The whole land seemed to be holding its breath. The expectation in the air was heavy—he could almost feel it on his skin. No one knew what would happen, when the gods would strike. And no one could possibly be ready when they did.
They evanesced back to the forest, Raif parting ways with Shirin as soon as he emerged from his cloud of smoke. He made sure that some of the Brass soldiers kept an eye on Taz and went in search of Thatur. He suspected the sight of Yasri would be a comfort to Taz, if only to give the commander a reason not to throw himself in front of a ghoul, as Raif had. Yasri was still in Thatur’s nest with Raif’s mother, who’d been tasked with minding her. No one knew how to get there but Thatur himself—where was the damn bird? Raif hadn’t seen him once during the battle. It wasn’t like him to avoid a chance to rip out Ifrit throats.
Raif walked through the tent city that had sprouted from the Forest of Sighs like a sea of mushrooms. The battle for the prison over, he spent the next few minutes circulating among his soldiers, spreading praise and encouragement. The decision he’d made on the battlefield seemed to have drawn out some of the pressure that had been building within him ever since he’d returned from the Eye. He felt light, as though he already had one foot in the spirit realm. The years stretched out before him, lonely. His future had been spoken for since he was a child. He wasn’t sure he knew how to live for anything but the revolution. Or Nalia.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of jinn lay scattered and homeless in the forest, their fear and despair latching onto Raif, a foreboding he couldn’t shake off. What else would the gods bring them tonight? The moons still hung in the sky, though it was easily past noon, the sun nowhere to be seen. He tried to remember what the priests had said of the Godsnight, but all he knew was that it would be bad. Plagues, death at every turn. There was one thing to be grateful for, though: Calar had never shown up with her shadows.
Raif made his way to where the tavrai had gathered in the center of camp. All he wanted was sleep. As he approached, Shirin looked up from where she was crouching near a sizable bonfire, stirring one of several pots of stew. The smell of lamb and nutmeg reached him, and Raif’s stomach growled. He was tempted to grab a bowl, but that would mean being alone with Shirin and he wasn’t ready to acknowledge what had happened on the battlefield. Instead, he raised his hand in greeting and crossed to where Kesmir’s Ifrit were deep in discussion. After a few moments of pretending to listen to the debate over what the next course of action should be, Raif felt a hand on his arm. He knew before he turned that it was Shirin. Her chiaan was like standing in the middle of a dark forest or gazing into a well—solid and quiet. So different from Nalia’s.
“Eat, Raif,” she said.
He took the clay bowl of soup she offered him and her hand lingered on his. Her eyes asked a question but he looked away, refusing to give the answer she hoped for. I can’t give you what you want.
“Thanks, Shir.”
She nodded, her lips twisting as she tried—and failed—to mask her disappointment.
That kiss lingered between them, and it would never go away. Raif still didn’t understand why he’d let her press her lips to his or how he could have forgotten Nalia for even a moment. He just remembered this overwhelming need to feel something beyond his heartbreak, to feel alive again—wasn’t that why he’d rested on the jolip moss in the first place? When Nalia’s name came out of his lips, it was like coming up for air. He couldn’t believe he’d betrayed her memory like that. And he felt terrible for hurting Shirin. What a way to repay her loyalty.
Shirin started back toward the fire but then stopped, looking toward the sky as a familiar caw sounded above. Raif turned toward the sound, shading his eyes against the brightness of the Three Widows as Thatur approached. He hoped the gryphon had a good reason for sitting out the battle. A sudden hush fell over the camp. Something about the way he flew—urgent, focused—demanded attention. Raif could just make out the silhouettes of two riders perched on Thatur’s back. One was tall, clearly male. The first rider was likely female—slight, nearly dwarfed by the jinni who rode behind her. She was too far for Raif to see her face, but she sat astride the gryphon with ease.
“Is that your mom with the kid?” Shirin asked.
Raif shook his head. “I don’t see a child. But I don’t know who—”
The words caught in Raif’s throat as Thatur began his descent. He still couldn’t see the female jinni’s face, but there was something . . . he couldn’t quite . . . it was almost as if . . .
