Hurry, Thatur.
Perched atop her gryphon’s back, Nalia could see the fire that leaped into the sky across the Qaf, devouring the prison where Bashil had been held captive for so long. It was what she would have done herself—erase it from the realm. Make it as if it had never been. Nalia took in a shuddering breath. Knowing Raif was down there, knowing she could simply ask Thatur to change course and she’d be in her rohifsa’s arms, was one of the hardest tests of her will that the gods could give her. Yet if there was one thing Nalia had learned as a Ghan Aisouri, it was that what she wanted did not matter. Could not matter. This was how she would help Raif most. And she had to burn her dead. If Calar hid them, Nalia would never forgive herself.
“I’m coming for you,” she whispered into the wind.
She didn’t know who she was speaking to: Calar, Raif, or the Aisouri who had been slain in the coup.
Maybe all of them.
They drew closer to the palace, Thatur’s body casting a broad-winged shadow on the Infinite Lake below. The palace rose above it, glittering lapis lazuli and lavender marble, with a shimmering bisahm covering it like an impenetrable soap bubble. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Thatur,” she said, her voice urgent, “I can’t get through—”
“As long as you’re with me, you can.”
She’d forgotten that bisahms only prevented jinn from breaking through them. Since she and Touma were on Thatur, they would also be able to get through.
The home she’d grown up in lay before her, the mosaics on its domes catching the moonlight. The courtyard below was empty, a vast swath of intricately tiled ground that stood before the palace gate. But there was something that had not been in the courtyard before. She’d noticed a flickering light in front of the palace as she’d been flying—this was its source. Nalia pointed to the cauldron of fire.
“What is that?” she asked Touma. “Is it just to replenish chiaan?”
Touma shook his head. “Calar uses it to burn her victims. It is lined with iron—horrible.”
It seemed there was no limit to what Calar could do: working with the Ash Crones, ripping the chiaan right out of the land, and these tortures she seemed to gain so much pleasure from.
We have to stop her, Thatur, she thought to him.
We will, My Empress. Now that you’re here, her time is limited. Very limited indeed.
Nalia started as a plume of crimson evanesence swirled past the palace’s front gate, then disappeared. They were so high up, the guard hadn’t noticed them.
They would soon enough. It’d been over a year since she’d been in a fight, since she’d had proper nourishment. But everything in Nalia thrummed like a well-oiled engine. She was ready for this fight. And the next. And the next.
“My Empress,” Touma pleaded, “I beg of you, please reconsider. You can come back some other time, with your army and Raif. . . .”
She turned her head, her violet eyes meeting his crimson ones. “The reason that made you wait outside the Eye for me all this time,” she said, “is the same reason I must do this tonight.”
Now that she was here, Nalia couldn’t leave without burning her dead. Couldn’t leave without letting Calar know that she was back and that Nalia had every intention of destroying her.
After a moment, Touma nodded. “I understand.”
Ready? Thatur asked.
“Touma, hold on.” Nalia gripped her gryphon’s feathers.
Ready.
They crashed through the bisahm, the magic stinging her skin like a thousand bees. Behind her, Touma cried out, cursing Calar and her entire lineage. The bisahm shuddered as they left it behind, then resumed its shape. A thick, honeylike substance briefly coated her skin. It shimmered, then disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“Drop us off on that ledge,” she said, pointing to a small outcropping of rock just beneath the lip of rock the palace was built on.
Antharoe Falls crashed into the lake below, throwing mist over them as Thatur descended. After he landed, Nalia had to pry Touma’s fingers from around her waist before slipping off the gryphon. When his feet touched solid earth, Touma knelt and kissed the rock. Thatur rolled his eyes.
“I’ll make sure no one gets to you,” Thatur said. “As soon as I see that all the Aisouri are burning, I’ll pick you both up. Yes?”
Nalia nodded. “Salaa’khim,” she whispered.
Victory or death. It was what the Aisouri always said to one another before a battle.
Salaa’khim, My Empress.
Thatur launched himself back into the sky. She turned to Touma. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
He nodded, still looking a bit green. “My blood is yours.” He motioned to the set of stairs cut into the side of the mountain. “After you, My Empress.”
