Zarina and the Djinn

by Vivienne Savage

  His belly cramped with hunger the moment a whiff of ginger and cardamom hit his nose. How long had it been since he’d eaten a good meal, not merely crumbs and leftover meat, but a meal made with care and love?

  “Thank you.”

  “Wine?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t possibly put you out any fur—”

  Zarina skipped up the steps.

  While waiting for his kind host to return, Joaidane sampled the chicken and determined Zarina must have brought him a meal fit for the gods themselves. And if not a god, at least the sultan in his bejeweled palace.

  I owe her flowers next time I return.

  By the time she reappeared, he’d taken a seat on the stairs and finished most of her offering, demolishing the chicken and scraping together what remained of the rice and vegetables. Flavors of honey and cream contrasted the sharper, hotter notes of ground pepper and curry spices. While it was a simple peasant’s meal made with common ingredients, to Joaidane, it may as well have been a feast prepared for nobility.

  He glanced up to see her staring at him with a wine chalice in her hand.

  “You were truly starved, weren’t you?” she asked sadly. “My cooking isn’t that great.”

  Joaidane swallowed prematurely to empty his mouth. “It’s terrific. The best I’ve had in years.”

  “The way you eat, I’d think it’s the only food you’ve had in years. Is the road that unkind to a traveler like you?”

  He accepted the wine glass from her and resumed the meal at a slower pace, appeasing his hunger without alarming his benevolent host. He’d have licked it clean if she wasn’t hovering above him with watchful, pitying eyes. “It can be at times.” And it had been harsh, unforgiving, and cruel. A lesson etched into his mind and his soul in suffering.

  “They serve finer meals in the city. There’s a vendor who makes bread stuffed with meats, or with candied nuts and cherries.”

  “Quite expensive, too.”

  “And here I thought sorcery to be a prosperous art.”

  “It can be for the right person. But magic shouldn’t be used for personal gain, as I was raised to believe at least.” He thought of his mother. While comfortable in her lavish lifestyle, she’d always been generous with her wealth. No one in Ankirith had ever gone hungry; she’d protected their poor, disabled, and weak within her motherly embrace. The stigma of the Forgotten hadn’t existed in his home village.

  And when he thought of his childhood, they hadn’t been so rich after all.

  They’d had no golden chariots, no team of servants or harems, or treasure rooms overflowing with gems. Only a caretaker who saw to their needs by tidying, cooking meals, and fetching the daily post. In return, Enchantress Safiyya had devoted her life to protecting Ankirith from the uncivilized invaders who visited in majestic ships from across the sea. The people of the Ridaeron Dynasty were nothing more than savages plundering the port cities of other nations and taking Samaharans into slavery.

  “Is it true that all sorcerers are the descendants of jinn?” Zarina asked.

  “It is.”

  “So your mother…?”

  “Was the granddaughter of a jinni and a sorceress. You could say magical blood runs strong in my family.”

  “Your father?”

  “I’ve never met him.”

  Her eyes widened, and a hint of color bloomed across the apples of her cheeks. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business to pry.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “It is a fact and one I have no sorrow for. My mother was a wise and admirable woman. My only regret is that I never listened to her more.”

  For a while, he said nothing while sipping sweet jasmine wine. Zarina broke the silence first and placed her fingers over the back of his hand.

  “Perhaps you might stop by the spice shop tomorrow…”

  If only I could. “Perhaps, but the sun isn’t favorable to me most days…” Any day. “I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping until dusk.”

  “Then perhaps we might continue our conversation tomorrow night.”

  He enjoyed the final sip of wine and returned the goblet to her possession, craving another taste but too proud to ask. “It would be my honor. Good night, Zarina. May the sylphs bring you sweet dreams and restful sleep.”

  Zarina dipped into a polite curtsy. “May the jinn lift your sorrows. Goodnight, Joaidane.”

  With the wine glass and plate in hand, she stepped into her home. He waited until the latch clicked behind her before he left, though he longed to linger and talk to her more through her window. He had no desire, however, to cause such a scandal to her good name if the neighbors saw her chatting after midnight with a stranger. Their walks pushed the limits of propriety as they were, and someone would think he was trying to sneak his way indoors under her father’s nose.

  With dawn only a few hours away, Joaidane wandered to his ramshackle hut positioned by the city outskirts and waited for the sun. As the golden orb rose above the distant dunes, his power leeched away. Smooth skin wrinkled, and his vision dimmed. His hair grayed, no longer glossy and thick but thin and dry as straw. The fine leather and cloth transformed to its original state, creaking as it dried and became little more than tattered temple robes. When at last he could no longer stand tall, his crooked spine taking an unnatural curve, he crawled inside onto a bed of clean linens given to him that day by Zarina’s older brother.

  There in his makeshift bed, he dreamed of better days and the possibility of being Joaidane again after sunrise, as well as nightfall.

  * * *

  The third night of the full moon followed the pattern of the first two, though the jinn did nothing to carry Joaidane’s burdens, and his heart remained heavy with dread until he met Zarina at the well.