Raif’s chiaan sparked inside him, pulling him toward Thatur, and the bowl Shirin had pressed into his hands slipped from his grasp as he started forward, stumbling like a man dying of thirst toward an oasis. He heard Shirin call his name, but her voice sounded far away, as though he were underwater.
It was impossible. He knew that. But the hope that had deserted him returned in full force and Raif teetered on the edge of sanity, gazing up at the approaching gryphon as a worshipper to a god. With each passing second, his certainty grew. He wanted to run, to shout with joy, to scream, but all Raif could do was stand there, stunned.
Impossible, impossible.
Thatur drew closer, and he’d barely touched down before the smaller of the two jinn he carried slid to the ground and sprinted toward Raif. Her eyes, bright and violet, her lips forming his name.
Nalia. Nalia. NALIA.
He shouted, an unintelligible exclamation of joy, as Nalia vaulted into his arms. She sobbed, her body shuddering against his, and he held her tightly to him, murmuring her name over and over. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and breathed her in: amber and the Eye—a smell like cold wind. He had to enjoy this while he could, this dream, this break with sanity—whatever was happening to him—he didn’t care because it felt so real, so real, maybe he’d died in the battle and thank gods he had. Nalia, Nalia—
She pulled back, just enough to see his face, the tips of their noses touching. He smiled and her fingers brushed away the tears that streamed down his cheeks.
“I don’t want to wake up,” he whispered. “Please don’t let me wake up this time.”
“I’m here,” she said against his lips. Her voice—gods, that voice—low, intoxicating. Her breath in his mouth, her chiaan flooding into him. “Raif, I’m here. I’m really here.”
She pressed her lips to his and Nalia’s chiaan swept through him, so much and so quickly that he nearly fell over. Her fingers in his hair, her body pressed against him, and as she whispered I love you, I love you against his lips, he let himself believe it was real. Either way, he was never waking up from this. He picked her up and spun her around and she laughed, her eyes bright, flooded with tears.
“Took you long enough,” he murmured, setting her down again, as his fingers traced the lines of her face.
Her lips—her beautiful, perfect lips that he’d dreamed about night after night—turned up. “I was on the scenic route.”
“Scenic route?”
“Human thing,” she whispered, kissing him again.
He pulled back, staring at her. “This is real. This is happening.”
Nalia nodded, her eyes drinking him in.
“Oh my gods,” he said, crushing her against him, dazed.
Alive, alive—
Raif was only dimly aware of the jinn surrounding them, of Thatur softly growling his disapproval at their displays of affection.
He caught the scent of smoke in her hair, as though she’d been near a—
Fire.
He knew exactly why a Ghan Aisouri would be setting fire to the palace gate.
“You burned them,” he said.
She nodded. “I wanted to see you first, but I had to.”
“What if Calar—”
“I had to,” she said simply. “Thatur said it would help you,” she added. “We were trying to distract Calar. That’s why I went to the palace before I came here.”
“You’ve been in the Eye for a year and the first thing you did was go in
to battle for me?”
She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re the first reason for why I do anything.”
Raif’s hands shook as they coiled her hair around his fingers. The last time he’d seen her, Nalia’s hair had been nearly shorter than his and she’d been dying on the floor of the Eye. Now she was alive, her hair as long as when he’d first met her, falling around her shoulders in waves. She smiled softly as she rested her palm against his beard.
“I thought you didn’t want to look like your father.”
“You weren’t here to shave me.”
He turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm, gasping a little as her chiaan slipped past his lips. He could feel the change in her, not just her power but something else—something limitless and vast, ancient and wise that was now a part of Nalia, as much as her heart or the lungs inside her chest.
She no longer belonged just to him anymore.
Raif stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides. They stood there for a long moment, staring at each other. Her eyes begged him to understand.
He did. There was no question what needed to happen—now, before the jinn around them acted.
The leader of the tavrai, son of Dthar Djan’Urbi, unsheathed his scimitar, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head as he placed it at her feet. After a moment, Raif raised his head, his eyes meeting Nalia’s.