As she climbed the narrow staircase, the carvings that covered the palace walls began to emerge from the mountain’s face. The images told the story of the realm’s history, of how the Ghan Aisouri had vanquished the Ifrit and enslaved the rest of the castes. That was how Nalia understood it now. Growing up, she’d been taught that the Aisouri had liberated the castes from a hard life of tribal warfare. She ran her fingers along a carving of Eila, the first Ghan Aisouri empress. Images such as this one were how Nalia had been able to recognize the empresses when they’d visited her in the Eye. It was eerie, seeing them carved into stone, long dead yet so alive to her.
Nalia braced her hands against the rock, drawing chiaan from it. She needed the earth’s calming energy as much as the additional strength. She frowned, pressing harder. For so many summers she’d longed for the power of Arjinnan chiaan, but this energy was little more than a trickle, like the faint strain of a lone violin where once there had been the bombast of a full orchestra.
Gods, what has she done? Nalia thought, murderous.
Touma nodded as he watched her. “This is what I am talking about, My Empress.”
Nalia went still, holding an arm to stay Touma as an Ifrit guard shuffled by on the tiered ledge above her. She waited until he’d passed, then ascended the last of the stairs and forced her eyes to look up.
The firelight from the massive torches beside the gate and the flames in the cauldron made it easy to see the forms that swung in the breeze.
All those bodies, on top of her, crushing Nalia until she can barely breathe. The scent of blood, bullets ripping into flesh—
She drew in a ragged breath and moved closer to the gate, Touma at her heels. They ducked behind the cauldron as another guard came rushing past.
“What in all hells is going on in Ithkar?” he growled at his companion. “As if we don’t have enough problems here.”
“A godsdamned mess, that’s what,” replied a gruff voice. Nalia froze, listening. “Sentry came by and said the tavrai broke into the prison. ’Spect we’ll be headed that way soon.”
Seconds later, there was the sound of a flurry of wings and vicious caws: Thatur.
It begins, she thought.
Nalia waited while the guards sprinted toward where Thatur hovered in the air, dodging the guards’ bolts of chiaan. The guards wore armor, but nothing she couldn’t pierce through with her chiaan. And the armor was little more than paper when one of Thatur’s claws was pressed against it. Nalia sprinted toward the gate of her ancestors, several feet away from the cauldron.
“Hey—” one of the guards called.
Nalia’s chiaan shot out, a stream of beautiful violet daggers that instantly found their aim. The guard fell heavily to the stone floor, unconscious. She sent a churning sphere of chiaan at the other guard before he could react, and he tipped over the cliff’s edge with a bloodcurdling scream. She scanned the perimeter—so far, they were the only two guards on duty.
Now, Thatur thought to her.
Nalia threw back the hood of her cloak, then raised her hands as her eyes focused on the figures swaying in the breeze. The sight made her reel, the horror of it all washing over her. She
was the last, the only one. Forever alone.
It would be impossible for Nalia to tell which one belonged to her mother or the empress—all that was left of the Ghan Aisouri were bleached bones with scraps of fabric clinging to them.
A bell began to ring behind the gate. Soon, she’d be running for her life.
I am Ghan Aisouri.
While Touma stood behind her, ready to cut down the next guard who crossed their path, Nalia directed her chiaan toward the massive cauldron of fire, drawing the flames to her, then throwing it at the bodies of her caste in a wide arc, a burning slash of paint across the night sky. She sprinted across the vast length of the gate, fire trailing from her fingers. As the flames caught the figures that hung from iron chains, the air filled with smoke and the crackle of an inferno. A stream of Ifrit chiaan cut across the outdoor pavilion—a guard, charging toward her from his post near the mountain’s edge. Nalia flipped over the poisonous barrage of magic, never breaking her concentration from the task at hand. She flew across the palace courtyard, dodging the guards who barreled toward her from a small barracks. They cried out as Touma and Thatur attacked. She recited the prayer of the dead over and over as she drew more fire to the corpses above her.
“Hala shaktai mundeer,” she screamed. “Ashanai sokha vidim. Ishna capoula orgai. Hala shaktai mundeer.”