  Arm in arm, they walked through the city while exchanging stories, but no matter how boring Zarina believed her life to be, he enjoyed hearing about her childhood. She spoke with vibrancy and happiness while weaving tales from books and older villagers. Her eyes shone brightly the whole time.

  Due to his brittle body and lack of employment, Joaidane had nothing better to do each day than idle near the neighborhoods or wander the markets. In all the previous months of watching Zarina drift to and from the neighborhood, he’d never seen her so alive.

  Was he so arrogant to believe his company had something to do with the change?

  Yes. If he could join her every day, he would.

  But their friendship couldn’t last. Tomorrow he’d be the weathered beggar again, and there’d be no holding her hand. What he’d done over the past nights had been absolute deceit, portraying himself as a single man of value worth her time.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps, I could take you to that vendor I mentioned,” Zarina said as he escorted her home. “Do you like honeyed rolls?”

  “I do, very much, but I fear it is a treat I must decline.”

  Zarina hesitated. “If it’s money you worry over, don’t. I’ve saved—”

  He pressed one finger against her lips. They were full and soft. Kissable and tempting. And he imagined they were sweeter than the glazed buns from the market. “No. It’s not that. In fact, I am quite humbled by your generosity.”

  “Then why?”

  He took her hands between his in a loose grip, risking the bold gesture for one last touch of her. “I must leave.”

  “Leave? What do you mean?”

  “It is time I moved on from Naruk.” Not only had he overstayed his welcome, but he’d led her on and introduced her to a cruel lie—a ghost who no longer existed.

  Zarina’s smile faded. She stepped back and removed her hands from his grip, clasping them behind her back instead. “So soon? It seems as though you’ve only just arrived.”

  “I never stay in any place for long, but…” He hesitated. “I will be back one more time. Would you see me again when I return?”

  “How long?”

  “When the full moon rises once more, I’ll return to
Naruk, but not a day before and not a day later.” Would she wait a month for him? Was it even worth the cost? Three nights hardly seemed fair to give her when she deserved so much more, but the thought of never seeing her again filled him with unbearable, soul-crushing heartache. It would have been kinder to rip the heart from his chest.

  A life without Zarina would be days without sunlight. A night without the moon.

  How had she begun to mean so much to him?

  “When you return, I’ll welcome your company,” she said in a quiet voice. “Until then, I pray the god of journeys keeps you safe during your travels and the merciful goddess guides you back to Naruk.”

  Chapter

  Without Joaidane to brighten her nights, wandering in the evening lost its magic for Zarina. She continued her usual routine, but she missed the company and their long talks.

  Instead of sleeping, she lay awake in her bed reading, engrossed in a tale from the One Thousand and One Nights about a swordswoman who slew a fearsome wyvern from Liang. By the time she fell asleep, it was long after bedtime, and she roused later than the preferred time for beginning the day.

  “Damn,” Zarina murmured when she saw the time. Kazim had left, but her father remained in bed, motionless and dead to the world. No matter how she shook him, he only slurred nonsense about raising his bets until disgust drove her from his room. After washing and donning fresh attire, she stepped into her slippers and hurried out into the warming daylight. Her father would laze in bed while they worked, but that was no different from the usual routine.

  Although her brother would never chastise her for tardiness, she hurried down an alley often used as a shortcut, allowing her to circumvent the traffic heading into the markets.

  “There he is! Get him! Father says he stole bread from the cart today!” a boy’s voice called.

  Get who? Recognizing the voice of her friend Kokura’s eldest son, Zarina darted around the corner to find Pijar and a gang of the local neighborhood brats circling the beggar. He wore sandals—a pair of Kazim’s old shoes—in lieu of tattered rags tied around his feet. A hooded shroud replaced his old temple robe, accompanied by familiar trousers, although a fresh tumble to the gritty street had torn the knees and stained both with fresh blood.

  “No. I didn’t take anything from anyone.”

  Zarina had watched Pijar as a toddler and cared for him to make spending coin during her youth. He threw the first stone. The beggar collapsed after the third rock, disturbing the layer of dust and sand on the packed ground.

  With rage bubbling inside her, Zarina charged into the alley and swatted the nearest aggressor’s ears. “Stop that!” While the boys ran away, giggling at the plight of their unfortunate victim, she hurried to the crumpled beggar and knelt by his side. “Are you all right?” Gingerly, she pressed her kerchief to his wounded scalp.

  “Do not bother yourself, miss,” the beggar rasped.

  “You’re bleeding. Allow me to at least staunch it for you.”

  She poured water from a small flask and dabbed the cool cloth against the gash on his forehead, and then she offered the vessel to him. “Drink, please.”

  “I would taint it.”

  “Please,” she insisted.

  Eyes clouded by cataracts gazed at her, then lowered to the ground, dimmed by shame. He took the flask in his gnarled hands and drained it dry, but his fingers shook when he returned it. “Thank you, young miss.”

  “You are welcome. Is it true? Did you take bread?” If he’d stolen, she’d be the one to answer for his crime now that the old man had been registered to their family name.

  He shook his head. “No, though the rolls did tempt me. I bought a stale loaf instead from his mother for a single solterra. She was kind to allow it.”