“My Empress,” he said, loud enough for the surrounding jinn to hear, “my sword is yours. I pledge my blood to you.”
34
BEING STABBED, GUTTED, BURNED ALIVE—ANYTHING was preferable to this.
Shirin stared, the weight of her unhappiness crushing. Let this kill me, she begged the gods, let me be free.
Violet eyes. Tattoos snaking up her arms. Even after spending a year trudging through the Eye, Raif’s Ghan Aisouri was beautiful. Shirin had been expecting that. But the love in her eyes, the gentleness with which this Ghan Aisouri was looking at a Djan boy: Shirin could never have imagined. To see how much they loved each other was a very different thing from hearing about it for a year.
Nalia was too thin and her hair and clothes were coated in the same fine, gray dust that had been on all the other jinn who’d traveled through the Eye. But there was a fierceness to her, a regal authority. It radiated, like an aura. Though Nalia was small, she seemed to take up more space than the jinn around her.
The moment Raif fell to his knees, Shirin knew it was over. What little hope she’d had that they might one day be together fled and it would never come back. Raif Djan’Urbi would never love her. His words sliced Shirin open—couldn’t everyone see her bleeding to death?
“My Empress,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion—love, adoration—“my sword is yours. I pledge my blood to you.”
How could this boy worshipping at the feet of a Ghan Aisouri be the Raif Djan’Urbi who’d coolly sentenced traitors to death and carried out the punishment himself? How could those lips that never left that salfit’s skin be the same ones that had shouted with joy after all the Aisouri had been slain?
That night, Raif had picked Shirin up and spun her around. They’d fallen to the grass, crying and laughing in each other’s arms. They’re gone! They’re fucking GONE! he kept saying, over and over. And now . . .
Nalia knelt before him and pulled something off her neck. Raif’s eyes widened as she took his hand and placed whatever it was on his palm, her lips grazing his fingers as she said, “And I to you.”
As Raif looked down at his hand, Shirin caught a glimpse of what Nalia had given him: A ring. She’d given him a ring.
Solomon’s sigil. It had to be. Gods, Shirin thought it couldn’t get any worse. Nalia’s lips brushed Raif’s ear, and whatever she’d whispered to him was enough for Raif to pull her against him once more.
Rohifsa, he said to her.
“This needs to stop right now,” said a voice beside Shirin.
Jaqar. His words woke Shirin from the miserable trance she’d fallen under and she took a breath, shoving the parts of her that had just died far away, where she’d never have to see them again.
“Agreed,” Shirin said, surprised at the cold detachment in her voice. She turned to the jinn behind her, speaking to the tavrai. “Tavrai Djan’Urbi has just publicly denounced all we fight for. As such, he’s a traitor and will be held accountable.” She caught the eyes of her strongest fighters. I’m dying, dying, breaking into a thousand pieces and he’ll never know, he’ll never know.
“Put him in chains,” Shirin said. The jinn hesitated and Shirin growled, “Now.”
A flash of violet light seared the air and a translucent, indestructible barrier went up between Raif and the jinn.
“Touch one hair on Raif Djan’Urbi’s head and I will make you sorely regret it,” the Aisouri said, her eyes burning. Actually burning—Shirin could have sworn she saw amethyst flames in them.
Nalia’s voice was low and soft, with the cadences of the aristocracy, yet there was no question it belonged to a jinni who would order an execution or start a war, if need be. She had a slight accent, acquired, no doubt, during her time on Earth. There wasn’t a trace of cruelty in her voice or delivery, just a firm resolve backed by the ability to follow though with her threat.
“I think you’ll find it difficult,” Tazlim said, stepping in front of Shirin and the tavrai who had come to her side, “to fight the Empress and her army—as well as the leader of your own.” Tazlim glanced at Nalia and inclined his head, his eyes heavy with grief. “My Empress.”
Though most of the Brass Army was at the camp in the clearing deeper in the forest, those near Tazlim hurried to flank him.