Gods receive our souls. Fill them with grace and light. Grant entrance to your eternal temples. Gods receive our souls.
A hulking figure blocked her path, an Ifrit soldier wielding an abnormally large scimitar. Touma and Thatur were both engaged in their own furious battles—this Ifrit was all for Nalia. He grinned as he advanced on her.
Nalia smiled back. “It’s up to you how you want to die,” she said.
The Ifrit laughed. “Nice last words, little jinni.”
Nalia gave him a pitying look as she danced past the point of his weapon, a nimble series of steps born of a warrior’s grace. The Eye had whittled her down to nothing but bone and hard muscle: a swift predator. After a few useless swipes, the Ifrit gave up on his weapon, tossing it aside as he held up his palm, sending a burst of chiaan to her chest. Nalia threw herself to the ground, hand reaching for the gold hilt of his scimitar, but not before the Ifrit’s sparks of chiaan nicked her skin. Nalia bit down a scream of pain and flipped up as her hand closed around the hilt, plunging the guard’s own sword into his stomach in one smooth motion.
Vicious caws pierced the air and Nalia looked up. The sky was swarming with vashtu, dark creatures that feasted on flesh. She hadn’t seen the monsters since Raif had fought them on the beach in Los Angeles. The vile things scattered as Thatur hurtled through the air. He dove down, drawing the vashtu toward the swarm of guards who now spilled from the palace gates. Hundreds of Ifrit barreled toward Nalia and Touma, sending a volley of chiaan their way. Touma’s chiaan found its mark every time, the fearful jinni who’d ridden to the palace with her nowhere to be found. The guards cried out as the vashtu descended on them, momentarily diverted by the sharp beaks and talons of Calar’s blood-crazed creatures.
“I think we may have overstayed our welcome,” Touma gasped, his hands on his knees, but his eyes glued to the guards before them. “May we call it a night, My Empress?”
She looked at the bodies that littered the ground around him, then nodded. “I think we’ve done enough damage for now.”
Thatur pulled back from the fray of guards and vashtu and landed at Nalia’s feet. Bits of flesh hung from his beak and dark patches of blood stained his chest.
“Thatur!” Nalia stared at the blood, but he shook his head.
“Not mine.”
The gryphon faced the Aisouri bodies that burned across the gate, filling the air with a musty scent. He bowed low, whispering the prayer of the dead himself before rising.
Silent tears streamed down Nalia’s face.
“We must go, child, “Thatur whispered to her, covering her with a protective wing, as he’d done when she was a little girl.
Nalia took one last look at the Ghan Aisouri. The row of skeletons was awash with amethyst fire. Flakes of ash flew through the air and the remains of Nalia’s caste coated her hair, her skin.
Nalia mounted Thatur, then assisted Touma. Just as they were about to take off, she felt a familiar tug on her heart—hahm’alah.
“Wait,” she said.
Thatur pawed at the ground. “My Emp—”
“Just a minute,” she whispered.
The magic of true names was how she’d been able to communicate with Bashil while he was imprisoned in Arjinna. For one wild second she thought it was him, that he was somehow alive again and trying to get his big sister’s attention. But that was impossible. Of course.
She knew who it was.
Nalia held up her hand as a puff of violet smoke swirled from her palm. Pure hatred shot through her when the image crystallized.
Calar.
The Ifrit empress was sitting on the throne in the palace, the Amethyst Crown on her head. The next image was of her opening the balcony doors that stood outside the throne room just above the palace gate.
Nalia raised her eyes to the actual balcony as the door opened and Calar stepped out.
“Fire and blood, is that her?” Touma asked as Calar appeared.
Long white hair, ruby eyes, and that face, that face that had smiled as Bashil lay dying. The last time Nalia had seen Calar, she’d been shooting a bullet at the empress’s chest. Nalia’s eyes settled on the Amethyst Crown, and a cold rage filled her at what had been done to secure it.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s her.”
Calar was covered in blood—it was on her face, her hands—everywhere. Her eyes shone with a feverish, manic glow.
Kesmir, Thatur thought. Nalia felt the gryphon’s grief for the Ifrit general as if it were her own, a deep despair that emanated from her gryphon’s core.
