Sidra was not there when they entered, which pleased Yanis. Elena watched as his eyes traveled around the room, taking in the fine silk canopy, brass lamps, and the rest of the accoutrements she presumed were part of his native culture as well. Did she read regret on his face? Or perhaps homesickness? She knew from experience that longing for one’s home was the sort of emotion to strike at the most inopportune moments, flooding the eyes with yearning.
She looked away to allow him a moment. “You may help yourself to the coffee, if you like. It’s charmed to stay constantly hot.”
Elena removed her apron from her satchel and tied it around her waist as Yanis ran his fingers over the seven-pointed star pattern on a pillow.
“She did all this?” he asked.
“Yes. I assume it’s all an illusion, but the textures always feel very real. Better than anything I’ve ever feigned.”
“It’s no illusion. This was all manifested to be real. The work of a master conjurer.”
He knelt to study the pattern on the pillow more closely. Elena felt compelled to do the same, given his interest. It was then she noticed the intricate pattern of a circle within a circle within a circle within an elaborate decorative design.
“Does it mean something?” she asked.
“Only everything,” he said and managed a humble smile. “The circle in the middle represents the energy at the center of the universe. All things are drawn around it. Some near, some farther out. We are all at various distances from the center. But all strive to find the heart. The symbol is a good thing. A good reminder.”
His finger maintained almost reverential contact with the circles as he stood. When he let go, he removed his frayed skullcap and nodded slowly. “I will help you,” he said. “Though it will be difficult and dangerous, and there’s no guarantee any of the spells will work. Not if there are jinn involved.”
Elena had done difficult and dangerous before. She raised her hands in the sacred pose and welcomed his help, though she was beginning to suspect he was more learned than a mere street vendor peddling charms and trinkets to tourists. Once in agreement, they leaned over her grimoire to scan for the limited information it held on desert mysticism. There were a few drawings featuring pentagrams meant to control spirits and some spindly notes she’d scribbled from her time in school when she’d been allowed to study The Book of the Seven Stars but nothing of any urgent value. Yanis concurred.
“We’ll simply have to start with our intuition,” he said. “And what I remember from my school days as well.”
Each shared their inventory of supplies, laying the items out on the counter. Yanis had brought a rope of sweetgrass, a stick of incense, an amulet bearing a quadrangle of symbols she didn’t recognize, a white crystal, a candle stub, and a stick of chalk, which he explained was most important for drawing symbols on flagstones. Elena emptied her satchel next. She still carried the two coins, her athame, some bundled rosemary, a polished bloodstone, an amethyst crystal, a packet of salt, and a smudge pot full of ointment that was really only good for treating blisters. It wasn’t much to work with, but Yanis disagreed, claiming intent was the most important ingredient. Elena heartily concurred, and so they set to work.
Yanis began by asking Elena to cleanse the center of the shop so they might have a sacred space in which to work. She blew on her fingers to create a small flame, which she held against the braid of sweetgrass until it smoldered. Before the flame went out, she asked if she should light the incense as well. “Wouldn’t hurt,” Yanis replied, so she got that to smolder too. Then with measured steps she walked around the space, letting the incense drift up into the rafters. Following the sorcerer’s instructions, she let the smoke seep into the darkest crevices to assure there was no safe place for unwanted jinn to find comfort.
When she finished, Yanis lowered himself onto his knee and drew a large star within a circle on the floor with the chalk. Similar to the talismans he created to sell, he added symbols to the spaces that were created between the circle and the seven-sided star. They were unlike any marks Elena had worked with before. She asked if she could draw one to experience the energy it emitted. Yanis wasn’t sure at first but then had her draw a crescent moon, Saturn, and Uranus. She was just about to ask about their meaning when Sidra reanimated inside the abandoned shop.
The jinni’s energy, even before she opened her mouth, was scattered and unfocused, signaling something was wrong.
Elena stood and brushed the chalk from her fingers. “What is it? What happened?”
Sidra began to confess, but then she saw Yanis and the chalk drawing on the floor and her temper exploded. “What is he doing here?”
