The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  One week after his conversation with his wife, Aarush has lunch with the leader of the Ifrit in Northern Aftab. She reached out to him when he was convalescing, and Aarush was surprised by both her strength and the depth of her military knowledge. Somehow he has gotten into the habit of lunching with her once every week—something he enjoys more than he had thought he would.

  As a measure of respect and sensitivity to the maharajah’s diet, all the dishes served at lunch are vegetarian. Also present at the table are Fatima Ghazala and the interim Emir of Noor, Mansoor. From what Aarush has been told, he understands that Zulfikar sustained an injury during a Ghul attack, which necessitated his removal to the Djinn world. The Raees and Mansoor seem certain of his return; Fatima Ghazala does not.

  They eat outside at a table set in the shade of a tree, enjoying the fine weather and a benevolent breeze. Aarush glances at Fatima Ghazala and is surprised anew by the changes wrought in her in the scant amount of time that has passed since he saw her last. Though her youth remains undiminished, she holds herself with a confidence usually visible in a much older person. But along with the confidence is a complicated sadness that Aarush recognizes simply because he has seen the war his sister wages with the same emotion.

  “So, Rajah, what ails you?” the leader of the Ifrit suddenly asks.

  Aarush puts down a piece of naan dipped in spicy hummus and takes a sip of cold well water. A bird sings in the branches somewhere above them. Fatima Ghazala awaits his response with a benign curiosity in her remarkable eyes while Mansoor seems distracted by his own food. “I don’t know how to be a good king,” he finally admits. “My maharani says I need to learn to make difficult decisions.”

  “She’s right, your maharani,” the Raees interjects.

  “I try, Raees. But what if I make the wrong decision? What if instead of making things better, I make them worse?” Aarush feels ridiculous. The maharajah who doesn’t know how to lead.

  “You cannot always be right, Maharajah, but if your intention is pure, you won’t be too wrong. You should talk to your maharani more. Get her advice. Let her make some of the decisions,” the Raees replies. “Good leaders are not just those who make good decisions but also those that know how to take good advice.”

  After the meal concludes, the maharajah returns to his side of Aftab Mahal and Mansoor to his duties. Fatima Ghazala is left alone with the Raees. They are still outside, lingering over cups of liberally sweetened coffee.

  “How are your nightmares, Raees?” Fatima Ghazala throws the opening gambit.

  “Endurable. Yours?” The Raees takes a sip of her beverage.

  “Sometimes I wake up screaming,” Fatima Ghazala replies, contemplating the tabletop.

  “I told you to move back into the mahal, didn’t I?” the Raees snaps. Fatima Ghazala insists on staying in the apartment on the second floor of Firdaus’s bookstore.

  “I can’t. Not while he isn’t here.” There is no need to ask who Fatima Ghazala is talking about. Only one man, Ifrit or human, matters to her.

  “Do you want to send him a message?” the Raees asks.

  Fatima Ghazala gives her a sharp look before shaking her head resolutely. She drains her cup and gets to her feet. “Come, Raees, let me cleanse your Name. I have someone to meet later.”

  The Raees’s taint lessens a bit more every time Fatima Ghazala scrapes it off her Name. Neither of them know if she’s going to be able to remove it entirely, but Fatima Ghazala is certain she can scrape off enough to return the Raees to her original strength. This ability has won her many proponents among the Ifrit elite, who were divided on the Name Giver being of human origin. Fatima Ghazala’s power to destroy Names is something the Raees keeps secret, a weapon in times of need.

  For Fatima Ghazala, daily cleansing the Raees’s fire has an unanticipated benefit. Her fire is much stronger now than it was three months ago. She can, and has, easily Named the Raees’s many advisors in the last month.

  Fatima Ghazala makes her way to Achal Kaur’s haveli an hour later in a carriage the Raees insists she use. Achal Kaur is waiting for her outside and sweeps her up in a hug as soon as she alights from the conveyance.

  “Sat Sri Akaal, Beeji,” Fatima Ghazala says, beaming at the woman who has been filling the void left by Laali.