  “And where did you find the coin? Was it one of the ones I gave you?”

  The beggar shook his head again. “Your money will last me for quite some time, Miss Zarina, and is better used to admit me to the bathhouse. This coin was one I found on the ground. Clumsy drunkards drop them each day and never notice.”

  “Well, no one can fault you for that. Here, hold this there, and I’ll be right back.”

  While the beggar clutched the kerchief against his injury, she strode away deep into the market and sought the baker’s cart. There were several littered throughout the city, but none sold pastries as delicious or as fluffy as the savory and sweet delights baked by Ankar and Kokura.

  How could they be so malicious to an old man unable to defend himself from them? Her body bristled with indignation, fury and disappointment swelling in her heart. She didn’t understand the need for anyone to be so cruel to those less fortunate than them. The ignorance of youth was no excuse. Those boys had known what they were doing, and if their behavior went unchecked, they’d only become violent men when they reached adulthood.

  “Two rolls, please. One meat and the other glazed.” She set a shining silver bit on the counter.

  “Zarina, good day to you. How fares your family?” Kokura asked, smiling.

  “Well, thank you.” She hesitated, then scoured the street for the baker’s son. “I saw Pijar a moment ago harassing the poor beggar. He and his friends threw rocks at him.”

  The smile faded from Kokura’s face. “My Pijar? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “They claimed your husband told them the beggar had stolen bread.”

  “Oh no, he stole nothing. I sold him an old loaf from yesterday for one centira. I couldn’t in good conscience give it to him for anything more than that, even though we sold them for three yesterday.”

  Exactly as he had said. Zarina sighed in relief. “I thought you should know. The man may be a beggar, but he didn’t deserve to be harmed for their enjoyment. It’s a cruel sport, picking on those weaker than them.”

  A livid flush spread over Kokura’s cheeks, and the muscle in her cheek twitched when she clenched her jaw. “Agreed. Trust that I will speak to Pijar about his mischief the moment Ankar returns to mind the stall.” After a pause she added, “And I will speak to Ankar as well. Had he mentioned it to me, this may have all been avoided.”

  “Thank you, Kokura.”

  “Is this food for the beggar?”

  Zarina nodded. “He’s no longer a Forgotten now that I’ve registered him at the archives.”

  “Then here. Take these as an apology for what my son did to him. Tell him to return tomorrow and there will be more, free of charge.” The baker placed two additional rolls on top of the neat pile. Her lips pursed, and then she lowered her voice and leaned closer to whisper, “You’ll have to see me soon and speak of this young man I saw you walking beside a few nights ago. Was he the handsome fellow you were seeking?”

  “He was.”

  “You’ll have to tell me everything once we’ve closed shop, but for now, go and feed your friend.”

  With the warm pastries clutched in a thin napkin, Zarina returned to the narrow alley and crouched beside the beggar. He hadn’t moved, still slumped against a wall in the shade.

  “Here. I brought these for you.”

  “You are too kind, miss.”

  “The shop proprietress sends her apologies and promises to correct her son. If you return to her stall tomorrow, she’ll feed you again. I promise this won’t happen anymore to you.” Not by those boys, at least. She’d track each of them down and have a private word with every mother.

  “You did not have to go through so much effort on my behalf.” He ducked his head and tugged his hood further over his balding head. “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do? Someplace I can escort you?”

  The beggar shook his head and withdrew further. “I will be fine. Please, worry no more for me.”

  “As you wish. Gods watch over you, good sir.”

  If the gods were kind, they’d watch over him and guide the unfortunate man from further harm, but Zarina had learned at an early age the gods could be cold. Leaving him behind, she traveled int
o the heavy traffic of the morning crowd congesting the merchant’s avenue. Every day Zarina worried she would arrive to find a notice declaring their shop’s closure.

  But her father wouldn’t risk the shop, would he? Of all the things to gamble, nothing could be more unforgivable than their only source of income.

  “I’m here,” she called out as she closed the door behind her. An abundance of casks and glass bottles filled with various spices lined the storeroom shelves. A single wooden cabinet held their collection of mortars and pestles. Zarina counted the same half dozen sets, relieved to find them untouched again.

  “Ah, there you are.” Kazim paced across the shop floor. “Father’s at it again.”

  A cold lump of dread fell to the bottom of her stomach, sinking her belly toward her knees. “What has he sold this time? How important was it?”

  “More of mother’s things. I thought I’d hidden them well, but I can’t find her bracelets.”

  “No!” She remembered the way her mother’s silver and gold bangles jingled and chimed around her wrists. She’d always worn three or four on each arm. “What else?”

  “Only those this time. Here.” Kazim stepped over and pulled two baubles from his pocket. The first, a thin, unadorned chain made from delicate golden links, had been their mother’s bride-gift from their father. Kazim fastened it around Zarina’s throat.

  “I thought we buried her with this.”

  Kazim flushed and ducked his head. “I kept it for you. He took everything Mother had saved for you, and I thought—no, I knew she would want you to have it, so I took it when you weren’t looking. And this.” He slipped a silver ring with a single, small opal on her right thumb. “Keep them on you always, or they’ll be the next thing he barters at the market.”