Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One

by Mickie B. Ashling

  Ridha knelt down, gathering Tariq onto his lap. “Tariq. Please.”

  There were some wounds sihr could heal, but Tariq’s resistance to magic meant Malik was right, damn him to all the torments of the underworld. Ridha tried to draw the sihr through Tariq, heart in his throat as he willed it to knit Tariq whole.

  He could feel some small bit of it working, the part of Tariq that could work simple magics allowing it in, but it was far too little. “You cannot die.”

  Tariq’s eyelids fluttered open. “Ridha,” he murmured. “Had to be done. Paid for my mistakes. You…find your happiness.” His words came in breathy gasps, his voice thin and fading.

  “You are my happiness, Tariq.”

  The silver filigree collar dissolved before his eyes, and Zeyn said from behind him, “So. You finally broke the curse.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  IF TARIQ DIED, Malik would go to hell from whatever cell Zeyn and Jamila were devising for him, and Ridha would happily pay the price.

  The throne room flooded with a bright light, all warm yellow with a tinge of pink. The light was scented with attar, and Ridha looked up, holding Tariq close. Tears he’d forgotten he could cry rolled down his cheeks.

  The figure of a woman partially resolved in the light. Her dark skin and garments in an array of reds were faded, translucent. Her hair swirled around her head as if caught in a wind that affected only her.

  “I’m not surprised they didn’t think to offer up a prayer, but you, jinni, I know you. Your curse has granted you a life long enough to remember me,” she chastised Ridha.

  “Tanit.” Ridha could hardly believe his eyes. He might have been born before the old gods gave way to the One God, but he’d never had the pleasure of their company before. Yet he recognized her as surely as if they’d met before.

  She surveyed the room, noting Zeyn, the guardsmen who’d come in after Malik had fallen, and the acolyte saahir Jamila had bade stay with the sultan, before she returned her attention to Ridha.

  “You didn’t think I’d not come to the aid of my child.” The goddess, or as much of a physical incarnation as she had, knelt beside Tariq. “My son.”

  “Then the prophecy is true?” Zeyn said, sounding more shocked than awed. “I should give my throne to him?”

  “Prophecy, bah. Prophecies are for foolish humans. The gods care not who sits in your high places. We wait for the day you grow beyond such petty concerns.”

  “Petty—? Perhaps if the gods would give us guides, instead of letting us figure it out on our own—” Zeyn sounded angry, but Ridha was more concerned with Tariq and what Tanit was doing, bathing him in her pink light, a power quite distinct from the sihr that swirled around the Land of the Jinn like air. Barakah, the power of healing.

  “This boy whom you enslaved was a guide,” Tanit said. “A humble son of a dyer, who, having so little himself, gave what he could to others less fortunate. One who sacrificed himself for others, including you, Zeyn ibn Safwah. But what is more important to you is to whom he gives his body and soul. For shame.”

  “Mother?” Tariq murmured, his eyes fluttering.

  “Not literally?” Ridha had heard stories, but that was so long ago.

  Tanit smiled. “His father is a handsome man and kind. I didn’t plan to bear a child, but the body I assumed was ripe.” She stroked Tariq’s forehead. “I tried to protect him from the likes of Malik ibn Karimi, but it is hard to anticipate all the evils men invent.”

  “Am I dead?”

  “No, my child. You must live. Your heart will thrive in the Land of the Jinn.” She gave Ridha a hard stare. “You do mean to take him with you?”

  “If he’ll come with me. I am not…worthy of him.”

  She smiled, growing more and more insubstantial. “That’s for him to judge, I think. Farewell, my son. I am proud of you.”

  Tariq moved, and Ridha saw that the terrible wound was healed, though blood still soaked his clothes. “Thank you, Tanit,” he said. And Ridha released Tariq long enough to go down on his knees and place his forehead on the smooth stone floor before her.

  “One day, when you are ready, we shall return.” She vanished, the rose light fading. Only the lingering scent of attar indicated she’d ever been there.