  “You are much too thin, chanda,” the matriarch says, chucking her under the chin. “Doesn’t that Raees of yours feed you?” The leader of the Ifrit has continued Zulfikar’s arrangement with Achal Kaur and her messengers. The two matriarchs have a somewhat frictional relationship.

  Fatima Ghazala grins, wrapping her arm around her adopted grandmother. She knows that stuffing her with food is the old woman’s sincerest expression of love and accepts it happily. They make their way to the rooftop, where a group of people is gathered.

  “They are all new to Qirat and anxious to share their tales,” Achal Kaur says.

  None of these people have much in the way of material wealth, but all of them are rich with stories. Over the next few hours, Fatima Ghazala listens to them. She records each story, sometimes through translators. She learns the different tastes of the homes they left behind: a briny seaside, a fertile valley, a city with cobbled streets where the air smells like sugar. She hears about the roads, the twists and turns, these people took to get to Noor. She listens to the accounts of what they left behind: a small yellow house with a front yard full of roses, a pawpaw plantation, a ten-year war, and always a family. She sees through their laughter to the tears they think no one notices, and she writes it all down. All stories are precious, but these ones, because they aren’t found in any books, are infinitely more so.

  When the carriage drops her in front of the bookstore, the sky is streaked with orange. Any moment, the azaan for Maghrib will fill the streets. Fatima Ghazala dashes inside and upstairs to the two-room apartment. She lights a lamp and washes up quickly. After praying, she looks at the food Achal Kaur packed for her and decides that it will do for her dinner. She could easily nip outside and buy dinner from the nearby restaurants and street vendors, but now that she is away from others, the mask she hides behind has disintegrated. Fatima Ghazala doesn’t have the strength to pretend anymore.

  She has just sat down to eat when someone bangs on the locked door of the bookstore downstairs. Fatima Ghazala freezes for a minute before she grabs a lamp and makes her way down.

  “Api!” It’s Azizah. Fatima Ghazala opens the door, and the youngest Alif tumbles in. Her eyes are streaming, and Fatima Ghazala goes cold, remembering all too clearly a similar incident three months ago.

  “What’s the matter, Azizah?” she asks anxiously.

  Azizah raises eyes full of hurt and wails, “I’ve been betrayed!”

  It is only twenty minutes later, after a storm of weeping has passed, that Fatima Ghazala is able to make sense of the situation. Earlier that evening, Bilal the muezzin came to visit the Alifs, bringing with him his parents and a rishta … for the wrong sister.

  “My sister has betrayed me. I will never forgive her.” Azizah crosses her arms and looks mutinous.

  “But she hasn’t done anything that requires you to forgive her,” Fatima Ghazala points out.

  “Of course she did!”

  “What did she do?”

  Azizah opens her mouth, then closes it.

  “If you have to hate someone, you should hate Bilal,” Fatima Ghazala says patiently.

  “Why would I hate him?”

  “Why would you hate Adila? Did she do anything to seduce Bilal?”

  “No!”

  “Did she do anything to attract his attention?”

  “No …”

  “Does Adila even want to marry him?”

  “I don’t know!” Azizah gives an injured sniff. “Stop making sense! I’m going to stay here tonight, and that’s that!”

  “Of course,” Fatima Ghazala says, feeling old and wise.

  She has only just settled Azizah on a futon with copious amounts of des
serts, when there is another knock on the door. Fatima Ghazala has an idea who her next visitor is, and her expectations are fulfilled when she pulls the door open to reveal the oldest Alif. Adila looks absolutely furious, with color in her cheeks and eyes full of spark.

  “I am angry!” she says.

  “So I can see,” Fatima Ghazala replies calmly.

  “Absolutely furious.”

  “All right.”

  “How dare he?”

  “Who?”

  “Bilal! How dare he?”

  “Dare what?”

  “Ask his father to ask Abbu for my hand! In marriage!”

  “Because he likes you?”

  “That’s not how it’s done.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No! First you talk to the person you want to marry. If she indicates interest, then you talk to her parents. That’s the protocol!”

  “Oh, is that so? I didn’t know.” Fatima Ghazala makes soothing motions.

  “Now Azizah thinks I have betrayed her,” Adila wails.