“We’re designing a protection spell against Jamra.”
“Impossible. Stay away from this man,” she said to Elena. “He’s nothing but a liar.”
Yanis remained calm as he stood beside the symbol on the floor. “Sidra, you must believe me.”
Elena knew better than to put a calming hand on Sidra once she began to boil. Instead she moved to stand in front of the sorcerer. “Yanis can help us.”
“I’m warning you. He’s a bringer of death.”
“I didn’t kill him. He did something—”
Before he finished speaking, Sidra unleashed a stream of hissing steam from her sleeve that grazed Elena’s hip, making her gasp at the heat.
“No!” she screamed, turning to see if the spewed steam had hit Yanis.
But the sorcerer deflected the heat by raising his arm. Instead of burning him—or maiming the man for life—the ejection of steam halted as if hitting an invisible wall, curling and rotating into a tiny storm cloud that spun beneath Yanis’s open palm. The steam never even touched him. He whispered three words, foreign to Elena’s ears, and the mini storm dissipated in a final poof, leaving only a moist palm behind, which the man wiped against his soiled shirt.
Sidra stood with her hands at her sides, her fingers nervously clutching her robes as she scrutinized the man with a scathing stare. “How does a seller of charms stop my magic with the flat of his hand?”
Yanis let out a breath. His eyes seemed to judge the distance between him and the door. Sidra glared, threatening to test his resistance again if he didn’t answer her. The sorcerer’s demeanor changed. Some pretense fell away. His posture straightened. His jaw tightened. He was still dressed in near rags, his face was still wan and unshaven, but when he straightened his back, he somehow bore the weight of authority. Yes, there in his eyes rested complete assurance of his abilities.
“Because I am a priest of the Order of the Seven Stars,” he said and replaced his skullcap.
“Liar.” But even as Sidra spoke, she betrayed her own doubt by taking a step back.
“An outcast, but still ordained.”
“You, a magus?” Her eyes looked him up and down, not seeing the proof of his boast in his shabby appearance.
“Order of the Seven Stars?” Elena asked. “As in The Book of the Seven Stars?”
Sidra simmered on the periphery, anxious to know more as well.
“Yes,” the sorcerer said plainly but with a tone of regret. “I was training to be an acolyte.”
Encouraged by Elena, Yanis explained how he’d been accepted by the Order as a teen after he’d unlocked a summoning spell that caused a roc with emerald wingtips to soar over a seaside village. The incident caught the Order’s attention after the enormous bird snatched a dolphin out of the sea in front of a boatload of fishermen, who then boasted of the sighting at every café along the coast. “They trained me in sorcery until I’d mastered the skill and discipline needed to become a guardian.”
“You were recruited to oversee the magic included in The Book of the Seven Stars?” Elena was more than impressed.
“Acolytes,” he explained, “are charged with continually exploring the world of the supernatural. The mission is to push the boundaries of magical understanding and practice.” He held up a finger as if making a point. “But the conte
nts of the book aren’t chiseled in stone. Guidance and advice continually evolve, manifesting new knowledge and interpretation in the pages as it’s uncovered.”
Sidra circled him. “And why are you not still pursuing this high calling, sorcerer?” The final word hissed out of her mouth like water on a hot skillet.
He swallowed as if he still held a sour taste on his tongue. “Much of that knowledge, as you know, comes from magical teachings first practiced in the ancient East. It’s important to keep the information accurate so the contents remain relevant.” Yanis wiped away the sweat on his upper lip. “The Order constantly investigates reports of unusual practices. Interactions with preternatural beings. Undocumented sightings and complaints. That sort of thing.”
“What kinds of complaints?” Elena asked.
“My first mission,” he said and moved to sit on the majlis sofa. He rubbed the knee above his wooden leg as if it pained him, along with the memory. “I was tasked with ridding a burial site of ghouls.”
“Ghouls?” Elena sat beside him, and to her surprise, Sidra joined them, offering coffee and small butter biscuits filled with dates as she listened in silence. Payment for the storyteller? she wondered.
