Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One

by Mickie B. Ashling

  Jamila seemed to notice Tariq for the first time, blinking owlishly at him. “To you?” She glanced at Zeyn, who indicated with a double flick of his wrist that she should proceed. She looked back down to the parchment scrolls. “It depends on the order of the spells. You can’t be bound to a…jar…” She stopped, frowning.

  Tariq swallowed. “If it could be done, it would free Ridha to undo the chaos we—I forced him to create. Then you would be able to figure out how to undo the spell without the urgency. That…that would be good, yes?” He dared a quick glance at the sultan’s face, saw him frown at the parchments on the table.

  “You’re human, though. These spells were constructed for a jinni. You couldn’t be—there’s no way you’d fit inside a jar.” But in spite of Jamila’s words, she was scanning the parchments as if there might be a way.

  “Tariq,” Zeyn said finally, “have you considered the implications of what you’re asking? Assuming Jamila can make this happen?”

  Tariq nodded, risking another glance upwards before dropping his eyes again. After the last two weeks, he’d begun to consider every decision he made carefully.

  “You would be bound to my family, to me. You would essentially be my slave.”

  Ridha would be free. Malik’s work would be undone. And until such time as the curse was broken, Tariq would not have to sleep in a dung heap. “Wouldn’t that be to your advantage?” he suggested cautiously. “To have the Morning Star bound? And I would ask that you also take care of my father as I…would no longer be able to,” he added in a rush, hoping that he wasn’t pushing his luck. “I understand that it may take time, weeks, months. But this mess is my responsibility, so this is how I would make amends.” He cocked his head to one side and brought his attention once more to the sultan’s face, needing to see it, to read his fate on the older man’s features. “If you feel it necessary to keep me forever a slave, then so be it.”

  “I think I know enough of your nature that my peace of mind does not require your lifelong bondage,” Zeyn said dryly. “Nor am I fond of the idea of magically enforced bondage, something neither of us can control.”

  He seemed about to say more, but instead Jamila said into his pause, “I think I can make it work.” She looked from the sultan to Tariq and addressed Tariq, “Have your guards bring you to my work room tomorrow—” She paused to glance once more at the parchment scrolls, and continued, “at the hour before sunset.”

  “I’ll see they’re informed,” Zeyn said before Tariq could point out he had no power to tell his guards what to do.

  “Should Ridha be present as well?”

  “Not necessary.”

  TARIQ ENTICED RIDHA to remain in bed all night and most of the next day.

  “I would ask what’s gotten into you,” Ridha murmured during a moment of afterglow, “but I fear the answer.”

  “Only you,” Tariq replied with shy smile.

  “I didn’t mean in that sense.” Ridha swatted his ass gently and then rubbed some circles in the slippery remains of the oil he’d used earlier.

  “It’s not as though we have other places to be, so why not?” If the spell worked, he probably wouldn’t see Ridha again. “When they break the curse, what will you do?”

  “Undo all that Malik forced me to do, as I promised you.” Ridha pulled him close, until Tariq was almost on top of him.

  Tariq sighed in soft contentment, relishing the warmth and feel of Ridha’s skin against his. “And then?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “You should find something that makes you happy,” Tariq suggested, swallowing a lump in his throat.

  “I don’t know what makes me happy,” Ridha said, sounding troubled.

  “Then you will have an adventure finding out.” Tariq changed the subject then, unable to pretend to be cheerful about losing Ridha.

  RIDHA BARELY REGISTERED Tariq getting out of bed. The past few days felt as if the world had taken a breath and not yet released it. In that moment of neither yesterday nor tomorrow, he had Tariq, and not even their lack of freedom mattered. Tariq had been unquenchable, as if trying to absorb Ridha into himself.

  Ridha once had a reputation for stamina, but Tariq quite exhausted him. He smiled as he fell into sleep, lost in thoughts of Tariq and the large bed they shared.

  He didn’t know how much time passed before he was jolted awake. The weight of his binding to the small green perfume jar was gone! He sat upright as if poked and stared at the jar on the elaborately carved table where it sat. He had lived with the weight of the binding so long he’d forgotten how heavy it was until it was no longer there.