Nalia broke into a smile, the warmth of which surprised Shirin. She returned his small bow. “Jahal’alund, Tazlim.”
Tazlim walked toward the gryphon and when the bird saw the Brass commander’s face, he closed his eyes and his head fell forward. He clawed once at the ground, tearing a gash into the earth as he mourned for Kesmir.
The Ifrit jinni who’d accompanied Nalia on her ride to the forest hurried toward Raif. Shirin couldn’t remember his name—some fool who’d refused to leave the Gate of the Eye for the past year.
“She needs a healer, sir. Food, rest. Not . . . this.” He gestured to Shirin and Jaqar with a look of contempt.
Raif nodded, then stood slightly in front of Nalia, his eyes on Shirin’s. “You don’t have the authority to sentence me—not yet.” He turned to the jinn assembled. “You fought a battle today, and fought it well. We have dead to burn, mourning songs to sing. There will be a council meeting after the first meal tomorrow, at which time we’ll discuss our next steps.”
He looked at Shirin again and the past year swam between them—his grief, the late nights she’d stayed up with him, fighting side by side, that kiss.
“There is no our where you’re concerned, Raif.” She gestured toward Nalia. “You bowed down to an Aisouri and called her Empress. For fuck’s sake, Djan’Urbi—there’s nothing to discuss!”
Nalia calmly studied Shirin, and the pity Shirin recognized in those eyes unraveled her, the hatred unspooling into a tangle of knots. She could hardly breathe for the rage that crawled up her throat, settled in her lungs. Shirin curled her fists, lest anyone see the chiaan that was sneaking out of her fingertips. She couldn’t let this salfit rattle her.
Shirin took a step toward the barrier, fury radiating from every pore in her body. “I hope you aren’t expecting the rest of us to bow and scrape before you.” Her hand slid to the hilt of her scimitar.
Raif stiffened, but Nalia merely smiled, wary. Like a snake eyeing its prey. The skin on Shirin’s neck prickled.
“You must be Shirin,” she said.
Shirin tightened her hold on the hilt of her scimitar. She felt exposed, as though the Aisouri could see every wish for Raif she’d made inside her heart.
“I wonder what else the dear leader of our revolution has told you,” Shirin sneered. “Perhaps every military secret
of the tavrai?”
Hurt lashed across Raif’s face. Stop, a voice inside Shirin yelled. But Shirin couldn’t stop, not now, not after the nightmare she’d just witnessed, the battle she’d just fought. She was so godsdamned angry and sad and so, so tired, the weariness weighing her down. She couldn’t deal with a Ghan Aisouri on top of it all.
Raif stepped forward. “Fire and blood, Shirin. Can’t you just—”
But he stopped as Nalia did the unexpected. She bowed, with one hand to her heart. It was a courtly bow, the kind the empress might have given to one of her Shaitan overlords. At least, that was what Shirin imagined. She’d never seen the empress up close.
“Thank you for taking care of my people,” the Ghan Aisouri said. “I am forever in your debt.”
Shirin drew in a sharp breath. My people. Like she owned them. Shirin turned to Raif and he sighed.
“Tell me you did not just hear that?” she said, her voice edged.
Raif ignored her, shouting at the jinn who stood around them, silent witnesses to the demise of the only successful revolution the jinn had ever had.
“This is not a performance for your amusement,” he said. “Go and find something useful to do.”
But none of them left. Nobody knew who was in charge anymore, least of all Shirin. And the respect Raif had enjoyed for a lifetime was crumbling right before her eyes. There was no coming back from this—Raif had turned traitor, whether he’d admit it or not.
“You want them to leave so you can try to bully us into accepting this piece of trash?” Jaqar said, gesturing to Nalia.
“That’s it,” Raif growled, murder in his eyes.
Nalia put her hand on his arm. “Rohifsa,” she whispered. “Those are just words, no?”
After a moment, he nodded and stood down. Submissive, her little pet already.
Nalia turned and addressed Shirin and Jaqar, including the jinn who surrounded them with one glance around the clearing.
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