Joaidane blinked back tears. “But I’m your child. You bore me and brought me into this world. How could you turn your back on me now when I need you? Not only will you not use your power to save me, but you’ll send me out into the world without a home?”
“Look at yourself.” An ornamental hand mirror appeared within her grip. Sunlight reflected off its silver frame and danced over the sand.
Too disgusted to look at his misshapen features, Joaidane glanced away. “No.”
“Look!” Safiyya cried again, brandishing it in front of him. “See what you’ve done to yourself? For once in your life, Joaidane, take responsibility for your actions.”
“But this is her doing!” Anger drove his voice higher. “I have done nothing wrong! This is her fault, and I demand her to fix it. I demand you to fix it, Mother!”
Safiyya’s features became a stone-cold mask. Nothing in her face betrayed emotion. “I see now where I went wrong, but what’s done is done. I raised a spoiled, selfish child, and you’ve become an even worse man. You can never rule this tower, and I can suffer you here no longer.”
“Will you send me away with nothing?”
Even as her violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears, Safiyya shook her head. “You’re my son, and I’ll always love you, but I don’t have to love the person you’ve become. I will give you enough to survive your new life, but nothing more. Perhaps you’ll learn the compassion I failed to instill in you while living among people you’ve scorned.” She shook her head and wiped her cheek with one wrist. “Be gone from my sight.”
Leaving the place of his birth with what he could carry, Joaidane traveled the dunes until he reached the first village from the coast. Without the protection of the face he’d worn all his life or his magic, he was chased out and beaten by the local guards. They took his money, his jewels, and the golden dagger his mother had given him as a final parting gift.
The next town was the same, and the next no better. He wandered the deserts of Samahara and lost count of the passing years. With only the clothes on his back and what little money he made from the pitiful charity of others, he survived.
Though as far as Joaidane was concerned, it was a life hardly worth living. He’d never find anyone to look beyond his face.
Chapter
The unforgiving sun showed no love to Joaidane. It beat down on him, drying out his wrinkled skin and sapping all moisture from his mouth. Since he’d been given a temple robe a few years ago while begging in the city of Varkas, he spent much of the sunlit hours hunkered down in shadowed corners of the city with his hood drawn. The rest of the time, he begged for scraps and relied on the generosity of others for his survival.
After all, hadn’t Yasmina been a cruel queen to rob him of not only his magic, but any way to earn an honest living for himself? He couldn’t work with his knotted hands, and no one trusted him to deliver packages. He couldn’t work at the textile mill, the grocer, or even on the fishing boats. Within months of settling in a new place, the same inevitable outcome always occurred—the local guards would chase him back into the deserts once more.
Yasmina had taken everything from him. Eventually, bitterness became defeat and depression. Sometimes when Joaidane lost the will to live, he considered an open defiance of the sultanate and doing whatever was necessary to earn an execution. Dying seemed better than living no life at all, and Joaidane had long ago grown exhausted with an existence dependent on the kindness of others.
Not that any kindness existed in Naruk. It was a place void of that, inhabited by miserable people accustomed to hardship and suffering to support the whimsical lifestyles of the elite upper class.
As the seat of the sultanate, Naruk had become the most prosperous region in Samahara. Its Ruby Palace sat at the edge of a city divided by the kingdom’s unforgiving caste system, the immense structure carved from the edge of the mountain and constructed from the most resplendent marble and pink sandstone. Rumors around the city said over a thousand men had died during its construction. Darker stories, those only whispered far from the ears of the guards, spoke of how once those dead men had been cremated, their ashes were used for mortar in the walls.
In smaller villages, the differences between the social groups hadn’t been as apparent, but in Naruk, all commoners received frequent reminders of their pitiful place in life.
At the top of the chain, the sultan prospered the most. Then came the rest of the ruling class comprised of his many siblings, nephews, nieces, wives, and children. Beneath the nobility, the magistrates and sultan’s personal advisors hoarded the most power. What little privilege remained after them was given to the merchant class. Wealth bought them the power birth hadn’t attained.
The lower castes of Naruk lived difficult and harsh lives forged by days of manual labor. They were the peasants who washed laundry, mined the sand quarries, wove linen, and tended stables. They worked the hardest and longest hours with no businesses or storefronts of their own. They owned nothing but their hands, their tiring bodies, and hopes of one day leaving poverty behind.
And still, despite their great suffering and cruel hours of backbreaking work, the laboring class weren’t the most unfortunate members of society at all. That title was reserved for the Forgotten.
Joaidane traveled as one of these people, a nameless, faceless peasant despised by all. The Forgotten worked no jobs, had no fortunes, and were loved by none, for their families had shunned them or already perished from a harsh life of thankless work.
Most ignored them. People would hurry past, some going so far as to cross the street in avoidance. Others, like the local urchins, took sport in pelting the Forgotten with trash and rotten food. Others preferred rocks. Joaidane had lost count of how many times he suffered such mortifying attacks.
Worst of all were the guards. Given full rein by the sultanate, they meted out what they called justice in the streets. Joaidane called it maliciousness. On lucky days, he managed to stay out of their crosshairs.
Today was not one of those days.
