by Baloch, Fuad
“Shoki, we’re attracting a crowd,” Jiza said, waving an arm toward a dozen or so curious villagers watching them from a distance.
“Hard to keep incognito,” he said, “when traveling with someone as beautiful as you.” He had meant the words as a joke, intending to lighten the mood. With the words came both the shame of the time he had spent with her in Nainwa, and the crushing realization he was no closer to finding Nuraya now than he was three months ago.
“As you say,” said Jiza, her voice measured. Casually, she wrapped the shawl tighter around her body in a movement that ended up accentuating her curves through the leather vest she wore over a black peshwaz. Shoki turned away. “They look desperate. Worried.”
“Time to go,” Shoki said, then began marching toward their horses to the side. “We don’t want any attention.”
She threw him a challenging look. “Why not?”
Shoki stopped. “I am not going to get into this argument again.” He raised a hand toward the wetlands to the east. “We need to keep moving.”
“The last reported sighting of Naila in Zakhanan lands was over six weeks ago!”
“That means nothing,” he replied hotly. “With all the… troubles plaguing the realm, news is hard to come by, and we can’t afford to ignore it when it does.”
“Her initial sighting could have been a rumor as well.”
“Jiza,” he said, exasperated now, aware of the voices growing behind him. “You do not have to keep following me. I haven’t forgotten my promise, but in my current state, there is nothing I can offer anyone. Especially not to your people. How can you not see this? Even Mara understood this in the end.”
She shrugged. “Don’t worry about him.”
Anger flashed through Shoki. “Did you hear anything I said? I have nothing! No armies. No gold. Not even an ounce of jadu.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Go to your fellow djinn and ask them for help. Better still, hunt down Drenpa and his minions!”
“They have not attacked since the Battle of Buzdar.”
“Hardly something worth celebrating.” Shoki turned around to face the djinn woman, no longer caring for the crowd inching toward them. “If they killed thousands before, they will do the same again.”
“No more different from what your race does to its own.”
“I—” Shoki sputtered, then shook his head. “I am not going to get into this. Not again!” Fuming, he stomped through the damp grass, and pulled himself up on to the saddle. He waited for Jiza, not acknowledging the peasants crying out his name, fiddling with the straps of the Reratish saddle they’d stolen from their camp. At least the damned thing was well-made, offering decent support for his backside.
He swayed, losing consciousness for a brief moment. Gritting his teeth, Shoki clenched his fists. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jiza pull herself up. Before she could offer any more advice on how much time they’d already wasted trying to pick up a cold trail, or how unlikely it would be to ever find Nuraya again, or point out the foolishness of going up against a magus like Afrasiab without any preparation, he kicked his horse hard.
Snorting, the beast broke into an easy trot. He heard Jiza give a short shout, followed by the beating of hooves over grass behind him. Wouldn’t be long before she’d catch up to him; she was a much better rider than him.
“—the one-eyed—”
“—help us!”
Shoki clicked his tongue, willing himself to think of anything but the voices. It made sense to have the blind reach out to the one-eyed for help, but couldn't they see that they were better off without him?
Jiza caught up to him. “I talked with the locals when I went in to stock up on provisions.”
“Yeah?”
“They’ve heard of the blight in the far east as well.”
“There is no blight,” Shoki replied. “Nothing but fanciful tales whipped up by people at a loss to explain what’s going on.”
Jiza tittered. “If you could only hear yourself.”
Shoki furrowed his brows, ignoring her.
“There was another message from Salar Ihagra as well.”
“By the gods, can’t I get any respite from the world?”
“So long as you live, you belong to the world and its whims.”
“When did you become a philosopher?”
“Ever since you got lost.”
Shoki bit his tongue. She had grown better at identifying the best ways of annoying him. Almost as if she had figured out the nerve that had frayed the most, and now found great pleasure in pinching it whenever she felt like it.
He raised his chin, forcing his mind on the winding path ahead. Another day or so, and they would be a hundred miles from the Zakhanan border. He had to be careful, to keep an eye out for enemy scouts. Djinn magus or not, in this form, Jiza was in no position to help him. Besides, it wasn’t like her magical well had any real value to a non-magus.
“Why do you continue to maintain the human form?” he asked after they’d ridden on for a mile or so in silence, turning his head over to her. “Drenpa’s djinn shed their human shapes, breathing fire and fury. Even if your well won’t help repel attacks, it might be enough to intimidate.”
Jiza grinned. “You dislike the idea of a human woman protecting you?”
“I said nothing to that effect!”
Jiza shrugged, her light brown hair almost golden under the glare of the sun. A false image. He wasn't even sure if djinn had hair, and besides, it wouldn't be long before it’d be raining again. “I made a pact. In the human world, I follow the covenant, even if others do not.”
“When I was in Nainwa, you looked just the same.” He paused. “I’ve never seen the real you, have I?”
“No.”
Shoki exhaled. Apart from the Battle of Buzdar, he’d never really seen a djinn, not even when he was a guest in their own city. There were philosophical questions there somewhere to be explored, but they weren't things he needed to concern himself with. Not when there was so much else he ought to be doing. “Jiza, when we stop for rest, gift me your power again.”
