But Tariq’s whisper, “So much for first impressions,” suggested he did not blame Ridha for revealing his secret.
“You should have dressed for the occasion,” Ridha chided softly, helping his young lover to his feet.
“I’m not a courtier. I’m…nothing,” Tariq replied, his voice sweetly bitter.
“Morning Star.” The strong voice parted the ring of guards around them, revealing a man in his middle age, dressed in unbleached linens and wool with the elaborate embroidery on the hems. A large jewel fastened his head wrap and lent more gravitas to a square face lined about the eyes and mouth with experience and laughter.
Ridha bowed; Tariq sank to his knees almost in gratitude. His father was already on the floor, looking dazed and confused.
“Why does it not surprise me you keep company with a jinni.”
“Zeyn ibn Safwah al-Matgarhi,” Ridha said, not bound by human conventions of formality, “my master would speak with you of matters most urgent.” He wasn’t sure what those matters might be, but he had to trust Tariq hadn’t chosen to come here on a whim.
The sultan looked down at Tariq, still knelt in obeisance, in his working-class clothing. “Your master? He seems…harmless enough. Rise, Morning Star. You may speak.”
Tariq got to his feet, still pale. “My apologies, majesty. There are many things I must tell you. But first, I beg your indulgence while I see to my father, who was held captive by one who is an enemy to us both.”
“You have an army outside my city. I fail to see why I should indulge you with anything other than a merciful death,” the sultan replied dryly.
“The army is a mirage, an illusion.”
“Is it? Then if you would be so kind as to banish it, I would see my way clear to assisting you with your father.”
Tariq slid a glance to Ridha. He had only one wish left. Once it was granted, he would be bound to the jar once more and subject to the wishes of whoever took hold of it next. Ridha had no idea what Tariq would say, but he found he dreaded the idea of being released from his lover. Master. He is my master.
“It would give me great pleasure to banish the illusion,” Tariq said carefully. “But I cannot do so at this time. Please…” Tariq’s throat worked as he swallowed his plea.
Ridha could not help but be impressed as well as relieved. He had not thought his lover so brave and bold to confront the Sultan of the Evening Sun so directly and honestly. He was at a loss to know how he could lend assistance in this matter.
Since discovering that his apprenticeship with Malik was a mockery, Tariq considered himself nothing, but he was proving himself to be more than many a man of standing and wealth.
He wondered if Tariq knew that Zeyn ibn Safwah probably hadn’t had them killed yet because he was unaware of the limitations of Ridha’s power.
Ridha helped Tariq’s father to his feet and unbound the linen strips. With a nod, the older man thanked him. His gaze flickered between Ridha and Tariq, a question clearly on his mind, but Ridha wasn’t sure what the question was, or if he knew the answer.
Tariq looked at the guards still ranged about them. “What I have to say is no secret, majestic one, but if we could speak in private, it would… I would…” He spared another glance at the throne room and looked to Ridha, even as he felt the ripples of anxiety.
“My young master does not excel at public speaking.”
Zeyn eyed their small party critically before coming to a decision. With a clap of his hands, his guards stood down, and he led them to a smaller anteroom. Folding doors were opened to let in the light and scent of a sheltered garden. The four of them were joined by an older woman whom the sultan introduced only as his personal saahir. A servant moved silently about the room to fill delicate glass goblets with water and wine.
“Is this more to your liking, Morning Star?”
Tariq looked up from where he was helping his father, eyes wide. He gulped and nodded. “But I am just Tariq, sir. A…” A wave of emotion rolled over him, mixed bitterness and sorrow. “A dyer’s son. This is my father.” He hovered as his father gulped down a full measure of water. “Are you well, my beloved father?”
“Confused. Frightened. But well enough, my son. I will not interfere in matters obviously beyond my understanding.”
Zeyn himself refilled the goblet, this time with well-watered wine, and offered it to the man with indigo-tinted hands. “Mmm,” said Zeyn. “You are unquestionably a dyer. The Morning Star is in truth your son?”