  Ridha pulled Tariq to his unsteady feet. “We can leave the moment you give the word. We can say goodbye to your father, if you like—we can go anywhere!” He felt something bubbling up inside him. It took him a minute to recognize it. Joy. It was joy.

  “L-leave?” Tariq reached for his neck and rubbed in wonder. “The curse is broken?”

  Zeyn said quietly, “The curse could only be broken when Ridha loved someone else more than himself.”

  Tariq’s beautiful eyes widened, and his cheeks took on that luscious reddish blush Ridha found so alluring. “Me?”

  Now that Tariq wasn’t wearing the collar of Zeyn’s ownership, his lack of proper clothing suited him. Ridha slid an arm around Tariq’s waist.

  “I will abide by our agreement, Morning Star, and see to your father’s comfort all the rest of his days. And…thank you,” Zeyn added stiffly as if he’d never imagined he’d be thanking the son of a dyer. Or the son of a goddess thought long gone.

  “Why are you thanking me, majesty?”

  Tariq must have missed the part where Tanit pointed out that Tariq had saved Zeyn’s life by intercepting the spell Malik had cast his way. “You saved his life.”

  “Oh, but that was just…” Tariq fell silent.

  Ridha would be sure to check that Zeyn kept his promise. If he failed, Ridha would provide. Somewhere in the desert sands was a goodly stash of coins. He suspected Tariq would want to distribute those to the poor of Merzouga.

  “Ridha, are you certain you want me to come with you?”

  Ridha kissed his forehead. “I came to plead for your freedom, even if it meant returning to the perfume jar. You have given me things I’d long since forgotten. Hope. Joy. Love. You are my happiness, Morning Star.”

  TARIQ GRABBED RIDHA’S arm. “I need to stop.”

  “We are not moving, my happiness.”

  They were once more in the room initially provided them in the palace of the Sultan of the Evening Sun, only a day after the terrifying events in the throne room. They had just seen his father off on a camel train laden with expensive dyes and bolts of fine cloth. Hidden in the baskets was coin, enough to see his father well fed and warm all the way to his grave, though Tariq hoped to see him again before then. If not in Merzouga, then in whatever home Ridha would make for them.

  “Please, Ridha. It seems we have been in a constant whirl these past hours—or is it days?—and I am… I need to stop.”

  Tariq still wasn’t sure what had happened in the throne room, and no one had thought to explain it to him. He wondered if he was dead after all and this was his paradise, an illusion. Somewhere in the land of the living, the real Ridha was hopefully feeling sad at his demise…if only a little.

  Ridha sat down on plush cushions and drew Tariq with him.

  Tariq sighed. The warmth of Ridha’s embrace and the feel of their bond, altered, changed, yet somehow still there reassured him this was no illusion. “Tell me what happened. I still don’t even know why we were in the throne room to begin with.”

  “I requested an audience. I was going to ask that the curse be placed back upon me, so you could be free. It seemed wrong that you should suffer my punishment.” Ridha’s chuckle vibrated all through his body. “I had a grand speech prepared. But your former master showed up before I could do more than upset Zeyn by touching you, my darling one.”

  Tariq had tensed, worried Ridha might even still refer to his former master as “your Malik,” but he relaxed again, shifting in Ridha’s embrace. “You wanted to take back the curse?”

  Ridha nodded. “It was the right thing to do.”

  Tariq looked up at him. He was very beautiful, his jinni. “Would that have broken the curse, do you think?”


  “It might have. Though I am ashamed to say I didn’t truly realize how much you meant to me until I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  Tariq pressed closer into Ridha. “Then he showed up.” He didn’t even want to think his name.

  “Yes.” Ridha’s reply was terse.

  “I put myself between him and the sultan, and it all gets confusing after that.”

  “Jamila and her apprentices saved his life. He was channelling so much sihr it would have killed him before he could bring his plans to fruition.”

  “But he would have killed the sultan. And me. He did kill me.”

  “You are not dead,” Ridha said softly, running his hand lightly over Tariq’s back. “This is real.” He pushed on Tariq’s shoulder, angling him away from his warmth, and kissed him.