“It wouldn’t help.”
“But—”
“We’ve tried this numerous times. Your well… needs another way to be found.”
Shoki rolled his eyes. “Fine. Save it for the next djinn you see!”
She didn’t reply, but before Shoki turned away, he caught something like anger flashing in her eyes.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He swayed in the saddle, losing his connection with the world for an instant. He was tired. So very tired. When was the last time they’d stayed at any spot for more than a few hours? At least, they had been lucky and not attracted an enemy. A minor miracle considering the sheer multitude of those who had a vested interest in his death.
The Zakhanan forces.
The Reratish king.
Mercenaries seeking bounty on his head.
Magi he had wronged.
Inquisitors he had stood against.
The various ameers who would cement their own claims upon his death.
Drenpa and his djinn.
Maybe even Afrasiab too, the magus who had captured Nuraya. Then again, maybe a magus as powerful as him couldn’t care less for someone as weak as Shoki.
The world grew dark to the left. Shoki blinked. The darkness stayed this time, not vanishing as it often did when he tried to focus on it. The unerringly straight landscape began to warp, mountains and valleys forming one instant, then melting away the next. The sun grew dark, casting a black light over the landscape before changing to a bright purple.
He was hallucinating again, the visions growing stronger.
“I—”
“Shoki?”
He blinked. The world returned, taking the familiar form he’d seen all his life. Once, he’d been able to see past the facade of matter, peek at the constituent parts when bestowed with the sight of the Ajeeb magus. What did he have now? Delirium? Madness?
He
had to keep going. Shoki raised his chin defiantly toward the eastern horizon. Somewhere over there, was Naila. And where she was, Afrasiab would be nearby too. Hopefully. He had to find them, and using the leads there, find Nuraya. He had to!
Even if Nuraya felt nothing for him, his affection for her, mired with guilt, demanded no reciprocation.
“We can’t go any further,” said Jiza.
Shoki turned toward her, then saw the reason for her hesitation. A mile to the east stood a guard post flying the white eagle of the Zakhanan empire. “We have to skirt around them.”
“There are more of these posts ahead,” she said. Shoki didn’t dispute her claim. She saw better than him.
“I can’t go back.”
“Then go through.”
Shoki rubbed his palms. “How? I don’t have—”
“Accept the help being offered by your salar.”
Shoki considered her words. A leaf by itself carried no weight, but accompanied by a hundred thousand more, it could slow down a marching army. He sighed. “Is his scout still trailing us?”
“You picked up on that?”
Shoki didn’t reply.
“Just give the word.”
“Very well,” he said, turning his horse around. “Let’s go meet him.”
Chapter 2
Nuraya
Nuraya woke up with a gasp. She blinked, her breath short, her thoughts all jumbled up and dark. A terrible foreboding gripped her, harrowing and terrifying as she struggled to make sense of it all.
What had happened?
The memory came back in a rush.
Her arrival at the Reratish camp.
Ahasan’s betrayal.
The boyish face of Prince Sabrish pleading with her while the other face, old and cruel, spoke to her.
She shrieked and sprang to her feet. Her ribs screamed in protest, breaths still coming in ragged gasps. Nuraya darted her head around, ignoring the stiffness in her neck. She was in a lushly appointed room with thick carpets and rich tapestries hanging over high walls. Gloomy sunlight filled the room through tall windows to her left. Was she back in the Shahi Qilla? No, the furniture was old, the tapestries dirty.
She looked back at the four-post bed, then at herself. She still wore the finery she had put on when setting out with Ahasan—wrinkled now—but the dagger she had secreted within her peshwaz was gone. Of course it was. She had sunk it into her brother’s flesh.
Shaking her head, forcing herself to not dwell over what she had done, she stepped cautiously toward the windows. Her body creaked, the joints protesting as if they hadn’t moved for an eternity. Gritting her teeth, she advanced, the desire to know where she was overriding all other worries for the moment.
But she couldn’t quite quench the troubling thoughts.
Were her forces still arrayed against the Reratish horde? What in Rabb’s name had happened to Prince Sabrish, and what had they done to her people?
Dragging her feet over the dark carpet, decorated with abstract geometric symbols with wild swirls popular in Eastern Istan, she continued toward the window, anxiety weighing her down. In setting her people free, she had assumed a great burden, and now all the uncertainties of the arduous path ahead gnawed at her.
She peeked outside the windows and blinked in surprise.
A hundred feet or so below her, an unkempt garden spread outward for hundreds of yards. Grass as high as a man’s waist competed with weeds for the weak sunlight, growing shorter as it went further from her. Just beyond the garden, stunted trees stood in swamps, littering the horizon as far as she could see. The landscape was flat, bleak, wet, unmarred by hills or man-made structures.
“Oh Rabb, where am I?” she whispered.
Gripping the windowsill with both hands, she jutted her head out. The wall was made of large stones, coarse and unpolished, cracked in places but otherwise formidable.
Had she been made a captive?