A sharp kick roused him from his drowsing state. “Hey you, Rags. Does this look like a bed to you?” The callous watchman jerked Joaidane to his feet with a fistful of robes, both chafing his wrinkled skin and strangling him. “You look familiar. Haven’t I told you to beat it already?”
“Please, sir,” a woman’s gentle plea interrupted, “let the old beggar go.”
Zarina, the daughter of the city’s most prosperous spice merchant, stepped into view clutching a twine-wrapped bundle of parchment in her arms. He’d seen her throughout the day and crossed paths with her on occasion as she ran bundles of fresh herbs to their customers.
“We’re rounding up all of the Forgotten and ejecting them from the city, young miss. It’s no concern of yours.”
“I know he’s a Forgotten, but he hasn’t caused any trouble here.” Zarina offered the package to the watchman. The aromatic blend of dried herbs reached Joaidane’s nose through the paper, and the enticing scent made his stomach clench with hunger. “Please. Why don’t you take these and pretend you never saw him.”
The guard tightened his grip. “We’ve been asked to run the remaining riffraff from town. He’s free to wander in the desert like the rest of his ilk.”
“What’s one Forgotten to you, sir? Please. Let him stay.”
After an intimidating stare down passed between the guardsman and young woman, he relented first and accepted the bundle she placed in his hands.
“A week from now, when he’s stolen from you or picked the pockets of your customers, you’ll wish I had handled this differently.”
“I won’t.”
“This one’s your responsibility then. I expect you to register him at the archives. If he should do anything, we’ll be coming to visit you about it. Understood, little miss?”
“I understand.”
“And see to it that he’s got a damned coin to bathe. We can’t have his filth stinking up our streets.”
&nb
sp; Zarina met the cruel man’s stare without blinking, unfastened her coin purse, and removed five silver pieces. With five silver, Joaidane could bathe for a month in the common room of the city’s public bathing house, a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed in years. “For you, sir.”
Joaidane’s trembling hands hovered inches from hers before he dropped them again. “I couldn’t—”
“I insist, and it would honor me if you took these coins. I’ve earned them, and so I should have some say in how it’s spent.”
Joaidane ducked his head when she took his misshapen fingers and placed the silver bits into his palm. It equaled half the value of a gold ruble. “Thank you. One day, I will return this kindness to you and repay what you’ve done for me.”
A grin widened across her face, lighting her silver eyes with warmth and happiness. “You are most welcome, but there’s no need to repay me. Walk with the goddess of mercy.”
Long after Zarina left his company, the lump still hadn’t left Joaidane’s throat. The young woman had been pure radiance, a true shining jewel among rocks and pebbles in her community.
And one day, he’d find a way to return the gift she’d given to him.
* * *
Zarina’s father had a problem. His desire to gamble superseded all other functions of normal life, and it was by the will of the gods that he crawled out of bed to work at all each day after ending his nights in a drunken stupor.
Was it not enough that he’d driven her mother to an early grave?
“Za... Zarina. Help your old man to his bed,” her father slurred up at her from the porch. He stank of the exotic oils favored by the sultan’s harem, normally an attractive floral aroma, but tainted by the reeking alcohol on his breath and the stench of sex on his skin.
Nothing surprised her anymore. As they finished minding the shop in the evening, he crawled away in secret to gamble with their earnings. Whenever she found a new hiding spot for her valuables and their coins, he’d sniff it out and locate the treasures before the day ended.
While her brother slept to recuperate after a long day at the market, Zarina had undertaken the responsibility of babysitting their only surviving parent. He was only the owner of their spice shop in name, but never in spirit, as she and her brother kept the business afloat. Ten years of lost childhood had been the price to keep their family together, and sometimes, Zarina wondered if it had all been worth it. Would she grow to resent him one day for the sacrifice?
“One of these nights you’re going to bring the guard down on us,” she muttered. “Then where will we be? They could take the shop as payment for your fines.”
“Help me, girl,” he mumbled again. “No one wants to hear your muttering.”
“Of course, Father.”
Despite the temptation to lay him in a quiet ditch until dawn, Zarina took pity and crouched beside him with her arm around his shoulders. She grunted beneath the weight he placed on her frame and managed to guide him inside the sandstone house. It wasn’t much of a home, but it was theirs and filled with the cherished possessions her mother once loved. At least, it was filled with their beloved possessions when her father wasn’t selling them to manage his debts. Day after day, it appeared emptier than before, a silk rug missing, a tapestry gone from the wall, glass ornaments no longer on shelves, and pottery vanished. He’d even stripped the windows once, but she’d replaced the beautiful crimson drapes with inexpensive cobalt curtains.
Once she swallowed her resentment and guided him to his bedchamber, she assisted the aging spice maker into his bed while his joints groaned in protest. Poor diet, excessive alcohol consumption, and refusal to take care of himself had aged the man beyond his forty-three years. What hair he had left was mostly gray, and a deep network of wrinkles creased his jaundiced face.
In a few years, she wouldn’t have a father anymore. Then it would be up to her and Kazim to maintain the shop together. By then, Zarina would have aged beyond her marrying years and no one would want her. She’d be fortunate if even a widower cast a glance at her, for the men of Naruk were always more eager to wed the youngest, most eligible ladies and had no interest in spinsters.