She gasped at a sudden pressure against her consciousness, as though Nalia’s mind were a mansion with many rooms that Calar was trying to forcibly enter. Nalia pushed back, stemming the flow of pain Calar was trying to direct at her. She could feel Antharoe’s power within her, resisting Calar’s evil chiaan. The empress gave a cry of rage and leaned against the balcony, her hands gripping the railing as every bit of her concentrated on the Ghan Aisouri below, her features growing increasingly frustrated as Nalia remained unharmed. There was a cry to her left and Nalia’s concentration broke as Touma battled with a guard who was charging toward Thatur.
That was all Calar needed. Nalia’s head filled with blinding pain, like getting shot, only worse because she couldn’t lose consciousness—Calar wouldn’t let her. She fell off Thatur, clutching her head in her hands. Thatur tried to shield her, but just as Nalia hadn’t been able to protect Bashil from Calar’s psychic attacks, so it was the same with Thatur.
A laugh, high and cruel, flitted inside her head, drowning out all other sound. Calar attacked Nalia’s mental defenses, her own mind a psychic scimitar that slashed at Nalia’s consciousness again and again. Nalia shoved back, using the training from her childhood, drawing on every ounce of strength she had left to fight the Ifrit empress’s attack.
Nalia writhed as the pain split her in two, struggling against the presence that had slithered into her mind. As though she were a chef setting out her most prized dish, Calar let her memory of Bashil’s death slip into Nalia. She could feel Calar’s pleasure at watching Nalia try to save her brother, a sadistic ecstasy that plunged into Bashil’s head. There was his chiaan, curious and open, and then Calar’s euphoric rage as she crushed his mind, obliterating it. Nalia screamed—the Nalia in Calar’s memory and the Nalia who lay on the palace floor beside Thatur and Touma. Her heart her heart. Then a whisper, so faint Nalia could barely hear it: cold and sharp, like a dagger drawn in a bedroom.
Welcome home, Nalia.
She felt Calar’s satisfaction, but her hold on Nalia was already loosening. It would be gone in moments. Nalia rallied every bi
t of strength within her and threw Calar from the deepest parts of her mind, away from all that was precious and private to her. Calar held on, though. Nalia could feel her scrambling to maintain her hold while Nalia lay on the mosaic floor, panting. She forced herself to stand, then wiped off the blood that dripped down her nose with the back of her hand.
She fixed her eyes on Calar. You’re wearing my crown.
Calar grinned. It’s a lovely accessory.
I’m going to kill you, Calar. And it will hurt like hell. And then I will take that crown and put it on my head. Time’s up, bitch.
It was something Malek would have said and it made her smile, pleased at the little bit of bad in her. Nalia called up the strength left in her and severed the connection. Calar staggered back, her palms against her temples.
Touma picked Nalia up and settled her on Thatur before jumping on behind her.
“To the forest, friend,” he called to Thatur. He held tightly to her with one hand, the other streaming chiaan at the guards below.
Within seconds they were in the air, leaving the palace and its burning dead far behind. Nalia leaned her forehead against Thatur’s broad neck, lightheaded and gasping.
You’re out of shape was all he said. Training starts tomorrow.
Nalia smiled against his feathers. She wouldn’t have expected anything less.
Take me to him, she said.
Thatur swerved east, toward the dark patch of land occupied by the Forest of Sighs.
33
RAIF STOOD ON MOUNT ZHIQUI, STARING AT THE PALACE. It was little more than a speck at this distance, but even from here he could see the flames that had begun to spread across the gate, first a spark, then a fiery ball reaching toward the sky.
“What do you think that’s all about?” Shirin asked. “Wasn’t us, right?”
“No, it wasn’t us,” he said. It looked like a sunset—red and orange, purple, and yellow. “I thought all of Kesmir’s Ifrit had gotten out. Guess a couple stayed behind to start a little trouble.”
He glanced up at the full moons, frowning. That fire wouldn’t be the last strange thing they saw before everything was said and done. He wondered what it meant, that the Godsnight had begun on the first anniversary of Nalia’s death. Maybe this was how the gods mourned her loss. It would be a fitting way for them to say good-bye to her.
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