  Tariq moaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Ridha’s neck.

  “I will show you again and again how real it is,” Ridha promised, relinquishing Tariq’s mouth.

  “I’d like that. But then what happened? I swear I talked to my mother, but she’s dead…” Tariq frowned. “And I’m not, though I know I should be.”

  Ridha hesitated, which made Tariq nervous. Finally, he said, “The goddess Tanit came to your aid. She took your status as a child of the Morning Star quite…seriously. The healing powers of barakah have always come from the gods, seldom granted in such quantities as it took to restore your life. She…healed you.”

  Tariq could not imagine it. An actual goddess come to save him, of all people? “Oh.”

  “Now that you are at ease in your mind about your father…what would you like to do?” Ridha’s voice dropped into the deep sexy tone that sent shivers down Tariq’s spine.

  “What are my choices?” He gave Ridha an innocent look, as if he had no idea what the jinni meant.

  “I can show you once more how real this is.” He nudged Tariq across his body to feel the reality of his erection, and Tariq gasped. “Or we can pack up the things that are ours and I can show you our new home.”

  As much as Tariq wanted Ridha’s “proof of reality,” he had to ask, “What will there be for me, a human, in the Land of the Jinn?”

  “Besides me?” Ridha teased, nudging him again with the hardness between his legs.

  “Yes,” Tariq asked nervously, even as he wriggled enticingly against his lover.

  “I told you the Jinn are much fascinated by the way humans accomplish things. We won’t care that your apprenticeship with your father wasn’t complete; you could dye fabrics, and teach others, and they would take great delight in it.”

  That surprised Tariq, but then he realized it shouldn’t have. “And my being human, that won’t be a problem? Especially as I am unable to touch more than a breath of sihr?”

  “The son of the Morning Star will be welcome,” Ridha said and kissed him again. “Have you decided what you want to do first?”

  Tariq broke the kiss, licked Ridha’s lower lip, and said demurely, “I think I need you to prove this is real before you take me to the Land of the Jinn.”

  “I do so love you, my happiness.”

  About the Author

  Sydney Blackburn is a binary star system. Always a voracious reader, she began to write when she couldn’t find the stories she wanted to read. She likes candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach… Oh wait, wrong profile. She’s a snarky introvert and admits to having a past full of casual sex and dubious hookups, which she uses for her stories.

  She likes word play and puns and science-y things. And green curry.

  Her dislikes include talking on the phone, people trying to talk to her before she’s had coffee, and filling out the “about me” fields in social media.

  Besides writing, she also designs book covers for poor people.

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/SydneyBee/

  Twitter: @blackburnsyd

  Website: www.sbtales.weebly.com

  Email: blackburnsyd@gmail.com

  Other books by Sydney Blackburn

  “After the Dance” – short within Beneath the Layers

  The Lure of Port Stephen

  Trick or Treat

  Fairest

  K.S. Trenten

  Chapter One: Dark Eyes

  MY FIRST MEMORY was of her dark eyes.

  They captured all the colors of my infant universe, even as they threatened to swallow me.

  Her eyes should have been terrifying, but they weren’t.

  Her blood red lips moved, shaping words I could not recall.

  My parents remembered them only too well, as did everyone else who’d gathered at the castle for my christening.

  “I, too, have a gift for this child. She shall grow up, with all the beauty and promise of the dawn, but her sun will never rise.”

  My mother told me she nearly swooned with terror at the look of sheer malevolence the witch gave to the sunbeams playing about my cradle. She wanted to stop the witch from speaking, as did my father.

  No one could move, no matter how much they wished to. Everyone stood still, spellbound by the witch’s gaze.

  “Before the sun sets on the eve of her sixteenth year, the princess shall prick her finger on a spindle. With the first drop of her blood, a sleeping curse will fall upon her, claiming her for a hundred years.”

  My mother tried to call in another witch to remove the curse. My father burned every spindle he could find.

  For all their efforts, nothing could remove the curse.