“I’ll awaken you in time to open the shop in the morning, Father,” she murmured before drawing the covers over him. He’d already fallen into the sleep of the dead and wouldn’t stir until she returned for him in the morning. Not that it guaranteed he would join them at the shop.
With her father tucked in, she stepped outside onto their porch to enjoy the night air. The cool wind stirred her ebony bangs beneath the thin layer of pink silk she’d donned to match her dress.
Zarina would have given anything to escape. But what was she to do? Obligation and loyalty to her family told her to endure, but a heavy heart longed for the chance to escape their home, flee Naruk, and seek a better life anywhere the wind could take her.
Ten years had passed since her mother’s death. Stressed and worried over her husband’s finances, Renata had devoted every ounce of her stamina toward their blossoming spice business. Not that Darrius had cared. What he did best was spending the money, not making it.
Little by little, her mother had saved a few coins each day, promising that by the end, her only daughter would have a dowry worthy of princes. She’d called the box of treasure a hope chest, claiming it held not only priceless gems, but all her hopes to send Zarina away to a better life.
With her mother at the helm of the business and her father as a merchant figurehead who sold their goods at the market, their life improved at first.
And then Darrius developed an interest in gambling to match his thirst for alcohol. More often than not, he squandered their daily wages, and when he had nowhere else to turn, he did the unthinkable.
Zarina would never forget her mother’s expression when she opened the hope chest to find every precious jewel and golden coin missing. Everything, down to the last roll of fine silk had been wasted overnight in a single game of cards.
The next day, Renata collapsed while attempting to fulfill an impossible order made by the palace. Zarina had been standing beside her, desperately hoping to ease the burden with little success. Instead, she had screamed for help and sobbed over her mother’s limp body.
With no money to pay for a healer, Zarina’s mother suffered a slow and painful death. She’d wasted away, unable to swallow, speak, or move the left side of her body, and in the end, she and her brother had prayed their mother received a cure or painless death.
The latter came two weeks later when Renata succumbed to her weakness, and then the weight of responsibility for the spice shop fell on the shoulders of Zarina’s brother—Kazim. He had been twelve at the time and too young to bear the burden.
Somehow, they had made it work and kept the business from going into ruin, but it left little free time. Zarina’s few friends had moved on with their lives, marrying and starting families of their own, sometimes in other cities across Samahara, sometimes in distant villages and faraway kingdoms.
Zarina had never left the desert. In fact, she’d never left Naruk.
Like so many nights before, she couldn’t sleep, troubled by worries for the future. Her best thinking happened whenever she wandered their neighborhood after sunset, and tonight the moonlight inspired her when she considered the hungry old man and his dried crumbs of bread. Before embarking on her search, she returned inside and tucked supper’s leftovers into a small basket, fetched the water pitcher, and set out for the communal well. A few older residents greeted her in passing, neighbors who enjoyed the cool evenings.
The residential quarter she called home contained a community garden and a public well in the center square. By day, the local women gathered to share the latest news and gossip while they went about their daily errands and chores. Around dusk, when the men took over the area, they shared smokes and conversation, then went home to their wives and children, leaving the tranquil square blissfully quiet.
This night was no exception. The air still smelle
d of cloves and tobacco, but instead of an empty pavilion, a figure stood near the well. She’d never seen such a handsome man in Naruk, even among the nobility who passed through the markets.
Dark hair fell around his broad shoulders, surrounding a handsome face with a flawless, straight nose above lips that were full without being too thick. A neatly groomed black goatee framed his delectable mouth. His eyes shone like fire, but when she blinked, nothing seemed unusual.
Must have been a trick of the light, Zarina thought.
“Good evening, miss,” he called in greeting.
Her steps slowed. “Good evening, sir.”
“I trust it treats you well, mistress of spices.”
She blinked, taken aback. He seemed to know who she was, yet she had no recollection of ever meeting him. Men like him didn’t normally wander the streets at night, not without an escort of armed palace guards. He was slim but muscled, a lithe frame with long legs and raw, sinewy strength. But she thought his hair had to be his finest feature, as it fell in a sleek tumble of jet waves to his shirt collar and shone like ink beneath the moon.
“I… I don’t know you, sir. Who are you?”
“Another night wanderer who enjoys the full moon,” the attractive fellow replied. Although there were two moons, one greater and one smaller, the tiny heavenly body was unremarkable and appeared to be a simple star in the distance.
Wary of strangers, Zarina hung back instead of settling beside the fountain. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You seem to know who I am, but your face is new to me.”
“Apologies.” He bowed with an elegant flourish of one arm. “I am… Joaidane.”
“Joaidane,” she repeated while offering her hand. His lips grazed the back of her knuckles and sent a scintillating spark zipping down her arm. “Doesn’t it mean ‘one who speaks too much’? Is it true?”
He flashed her a lopsided grin. “At times. Forgive my boldness, but you seemed to be searching as you walked the street. Were you looking for someone?” he asked.
Zarina and the Djinn Page 2