He nodded, clearly afraid to speak.
“It was not he that bound you?”
The older man shook his head. “One who sought to use me to manipulate him, majesty. You should have the whole story of him, for I know very little of it.” His gaze darted to Tariq.
Zeyn’s followed. “A dyer’s son with a jinni companion. A jinni who calls you master.”
“That is another matter I would speak on with you. About. Um, majesty.”
“Let’s forgo the formalities, shall we?”
Tariq smiled, grateful, and Ridha could see that the sultan was as charmed as a man of natural preferences could be by the youth’s beauty and sincerity. Tariq then proceeded to tell the sultan everything, making it clear that he personally had no interest in the throne, and that Tariq’s own ignorance and gullibility had let him fall under Malik’s sway.
“I have been used, but I am also complicit.”
“So the entire threat is a mirage? The army, the demagogues, too? Explain to me how it is the sorcerer is using you to control a jinni.”
“That, yes. That is a separate matter I wish to discuss,” Tariq said, stammering slightly on the formal language. “Generations ago, when the first Matgarhi broke the yoke of the Easterner and made us the Free People once again, there was a…troublesome jinni. Who was then bound to a perfume jar and cursed to call whoever holds the jar master, until five wishes have been granted.”
Zeyn turned a sharp glance on Ridha. “You are that jinni? I have heard the tales, but the jar has long been considered lost and even the tales have been thought to be just that—tales.” He looked back to Tariq. “How did you come into possession of the jar, if this is indeed the truth?”
Tariq told him, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment to admit to stealing from the sultan’s own treasure room. “The curse doesn’t allow a saahir to command the jinni.”
Zeyn looked to Ridha for confirmation, and he nodded. “That was a wise provision.”
“Indeed,” Ridha agreed sincerely.
Tariq cleared his throat. “What I want to ask of you, as a descendent of the one who-who implemented the curse—do you know how to break it?” he finished in a rush.
“You wish to break the curse?”
“He has been bound to the jar for many generations, stuck inside without relief for many—has he not been punished enough?”
Zeyn gave Ridha a long hard look, making him shift uncomfortably. “Have you, jinni? Been punished enough?”
“It feels so,” he muttered.
“Yet you are the one who has brought this current trouble upon us.”
Ridha looked down, angry and resentful at the same time. “My doing, yes. Not my will.”
“If you must blame someone, blame me. I am responsible for the wishes.”
“Tariq—” Ridha began.
Tariq gave him a stubborn look. “None of this present trouble is your fault. You should not be a slave,” he said fiercely.
Without thinking, Ridha reached to gently trace Tariq’s jaw.
Although Zeyn’s mouth tightened in disapproval, he said nothing.
Tariq was right about one thing: he had no place in this world. Perhaps he was also right that the sultan would have the answer, and then he would tell Tariq to use his last wish to set up a life for himself with enough money that no one would care whom he brought to his bed. Ridha found the idea of Tariq with another man strangely unpleasant.
Besides, no amount of money or status would g
ive Tariq the safety to love as he chose. Ridha could, though. Take him to the Land of the Jinn…
“I tried to wish him free, but it didn’t work as there is a-a condition or term built into the curse, and since it was your ancestors who cast the curse, I thought—I hoped—you would know what it is that will break the curse.” Tariq’s voice held a hint of desperation.
Zeyn gave the pair of them a measured look.
Ridha felt a degree of relief. Zeyn ibn Safwah appeared to believe them. He seemed thoughtful, not vengeful. He was confident in his initial assessment of Zeyn as a wise and fair ruler.
“I will have my secretary search the archives.” He turned to his saahir, who had sat through the entire discussion without uttering a word. “Unless you know?”
The sorceress bowed low. “This is all news to me, Evening Sun.”
“And you can stop this one called Malik?”
She smiled then, revealing even white teeth. “It shall be my pleasure. I shall begin at once.”