  The witch had disappeared into a cloud of green smoke. No one could find her after my christening, despite many attempts. The only thing she left behind, besides her curse, were dreams of dark eyes.

  I wondered if she’d been real. Her appearance was the sort of thing I’d heard about in old legends. The way she haunted my dreams was too much like giggled tales of falling in love.

  Chapter Two: The Mirror

  I DIDN’T SEE her again until years later. It was during one of my secret visits to the topmost tower room of our castle.

  This was the place where we kept all the things best forgotten. Or at least things my parents wanted forgotten.

  I didn’t want to forget anything. Perhaps that’s why I found the tower room so fascinating.

  I’d already discovered a locket lying in a pile of dust. Inside was a miniature of a young man. Stacked beneath a pile of frayed blankets stood a portrait of Lord Gerald Hargreaves, one of the quietest men at court.

  I sensed these had been treasures, treasures that might cause regret if they’d been thrown away. Someone might want to reclaim them. At least I hoped so. At the same time, I often got a shiver of apprehension at the sight of these precious mementos hidden away in the highest room of the castle.

  Perhaps this was why I kept my visits to the tower secret. I doubted my parents would approve of my hiking all the way up the winding staircase, away from their watchful eyes and ears. They didn’t like it when I wandered. The curse I was under terrified them, so they made certain I was surrounded by people in other parts of the castle.

  I didn’t want to worry them. However, the constant company grew wearisome. Especially when that company all tried to talk at once.

  I began to crave solitude, as a poor maid might crave wealth. The tower was one of the few places I could be alone. It became one of my favorite spots, other than my bed.

  Sleep was the one state in which I enjoyed utter quiet. My imagination was free to spread its wings and take flight. An enticing figure often appeared in my dreams, although I never saw her clearly. The glimpses I caught of her dark eyes, staring out of a pale face, intrigued me, sending a shiver of excitement through my entire body.

  This sensation wasn’t fearful—at least not entirely.

  I shared these dreams with no one. I began to wonder if I’d imagined the eyes myself, if my memory was just a fantasy, until I found the portrait.

  It was wedged between an old wooden horse and a box filled with sawdust. Gray cloth wrapped around it, like a shroud.r />
  I unwound them with difficulty, releasing clouds of dust, which rose to conceal their treasure.

  The air cleared to reveal a portrait of a young girl about my age.

  I recognized her painted dark eyes at once. Her bloodred lips bent in a wistful smile. They made up for the lack of color in her skin. I’d never seen flesh so pale. It made me wonder if the artist had been trying to capture a ghost on canvas. Everything about her was fragile and ghostly.

  She sat with her hands crossed in front of her. Hair as dark as her skin was pale fell in loose waves down her back and over her arms. Ribbons and lacings the same crimson as her lips adorned her purple gown.

  Purple was the color of royalty. In order to wear such a gown, this lovely maiden had to be a princess like me.

  I’m not certain how long I sat there, staring at her.

  The lady’s painted eyes seemed equally fascinated with me. No, more than fascinated. Those eyes yearned to devour me. At the same time, they cried out for my sympathy. No, more than that.

  Help me, she implored silently from the canvas. Only you can save me.

  “I see you’ve found her.” Oriana’s gentle voice distracted me.

  My good witch entered the room, gliding with an effortless grace any court lady would envy.

  Not that I was surprised to see her. When had Oriana not been at my side?

  Once upon a time, my mother had begged her to find a cure for my curse. She’d been at the castle since I was an infant, keeping an eye on me. She always knew where to find me.

  Free from the painted gaze of the portrait, I turned to look at her instead.

  Oriana was as golden haired as myself, although her hair was liberally dusted with silver. Indeed, she could have passed for my actual mother. She must have looked very much like me when she was my age. Her blue eyes held more wisdom than my own, wisdom and regret. Lines of care, sorrow, and loss wrinkled a once lovely face.

  The full realization of my selfishness hit me like a blow to the chest. How I must have worried everyone, sneaking off. Here I was, gazing into the eyes of the enemy, like a lovesick fool.