The idea was so shocking, so unexpected, that instead of the fear she might have felt otherwise, rage coursed through her veins. She had been trying to do the right thing. She’d given up her claim to the throne in order to secure peace for not just her people, but for the Reratish as well. Instead of meeting her even halfway in good faith, she’d been betrayed. Again. The one factor that refused to change. Men. Mother. Magi and inquisitors. They had all taken advantage of her, using her for their own plots.
She’d had enough.
Nuraya hissed, whipping her head around to survey the room once more. “I’m not going to be muzzled.”
She marched to the closed double door in the wall opposite her, ignoring the cramps spreading in her lower torso. More memories floated over. The prince had used jadu on her, flinging her to the side when she had rushed at him. Did that explain the pain she felt? Her feet faltered as her mind recalled the terrible vision of the two-headed man.
No ordinary man. A magus. It all made sense now—why the prince had been loath to be seen in public or mingle with even his own commanders.
No ordinary magus either, fighting neither for the land that the Reratish prince might have wanted, nor a war against the inquisitors. Had it been the former, her offer would have given him all he desired. Had it been the latter, he could have joined her against Shoki.
What was he fighting for?
She stuttered to a stop two paces from the doors. Her heart beat violently within her chest. Every man needed something. Some bore their desires openly like vultures eying the dying greedily. Others buried their deepest, darkest desires until the right time presented itself. How could she expect to understand the motives of a man whose needs she didn’t know?
She saw Shoki, telling her what she needed to do. She bit her lip. He’d warned her, hadn’t he? Warned her of Istan being at a crossroads, of threats converging from multiple fronts. She’d refused to listen to him. Had she been wrong?
Blood boiled in her veins. If he had known all this, and yet kept matters hidden from her, she’d take him to task. No matter what she felt about him, she couldn’t let a man treat her like a fool.
Nuraya rubbed her index finger with the thumb. She had made her decisions as best as she could, and it was no good pondering the beauty of the glass bangles once they’d been smashed.
She reached forward and tried turning the round door handle to her right. It didn’t turn. She tried the other and found the same resistance.
“Open the door!” she shouted.
Her voice rebounded in the cavernous room, her own words echoing over and over.
No one replied.
Nuraya waited, troubled by the realization she hadn’t heard any other sound except herself since she had woken up. Even if she was at some secluded place, judging by the stunted forest surrounding the garden, surely she’d been able to hear birdsong, or howls of some distant animals.
All she heard was her own heartbeat.
“Is anyone out there?” she shouted once more.
No one answered.
“Open the door,” she said through gritted teeth. A madness came over her. She shook and rattled the door handles with all her might. When they didn’t budge, she let out a howl, then took a few steps back and ran into the doors with her left shoulder.
Thwack!
“Oww!” Wincing with pain, she stepped back, cradling her throbbing shoulder. She looked up. For all the hurt she had caused herself, she hadn’t even left a blemish on the door.
There had to be another way. A better way.
Turning away from the doors, Nuraya surveyed the room once more. Apart from the bed—its sheets grimy and stained—the room was sparse. A broken down almirah stood to the right, its shelves bare, one empty shelf hanging limply. No chairs or divans she might have found some use for. The rough slabs of stone that made the walls of her prison offered no purchase or gaps she could pry.
Nothing she could use except—
Her eyes fell on the tapestries hanging on the walls. Instead of delightful scenes from natu
re, they depicted sterile, geometric shapes—cursive lines intersecting at precise angles, circles within circles with eight-pointed stars in the middle.
Her chest tightening, Nuraya approached the tapestry to the left of the windows. She raised her hand, letting her fingers graze the mold-ridden cloth. Then, she yanked at it, splitting the tapestry in half.
“No!” she exclaimed. The cursed things were too flimsy. Even if she could tie them all together, she doubted they would bear her weight if she tried rappelling down the window.
Again, she whirled about. There had to be something she could use. She marched to the bed, then dropping to her knees, looked underneath.
Nothing but tufts of dust.
She sneezed, then got back up.
Instead of letting the frustration take over her, she strode back to the doors.
“I, Nuraya Istan, daughter of the Iron Sultan, demand these doors to be opened.” She placed her arms on her hips. “I demand the presence of the bastards who’ve restrained me here.”
When no one responded, she curled her fingers and punched the doors. That elicited no response either. She tried rattling the doorknobs once more.
Nothing.
“Rabb drown you all, you pieces of camel dung! Open the doors!”
Wind picked up outside, roaring as it blew into the room. Flying into a rage, Nuraya kicked the door with her right foot. Then, her left. Wind howled, an invisible racket keeping her company. She punched and kicked the doors over and over, shouting incoherently throughout.
The whooshing wind set the loose ends of her peshwaz fluttering. Something groaned behind her. Nuraya turned around. The bedpost closest to her creaked, then as another violent gust of wind blew in, it snapped, the bed tilting to its side.
Her breath labored, her eyes narrowed, Nuraya crossed her arms over her chest. She was Nuraya Istan and she wouldn’t act the hot-headed, foolish princess others expected of her. Something she had learned from kismet. Instead, she told herself to consider her situation rationally.
What did she know?