  “Um, about Azizah—”

  “She thinks I seduced Bilal!”

  “No she doesn’t. But, Adila, about Azizah—”

  “What are you doing here?” Azizah asks, standing on the first stair leading to the second floor.

  “She’s my friend! I have more right than you to be here!” Adila flares up.

  “She likes me better!” Azizah’s hands go on her hips.

  “Before I have to start refereeing your fight, where’s Amirah?” Fatima Ghazala asks wearily.

  “I’m right here, Api.”

  They turn to see the middle Alif in front of the entrance to the bookstore.

  “I think both of you should be ashamed of yourselves for letting a man ruin your relationship. And while you are being ashamed, you should go home so Ammi and Abbu know you are alive and haven’t killed each other.” Amirah turns to Fatima Ghazala. “Can I stay here tonight?”

  Fatima Ghazala looks at the three imploring faces and smiles weakly.

  In the end, a message is sent to the Alif parents, and the Alif sisters settle in Fatima Ghazala’s new home. Azizah tearfully confesses that she has known for a while where the muezzin’s interests lie, but she didn’t want to admit it. How he had been staring at Adila at the maidaan during Deepavali, how he had rushed over to their side during the Ghul attack later that night. She tells them how he had been peeking at Adila during Fatima Ghazala’s wedding—Adila hadn’t seen because she had been too busy berating Azizah for staring. Azizah had spied him pacing outside their building when Adila was hurt by the Shayateen. He had bribed one of the kids in their building to send Adila her favorite mithai. Azizah had eaten the dessert he had sent.

  Fatima Ghazala loses herself in the drama of her friends’ lives. She slips into the space that exists for her, that is precious to her, and keeps her darkness at bay for a little longer.

  A week later, the oldest Alif and Fatima Ghazala are in the back room looking over the new books delivered earlier that day. It is late in the afternoon, and soon Adila will leave. The oldest Alif wears the glow of a woman newly in love, not that she is ready to admit it. Adila works with Fatima Ghazala in the bookstore; they are united in their efforts to provide recreational, accessible literature to the poor of Noor. Adila’s intended, Bilal, is an apprentice at a bookbinder’s, and Fatima Ghazala is entertaining thoughts of recruiting him into their business.

  “Should I stay over?” Adila asks suddenly.

  “You are welcome to stay over whenever you want, of course,” Fatima Ghazala says automatically.

  “Why do you do that, Fatima Ghazala?” Adila looks hurt.

  “Do what?” Fatima Ghazala looks at her friend in surprise.

  “Create distance between us!”

  “What distance?” Fatima Ghazala can hardly tell her oldest friend that she feels too dirty for the people around her. That killing the Shayateen may not have given her the taint but has blackened her soul anyway. That knowing her is dangerous.

  “You know very well what I am talking about, Fatima. You hold yourself apart from everyone now. You insist on living alone, eating alone. You don’t even come over for dinner unless we force you to!”

  “I’m hardly alone, Adila. You are with me during the days. I talk to Achal Kaur and the Raees. I walk around the city and talk to even more people. I am not alone.”

  “What about during the nights?”

  Fatima Ghazala doesn’t respond. The nights are her purgatory.

  “I will stay over—”

  “No. Bilal’s parents are coming over for dinner tonight. Have you forgotten?”

  “Ah. Then I shall send Azizah.”

  “It’s fine. I would much rather be alone. I am all right, Adila. Sometimes I am sad, but can you blame me? I am healing. Slowly. I will be better. I promise.”

  Adila gives Fatima Ghazala a hug, holding her close. “You know I will come to you whenever you call, right?”

  “I do.”

  Adila leaves a little while later, and for the first time since the morning, Fatima Ghazala is alone. It is easy to pretend that the dark places in her are full of light during the day or in someone’s company, but away from everyone, the cracks in her become gapingly obvious. She is a composition of losses. She has lost her parents twice and her goodness seventeen times over. Knowing her means being at risk. Fatima Ghazala has lost too many of the people she loves to risk those who remain. So she will learn to be alone, learn to tell everyone else’s stories, and refuse to tell her own.

