disbelievingly. “My brother is dead!”
“No”—Aruna raises her chin—“the traitors are dead.”
“You could have stopped her, Aruna.” Finally, Aarush gives voice to the thought that has been festering in him for three months.
“Why would I have done that, Maharaj? The man planned to kill my husband. My child. I would have killed him myself had Bhavya not been brave enough for both of us.”
“Aruna!” Aarush rises to his feet, knocking over the inkwell on his desk. The writing paper on it is dyed black.
&nb
sp; “You know that I love you, Aarush. More than my life. But I will defend my child against everything and everyone that threatens him—even if it is you.” She pauses, turns to go, and stops, as if changing her mind. She faces him again and looks into his eyes. “I understand that you may not have wanted to be the maharajah, but the fact is, you are one. If your country didn’t cling to its misogyny and forbid women from ruling, you could have passed the crown to Bhavya. She has more than proved her ability to rule. As it is, you can’t, so you are the maharajah. You need to behave like one.”
“You think I am not? What am I supposed to do, Aruna? How else am I supposed to behave?” Aarush reels. He hadn’t expected such words from his wife of all people.
“You were given the information about the rebels; you were warned about the rebellion. The report revealed the instigators, and you did nothing. You ask what are you supposed to do?” Aruna meets his eyes. Hers are clear and unafraid. “You are supposed to make the difficult choices, Aarush. You are supposed to act for your people. No, not just for the glittery, perfumed masses who fawn over your every action, your every word. I’m talking about the people you rule who do not get invited to the same parties you do, who cannot afford to eat three meals a day. I am talking about those people whose voices are taken from them by those with power and wealth. You are the maharajah, Aarush, you are supposed to serve the people no matter what personal sacrifices that requires.”
“Why are you saying these things to me now? Why not before?”
“Because I was trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect maharani. I was trying to be more royal than my blood is. Because you didn’t want to hear these things before. No, in fact, you still don’t want to hear them, do you? But, Aarush, when I almost lost you, almost lost everything that I love, I decided to stop pretending. I decided to stop saying only the things you want to hear. I love you too much to do that.” Aruna turns away. “Please eat your food.”
Alone again, Aarush sits down heavily in his chair and broods. Aruna’s words hurt him, but he can’t help but admit the truth in them. He sighs deeply, and his eyes fall on the tray in front of him. He hadn’t even thanked her for the food.