  “Tariq!”

  Tariq was not in the bed, nor anywhere in the room.

  Ridha conjured himself clean and dressed. He should go dismantle the illusion of an army outside the city gates, along with the more complicated spells that kept it from fading and kept Tariq’s image issuing threats and insults. No, first, he should find Tariq and let him know it worked.

  His bond with Tariq was—he frowned. It should have vanished with the breaking of the curse, yet he could still feel Tariq. It was a different bond, altered, but still there. Not that Ridha minded, exactly—he would miss Tariq for quite some time after he went his own way. But if he remained bound to him…then Tariq might never come to realize his infatuation with Ridha was silly. Perhaps not silly, but pointless, surely.

  Find Tariq… Ridha followed their bond and stared in shock at the sight that greeted him.

  Tariq was sprawled half-naked on the work table of Zeyn’s saahir. She was just finishing the process of magically locking a filigree-silver collar around Tariq’s neck, as Zeyn himself stood by, watching.

  “What have you done?” Ridha wasn’t even sure who he was asking.

  Tariq looked up at the sound of his voice and smiled. It looked to be both happy and sad at the same time, which wasn’t anything Ridha had realized could be done.

  It was Zeyn who answered, though. “He’s traded his freedom for yours.” The sultan approached the work table and laid a hand possessively on Tariq’s bare knee. “He belongs to me, now.”

  Tariq looked startled—at the touch? At the words?—and his eyes were wide with confusion and fear when he once more directed his gaze to Ridha.

  “Tariq?”

  Hesitantly, Tariq nodded. “There was a way to transfer the binding, but not break it. This way they have time to figure out the breaking of the curse while you are free to undo the chaos I—to restore things to their proper order.” His words ended as if questioning if Ridha would do as he promised.

  “I’ll begin undoing the magic at once.” He forced his gaze from Tariq and addressed Zeyn. “It will be the work of several days, and is quite draining. Might I ask for the indulgence of the room you’ve so graciously given over to our use for a few days more?”

  “Of course, whatever you need,” Zeyn said with a careless wave of his hand. “Naturally, Tariq will no longer be sharing that room with you. He has a new place, now.”

  Ridha narrowed his eyes. If Zeyn so much as touched Tariq… He swallowed his annoyance and bowed slightly before hurrying to his task.

  Chapter Twelve

  IN TRUTH, DISMANTLING the illusion of an army wasn’t so very difficult. The damage done was more than merely banishing it could fix. To amend that, Ridha altered the illusion, until it was not an army but just the image of Tariq. Instead of threatening the city, he apologized for frightening people. Ridha hesitated and then had the facsimile say he was in custody of the sultan and could do no harm.

  It was no less draining than it had been to create in the first place, and Ridha was grateful to have a soft bed to collapse into.

  He stroked the bedcovers absently, missing Tariq’s warmth and tenderness. He sat up. If Tariq could not come here, Ridha would go to him.

  But although he could feel Tariq through whatever bond they still shared, he could not find him anywhere in the palace. He was being kept in a room deliberately
shielded from Ridha. He frowned, worried.

  Zeyn had not struck him as the type to keep bed slaves of either gender. He was married to a princess who was, by all accounts, clever and not unattractive. Surely she would not endure her husband having a catamite?

  Eventually he fell into a troubled sleep.

  Two days later, all the golem-like demagogues he’d created to defame Zeyn had turned to praising him, or saying he wasn’t too terrible as rulers went. He met with the sultan to decide how long this should go on, and happily Zeyn agreed only a few days were necessary. Or unhappily, since then he would have nothing to hold him to the Land of the Evening Sun. To Tariq.

  Ridha raised his head. Tariq! He was out of the magic-shielded room. Ridha did not waste time with human travel methods, transporting himself directly to Tariq. He was in a sheltered garden that had formed part of the harem in days gone by.

  “Tariq.”

  The youth was dressed in salwar and sleeveless djellaba that didn’t cover him properly. Like a catamite. Ridha was torn between admiration and dismay.