  Besides, how can she tell her story when half of it is missing? The fire bond still exists, but Fatima Ghazala hasn’t been able to feel Zulfikar at all. All she knows is that he is still alive. Alive and hopefully well. Free from her. Safe from her.

  Fatima Ghazala has learned the vagaries of love in the absence of it. Though much of it is still a mystery to her, she has become intimately acquainted with the helpless yearning love songs are usually full of. Whether Zulfikar returns to her or not, he will always have a slice of her heart. Fatima Ghazala refuses to give him all of it. She would much rather he didn’t return. That is the truth, no matter how much it hurts. Isn’t freeing him from the bond, from their marriage, the greatest expression of her love?

  An hour before midnight, Fatima Ghazala is in the back room of the bookstore, on an old divan she dragged in as a place to rest. She tries to concentrate on the book she is reading, but her eyes keep closing. Sleep means nightmares, so she resists but it is a losing battle. When she has almost given in, she feels the tickling sensation that precedes a Naming, a signal that an Ifrit wants her attention. Fatima Ghazala frowns, not wanting to Name an Ifrit in the bookstore. She usually Names Ifrit in front of the fire pit behind the barracks on the grounds of Northern Aftab. The Raees hasn’t sent a message informing her about an upcoming Naming, hasn’t requested her presence. Is this an unplanned Naming? The sensation repeats, an imperative quality to it.

  Fatima Ghazala gets to her feet with a weary sigh and stumbles when her fire bond comes to life. Her vision blurs, and in front of her is an expanse of smokeless fire, a fire that feels as familiar to her as her own. Her mouth goes dry at the thought of Naming Zulfikar. How will she deny him when he stands in front of her? But what if he only wants to return to his position as the Emir and no longer has any interest in her? Can she endure that pain? Does she even have a choice?

  The sensation repeats. He is impatient. Fatima Ghazala takes a deep breath and moves closer to the fire. The flames reach out to her, soft on her skin. She shivers, unprepared for the unintentional seduction. His Name is in four pieces. The pieces read: loyalty, honesty, courage, and … one more. Fatima Ghazala picks up the last golden piece. Her name. Her name is one of the pieces of his Name. Her eyes are wet. His memories are all of her, as if before her, without her, he doesn’t exist.

  Somehow she manages to join the pieces of his Name together. Somehow she finds the courage to press the golden Nam
e into the region of his chest. She steps back and watches his fire flow into the shape of a man. She blinks, and he is there: flesh, blood, and fire. Oh, and anger. He is gloriously angry.

  The urge to touch him, to reassure herself of his tangibility, is so strong that Fatima Ghazala has taken a step forward without realizing. She retreats, her eyes not leaving his face. His lips are still full, his cheeks are hollow, and his eyebrows are dark wings. He is breathing fast; a pulse tics madly in his throat. An oud, incongruously, is slung over his shoulder.

  “You,” Zulfikar says, his voice low and full of anger. He steps toward her, and Fatima Ghazala tenses, ready to flee. “If you run, I will chase you. I will chase you until I catch you,” he promises.

  Fatima Ghazala reaches for calm and cannot find it. Her nails dig into her palms. “Welcome back to Noor, Emir.” Her voice shakes slightly at the end.

  For one charged moment, Zulfikar doesn’t react. Then he strides forward and wraps his arms around her, pulling her flush against the length of him. His hands slide down her spine, molding her body, as if reassuring himself of her. Fatima Ghazala savors his closeness, allows herself one whole minute of his heat before pushing him away. At first his embrace tightens and she thinks he will refuse to let go, but then his arms fall away and he steps back. Fatima Ghazala is immediately bereft.

  “We are no longer married,” she tells him through a thick throat.

  Zulfikar tilts his head, an eyebrow raised. “Whatever makes you think that?”

  “You said that once the fire bond breaks, the marriage is dissolved,” Fatima Ghazala reminds him.

  “Indeed I did, but, habibti, that only works when both fire bonds are broken, mine and yours. You may have stolen my bond, but yours still remains. You are still mine as much as you ever were. And I? Well, I have always been yours. Not that you have ever cared to claim me.”

  “I will ask the Raees to remove mine as well.” She will not let him persuade her otherwise.