“When the curse is broken, you will break the illusions plaguing my city?”
Tariq looked at Ridha, who dipped his chin in an affirmative gesture. It was his initial promise, after all.
“Yes,” Tariq said simply.
Zeyn nodded, as if that was the answer he expected. “You will be my guests until the information is retrieved.”
It wasn’t an invitation.
Tariq fell to his knees and touched his head to the carpet. “Your loyal and faithful servant.”
Ridha bowed deeper than he ever had to any human. “My thanks,” he said, trying to sound humble.
TARIQ’S FATHER WAS given his own room, which he complained was too grand. “I’m sorry to have shamed you, father.” Tariq confessed his unnatural desires and how they played a role in his compliance with Malik’s plans. “I also have only one magical talent, if it could be called that. Sihr cannot directly affect me. I am truly unnatural.”
His father said nothing at first, his gaze directed to the wall where a series of tiny windows let in light and fresh air. “Tariq, it is difficult enough to accept your inclinations, but more disturbing to me is that you are so open about it, with a jinni, no less. Nothing but trouble can come of that.”
Tariq had expected a much angrier response, that his father would repudiate him at the very least. But this concern, this he could address. “I have one wish left. Once that is granted, Ridha will be bound to his jar until another picks it up. He will then be bound to them. If the sultan finds the key to breaking the curse, Ridha has expressed no desire to stay with me. My association with him will end, either way.”
His father turned, frowning under his neatly trimmed beard. “You sound like you’re in love.”
“What if I am? As you said, nothing but trouble could come of it.”
There was a silence before his father said, “Love is a powerful force, my son. Stronger even than sihr, your mother once told me.”
Tariq’s eyes widened. His father spoke seldom of his mother.
“Your mother was pagan and believed all manner of shocking things, but I loved her. I am not certain I did the best by you, by not marrying another. But I could never bring myself to think of another woman after she passed.” He sighed and once more directed his gaze to the window. “You can’t return to my house when this is over.” He sounded apologetic.
“I-I know. I may stay here, in the Evening Sun. I have no trade, but I am not without skills. I shall make my way.” Tariq thought his father might say something more, but when he continued to stare out the window, Tariq nodded.
He paused at the door to the room. “I am truly sorry.”
“Tariq. It was a brave thing you did, coming here where your life might still be forfeit. Know this, my son—you will always live in my heart.” His father was still looking out the windows.
“That is more than I hoped.”
TARIQ AND RIDHA were housed in a room together, though neither could say if it was the sultan’s intent to call attention to their intimate relationship or merely a matter of Tariq holding the perfume jar. Nothing could keep Ridha out of the room if Tariq desired his presence, so perhaps it was simple acknowledgement of that.
The room was more luxurious than any Tariq had ever dreamed, with a soft beautiful carpet on the stone floor and a large bed hung with fine, bright draperies and dozens of down-filled pillows. A bed like that might have been intimidating to sleep in, but for Ridha.
Ridha’s green and silver-filigreed jar had somehow come with them, bound to him as he was bound to it. The delicate glass vessel sat in a place of privilege on a table full of jars of scented oils that Ridha used for the most inappropriate activities.
There was a closet full of clothing that fit well enough, in bright colours that Tariq studied with the critical eye of a dyer’s son. Ridha, of course, could conjure his own clothing.
“This, Ridha, do you see this colour? It’s Tyrian purple.”
“Is it?”
“It comes from a shellfish east of here and nowhere else. Only royalty is entitled to it.” Tariq grinned. “Only royalty can afford it, though, so that’s no loss.”
“You seem to have enjoyed your father’s trade. Why did you leave it to study magic?”
Tariq flushed. “I was… Malik seemed so elegant, so educated. And it’s a rare thing for the likes of me to be told they have the innate magical ability to be saahir.” His face fell. “I never dreamed he would lie about that. I thought, as a sorcerer, I could do so much more for my father, my community. All father’s work is worn by the wealthy, though he benefits from the money they pay for his skill.” He fingered the rich fabric of the salwar in his hands. “Now I am not qualified to be a dyer, nor will I ever touch more than the slightest of sihr.”