  “Ridha! I thought you were gone already.”

  “Your room is shielded against me, else I’d have been with you each night since you made this awful deal.”

  “It’s not awful. It was needful.” Tariq stood apart from him, but his longing was obvious.

  Ridha opened his arms, and Tariq almost instantly lodged himself in Ridha’s embrace. A sense of peace descended over him as he ran his fingers through Tariq’s thick hair. “The sultan doesn’t—he hasn’t—?”

  Tariq drew his head back far enough to smile up at Ridha. “No.” His smile faded. “I am kept isolated; not even the servants are allowed to talk to me. His majesty has promised that once things settle down—I forgot that my image was used to threaten the entire city—that I can have the freedom of a palace servant until such time as the curse can be broken.”

  “I see.” Ridha didn’t know what to say next.

  “Why are you still here?” Tariq’s voice was almost an accusation, though his arms around Ridha didn’t loosen their hold.

  “I told you it would take some time to undo what had been done. Zeyn is kindly letting me stay in the palace until it’s done.”

  Tariq did loosen his grip then. “He is deliberately keeping us apart? Why?”

  Ridha shook his head. He hadn’t dared to ask lest Zeyn further insinuate that Tariq was his.

  “What will you do when you’re done?” Tariq asked in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been captive so long, I don’t…know.”

  Someone called Tariq’s name, and he said, “I have to go. If they want to keep us apart, you probably should not be seen here.” He stroked Ridha’s jaw with his fingers. “Find what makes you happy.”

  Ridha leaned for a kiss, but Tariq was gone.

  TWO DAYS LATER, Ridha had undone to the best of his ability all that he had wrought under Malik’s direction. He could not leave Zeyn’s palace, knowing Tariq was now bound in his place. He suspected Zeyn wouldn’t welcome him as a long-term guest, either. Surely if they could transfer the curse once, they could do so again. And Tariq still had one wish remaining. He could see to his father’s comfortable retirement, and find a place where he might one day find love without…without me. He shook his head. Without censure, he meant.

  He could send him to the Land of the Jinn, where the gender of one’s lover was immaterial. One as lovely as Tariq would not lack for suitors there. It was not a pleasant thought. It was, however, more pleasant than the idea that Tariq should bear the punishment that was rightly his.

  Ridha could simply use his command of sihr to transport himself directly into the sultan’s presence, but he was petitioning for a favour. He asked for an appointment through the usual channels.

  He thought Zeyn might make him wait, but he was granted an audience almost immediately.

  Ridha entered the throne room in a puff of coloured smoke. As he’d requested, Tariq was there. His salwar were a deep red, the fabric far too thin in Ridha’s estimation. Again he wore a sleeveless djellaba, this time yellow trimmed with blue, covering far too little of him. He and Ridha were the only two men present with bare heads.

  “Ridha,” Tariq exclaimed, clearly surprised to see him.

  Ridha marched across the room and drew Tariq to his feet, away from Zeyn’s side. He sighed at the warmth of Tariq’s skin, the scent of him, and forgot what he’d planned to say. Instead, he kissed Tariq, cradling his head, holding him by the waist.

  “We can’t—” Tariq said breathlessly when he was able.

  Ridha kissed him again.

  Tariq wound his arms around his neck and returned the kiss, his body relaxing into Ridha’s.

  “That’s quite enough,” Zeyn said sternly. “We cannot condone this behaviour.”

  “Can’t you?” Ridha asked, though he released Tariq.

  “We do not care what members of the court do behind closed doors, but this is our throne room and you will behave with decorum.”

  Tariq backed up a few steps and returned to his knees.

  Ridha withheld his protest for now—until the curse was restored to him, Tariq was little more than a slave. Still, he demanded of Zeyn, “Would you be so strident if one of us was female?”

  Zeyn’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to—his silence said enough.

  “You’ll be rid of my heathen behaviour soon enough, oh Great One,” he began, and then the very air in the room changed.

  It grew heavy and charged with sihr, almost visible, and suddenly Malik, the instigator of all the Evening Sun’s troubles—and Ridha’s present dilemma too, for that matter—was in the room, practically sizzling with power.