“I was armed with the collective knowledge of the world’s greatest sorcerers, yet I was still young and green enough to think that made me invincible.” He saw Sidra shake her head. “Yes, I was an arrogant fool. And it nearly got me killed.” He pointed to his wooden leg. “I’d tried entering the burial site with a few protective charms, a chant, and the symbols of the seven stars painted on my body. I thought they would see I was a member of the Order and scatter.” He wiped his face, reliving the horrifying moment. “The first ghoul I encountered broke through every defense I’d used as if they were made of straw. She slashed my leg clean off with one swipe.”
“Mother Ghulah.” Sidra’s eyes lit up, impressed.
“You’re saying ghouls are real?” Elena asked.
“Oh, they’re real,” Yanis said. “Some even suspect they’re related to the jinn.”
Sidra stiffened. “They are not jinn.”
“No,” Yanis said. “They are not.”
That seemed to please Sidra, but still she squinted at him. “And now you sell talismans behind a wooden stall in an infidel village. Maybe your leg wasn’t the only thing you lost that day.”
Elena winced. “Sidra, that’s hardly—”
“No, she’s right. I lost my nerve after that. I left the Order. Or as much as one can. They never truly consider you done, once you’ve received the training.”
Sidra watched him, tapping a finger against her coffee cup. “And now you think you can protect the people in this village from Jamra and his ifrit with your chalk drawings, sorcerer?”
“We’re going to try,” Elena said.
Sidra continued to stare at Yanis but with a different glint than she had before. When he set his cup down, she covered it with a saucer, then flipped it over, letting the remaining fluid drain out onto the saucer. “Was it Hariq who sought your help?” she asked, righting the cup again and running her finger over the lip to make a circle. “Or maybe it was the old one himself who summoned you?” She pinned her gaze sharp on Yanis before peering into the depth of his cup.
Yanis swallowed as he watched her read the dregs. “Both,” he said. “The old one knew about my past. It’s why he trusted me with such a delicate potion, but Hariq gave me my day-to-day instructions. I swear to you I don’t know what went wrong.”
Sidra curled her lip as if she’d expected to discover him in a lie yet again, but as she stared into his cup her eyes tensed in confusion. She turned the cup to see it from another angle before pushing it away. Elena wasn’t sure if jinn could cry, and yet there was unmistakable sadness in Sidra’s eyes when she looked up again.
“You have told the truth,” she said. “Which means I am a murderer.”
Sidra sank back against the cushions. Elena and Yanis didn’t dare make a move while the jinni seethed in the pain of learning a truth she hadn’t believed. Comfort wasn’t an easy thing to administer to one made of fire. And yet Elena remembered the kindness Sidra had shown her in jail when she’d offered her a blanket against the chill. Calling fire onto her fingers, Elena lit the firewood inside the brazier until a warm glow shone on all their faces. Sidra seemed to respond, turning to stare into the flames.
“Jamra has found me,” she said. “I tried following that phantom dog and instead ran into a jackal. He tricked me into revealing my location. And now he’s given me until morning to hand over the dagger, or else he’ll kill me and attack the village.”
“What? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Elena knew time wasn’t something they had in abundance, but she’d thought they at least had the advantage of being hidden a little while longer.
“I have already cheated justice once. Perhaps I should let him kill me in the name of righteousness.”
Yanis leaned forward. “What dagger?”
“Do you know your sigils, priest?” Sidra sat up. “Do you know the seven signs that came into the world in the beginning? One assigned to each of the seven original kingdoms?”
“Of course. They were recorded in many of the ancient scrolls recovered from the cave of shadows. Two copies survive under the care of the Order.”
“You think these seals have only been around as long as your history books?” She slowly turned toward him. “The jinn were born before ancient civilizations. Before cities, before soothsayers and magi. My kind was there when the original sigils were unleashed in the world. The tension between the symbols holding the world in equilibrium, like a seven-pointed star. But the world is full of careless men. Always they seek to tip the balance with their greed and ambition. And now Jamra believes he is this close to possessing one of these sigils without the eye of your Order watching over it. One that will hurtle us all toward chaos.”