Ridha gathered him into a comforting embrace, and said, “I’m sure you’ll find your place.”
Tariq knew he would find a place. It would just be so much more difficult than it should have been. That was assuming Malik was taken care of in a way that he wouldn’t come after Tariq. He never spoke that fear aloud, though. Time enough to worry after Malik’s wrath when Ridha was free, and presumably home.
“What’s it like? The Land of Jinn?”
Ridha pulled Tariq down onto the bed with him and Tariq nestled into his side. “It’s very different. What makes your world so fascinating to us is the clever devices you invent to do what we do with sihr.”
“I can’t imagine a whole world shaped by such power.”
“It has a beauty I’ve missed. The things I could show you…”
Tariq sighed softly and ran his hands over Ridha’s chest. “So many clothes,” he murmured, and they were gone.
Tariq smiled. Sometimes, with Ridha, he wished he could do that.
Chapter Eleven
TARIQ WONDERED AT his own boldness, requesting a meeting with the sultan through one of the guards outside their door. It wasn’t that he was in a hurry to say farewell to Ridha, but the days of luxurious indolence in their gilded cage would only make his life on the city streets, alone and poor, seem all the harsher.
More importantly, he wanted to right the wrongs he’d done under Malik’s influence and give Ridha his freedom to find his happiness.
He was surprised to be granted an audience. He glanced behind him. Ridha was asleep in the decadently arrayed bed, looking equally decadent, as if in his natural surroundings.
Perhaps he was.
Tariq smiled and closed the door behind him. He followed the guard to the same anteroom Zeyn had met them in upon their arrival and was told to wait.
“I am surprised at your impatience, Morning Star. Surely you do not think we’re dawdling. I am as keen to have the illusory army gone as you are.”
Tariq leapt to his feet at the sultan’s voice and then hit the floor to pay his respects almost as quickly.
“Up, up. I have no patience for such rituals in the privacy of my chamber. Within this room, we are merely Zeyn and Tariq, tw
o men with a common enemy. Are we not?”
Tariq rose slowly to his feet. He was not the best judge of character, but he trusted Ridha’s assessment of the sultan as a fair ruler. He dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Has Malik been found?”
Zeyn’s mouth tightened briefly as he shook his head. “No. I’m sure he doesn’t know what has passed between us, but if he is at all intelligent, he will assume the worst before hoping for the best.”
“Oh.” Tariq didn’t like the idea of Malik having the time to concoct more spells. All the more reason to free Ridha as soon as possible. “If your saahir hasn’t found a way to free Ridha, is there a way to transfer the bond?”
“I’m not sure I follow? But you’ve had apprentice training, haven’t you—give me a moment to summon Jamila.”
The sultan tugged on a series of narrow woven strips that Tariq had mistaken for part of the decor. Then, once more, he poured water and wine for them as if he were a commoner and Tariq was his equal.
Jamila unsurprisingly turned out to be Zeyn’s saahir. She carried several scrolls with her and wore a distracted air. Her tunic and salwar were of a rare green colour and made of fine cloth, but lacked the elaborate embroidery of Zeyn’s clothing. Her fingertips were stained as Malik’s would be, after mixing powders and potions.
“Zeyn,” she said familiarly. “I don’t know what you expect of me. I advised you only yesterday that I had discovered the spell used. It is too soon for me to have a solution for you. It does seem to consist of two parts,” she added thoughtfully.
“Two?” Tariq could not help but ask.
She took no offense at his question, only spread the scrolls. “See, this seems to be the binding spell; it’s complicated only because it’s designed to bind a jinni. And this here, this seems to deal with what is and is not allowed; this binds the powers of the jinni. I believe there may even be a third part, for there is mention that the curse shall be broken.”
“Can it be transferred to me?”
Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One Page 6