  Malik stared in surprise at Ridha and uttered a quick banishing.

  Ridha crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed. Malik’s spell had no power over him now that he was free of the jar.

  Jamila and two of her acolytes began to chant as Zeyn’s guards moved in with the same efficiency they’d shown when Tariq and Ridha had arrived little more than a week before.

  Malik hadn’t come to negotiate, though. “I’ve come for your throne, al-Matgarhi.” He raised his arms, hands crossed in front of his face, and waved them apart in a dramatic gesture. The results were equally dramatic—all of Zeyn’s guards vanished.

  Malik looked at Tariq, kneeling in front of Zeyn, immodestly attired. He sneered and turned to Ridha. “So he is now the sultan’s plaything. The boy’s emotions are more changeable than a desert storm.”

  Ridha saw Tariq’s lips thin into a displeased line, before Malik spun on his heel with another gesture towards Tariq. No, Ridha corrected, towards Zeyn. Malik knew his former apprentice was impervious to any attack by sihr. Tariq also seemed to understand, rising to his feet to protect the sultan by letting the directed flow of magic slam into him instead.

  The spell didn’t affect him, but the sheer magnitude of the power Malik had built up pushed Tariq back forcefully, knocking Zeyn to the floor.

  Malik pivoted again, bringing Ridha back into his sights. Did he suppose Zeyn’s fall was a sign his magic had worked? Ridha had no idea what Jamila and her studious young apprentices were doing—their chanting didn’t seem to be drawing any sihr to their aid. They’d made no move to protect their sultan, but Ridha had no time for more than a passing thought as Malik spoke again.

  “I hadn’t counted on you. But with my primary adversary out of the way, I assure you, jinni, killing Tariq will be exceptionally pleasurable.”

  The dark sorcerer was suddenly behind Tariq, one arm holding across his chest.

  Ridha didn’t see the dagger until Malik thrust it into Tariq’s stomach. Tariq’s eyes widened and then rolled back in his head as Malik let him collapse on the polished stone floor.

  Ridha froze, torn between the need to rush to Tariq before it was too late and a raging desire to send Malik straight to the underworld.

  Malik raised him
self up, skin crackling as he drew on more sihr than Ridha had ever seen a human sorcerer attempt. He only hesitated because Malik was between him and Tariq.

  “You can’t save him,” Malik said, a smile curving his thin lips. “Sihr can’t save him. He’s already dead.” He threw his head back and laughed. His hands moved in a complex dance and a rush of concentrated magical power hit Ridha midchest.

  Ridha staggered back, breathless and barely able to keep his footing. Fury flooded him. Half a transportation spell that would send Malik alive to the underworld was already formed before a moan from Tariq stopped him. The Jinn could not act as judge and executioner of humans; it was one of the laws of travelling between the worlds that the Jinn would punish severely. If Tariq yet lived, he would not, could not do something that would forever divide them.

  Ridha reformed his intent and sent the energy at Malik, the same invisible punch he’d used on Ridha. He was already moving towards Tariq—dear goddess of love, let Malik be wrong—when his eyes widened in disbelief. The power he’d directed at Malik absorbed into the already crackling mass filling the saahir.

  Malik’s eyes closed as the power filled whatever crystal or charm he had—he was human, there had to be something channelling that power—before smiling at Ridha. “Thank you.”

  How could he get Malik to expend that power without hurting anyone in the process?

  Ridha transported to Tariq’s side. In that brief instant of incorporeal existence, he felt Malik try to bind him, but whatever spells the wicked saahir had prepared, none had been created with a jinni in mind. He glared at his former rival even as he knelt beside his darling boy.

  The chanting ceased. The room went silent. The power Malik had barely been able to restrain was simply and completely gone. Malik’s face drained of colour as he fell to the floor.

  Jamila and her apprentices had managed to cut Malik off from the source of all magic. They rushed to physically bind him while he was weak, leaving Ridha free to focus all his attention on the one he loved.

  Tariq was slumped in an ever-increasing pool of blood, his hands clenched to the blade still stuck deep within him.