The sorcerer grew pale. “This dagger bears such a mark?”
“I have seen it with my own eyes.”
Yanis tilted his head as if recalling something once forgotten. “There were objects created, embedded with the sigils to better keep track of them. A cup, a mirror, a belt. I forget the rest, but this dagger should have had a guardian. They were all assigned to magi of the highest order. Their movements traced with scrying stones. What happened to him?”
“He died alone on Zimbarra. My husband and I discovered his bones on this island. The dagger was buried in the sand beside him.”
“Zimbarra? No wonder his death went unnoticed. The movement of the island would have simulated the wanderings of a magus.” Yanis stood and paced, dragging his wooden leg against the floor despite the pain. “So, you found the sigil and brought it here? Did you know how dangerous that was?”
“They didn’t know what they’d found until an ifrit recognized it,” Elena said in Sidra’s defense.
“An ifrit?” Yanis tapped his closed fist against his lips. “Where is it now? Is the dagger hidden? A relic like that must be protected.”
“It is in a safe place.”
“But where? The Order will need to secure the weapon. Do you understand the damage something like that could do in the hands of a . . .”
He stopped himself before the word spilled out, but Sidra had already snatched the word out of the air for him.
“A jinni?” She stood and gathered her scarf over her head. “Go back to your chalk drawings, sorcerer. And may they spare your life when the sun comes up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sidra dissipated from the shop, shrinking into the quiet solitude of an empty cupboard in an upstairs attic. She missed the sanctuary of the bottle and the scent of jasmine and bergamot Hariq had created for her. But that was gone now, her bottle left behind in another realm. Safe. Still, she needed a quiet place to hide, if only to regain her balance again. The fire of fury and destruction and the blaze of warmth and comfort coexisted inside her, always battling one another for control. There was n
o such thing as an even flame. Which was why not even she, despite the restraint of a hundred patient camels waiting to drink, could be sure of resisting the lure of the dagger’s power forever. No, the weapon was where it needed to be. Gone from this realm and safe in the airy humidity of another.
Centered once more, Sidra decided she ought to go check on the girl before the morning light. A storm was coming, and the chances of she, the witch, and the fairy outlasting it would be better if they were all together when the force hit. She wondered if Yvette ever suspected the power she’d once held in her hands or, at times, stashed in her gown between her breasts. Yes, she would go find the girl and bring her back. There was no truly safe place for any of them, but perhaps the sorcerer’s marks on the floor would help. With the right words spoken by the witch, a small circle of safety might withstand the damage about to be unleashed.
It was well past midnight when Sidra seeped out through a crack in the cupboard to travel within the ether to the parfumerie on the top of the hill. She knew the place well from the times Hariq had thought he was sneaking off to pursue his pet project, a perfume designed for her. Of course she’d known what he was up to. The scent found her every time he returned home. The fragrance clung to his robes, his hair, his skin. Even in their ethereal state, the jasmine mingled with his natural oud scent, adhering to his being. But that was years ago. A blink in time, yet a lifetime gone by.
The walls of the factory were made of stone, the windows of glass, but they proved no barrier. Shards of her energy slipped through the interstices, reforming on the other side so that when she reanimated, two stories up, she stood in a depressing walled cubicle full of bottles, paper, and mortal machinery. Lifeless things endowed with a little ingenuity but otherwise useless.
The girl shrieked down the hall. That frivolous high laughter of hers that sounded like crystal bottles clinking together. Before announcing herself, Sidra crept up to the doorframe to learn what had caused the fair one’s outburst. She found Yvette in a room crowded with the hot metal bellies Hariq was so drawn to—the copper boilers used to distill the fragrant oils from the tender flowers. Heaping baskets of pink and white petals awaited the fate of having their precious scents extracted through steam. She inhaled both the smell of the flowers and the heat coming off the boilers, filling her lungs with bittersweet memories. They’d been so sure this was their safe haven.
The Conjurer (The Vine Witch) Page 14