Freedom's Slave

by Heather Demetrios

  “After the human god covered the Earth, what happened?” her father asked. “Where did the water go?”

  “A dove carried an olive branch as a sign from their god. It came from a newly grown tree, which meant that there was now land somewhere in the vast ocean. The water disappeared, and they were able to build a new world.”

  Nalia fingered the seed from the lote tree. It had grown warm since the last plague ended, pulsing against her skin. The vision in the Eye had shown her planting the seed. But where? She was terrified of choosing the wrong place—what if another plague came and destroyed the tree before it had a chance to grow?

  She pulled the seed out of her pocket and held it up for her father to see. It shone gold. “I think this is our olive branch. Except I don’t know where to plant it.”

  Ajwar wiped his glasses and looked closer at the seed. “This is from your lote tree, no?”

  She nodded. “It’s changed since the plagues began. Like it’s alive.”

  “And your vision did not show you where to plant it?”

  She shook her head. “I thought it was in the mountains, but”—she gestured toward the flat plain that stretched from the sea to the farthest western range—“most of the Qaf is gone.”

  Planting it by the palace was too dangerous. What if Calar’s shadows sucked the life out of the tree before it had a chance of healing the land?

  Nalia heard her name and looked to where Raif was calling her, beckoning toward the lapis lazuli column that stood between Ithkar and Arjinna.

  “It’s no mountain, but . . .” Ajwar shrugged. “Maybe that is where the seed needs to go.”

  “But there’s no soil.”

  Ajwar smiled. “Daughter, how do you know that?”

  The seed began to glow.

  “That is a sign from the gods if I ever saw one,” he said.

  When they reached the pillar, Raif didn’t need to say a word. Carvings were spreading from its base to its top, depicting the history of the jinn, as though an invisible sculptor were cutting into the rock: their beginning, created from smokeless fire. The nomadic days, when the castes lived as tribes. The emergence of the Ghan Aisouri. The war between the castes and the enslavement of the Djan, Marid, and Ifrit. On and on the carvings climbed and though Nalia couldn’t see to the top of the pillar, she knew it would show the coup and the Godsnight.

  Nalia ran her hand over the carvings, so finely wrought. She turned to Raif. “I think . . . I think I know how to make the sun come out.”

  Nalia took Raif’s hand and, together, they evanesced to the top of the column, followed by Nalia’s father, Thatur, Taz, Aisha, and Touma: their court, which included one member of every caste. They landed, Thatur flying around the pillar, keeping watch. Some of the jinn who’d survived the plagues gathered below, dozens from every caste. The rest were still scattered in the temporary camp that had been set up, unaware of Nalia and Raif on the pillar.

  The top of the pillar was wide and smooth, perfectly flat. Raif took off the pouch he always wore around his neck and emptied the rich, dark earth of the Forest of Sighs onto the lapis lazuli surface. Nalia took the golden lote seed out of her pocket, and together they knelt, burying it in the earth and watering the soil with their tears. They were tears of joy and sorrow, shed for all that was lost, and all they hoped to gain.

  They stood and stepped back, waiting, gripping each other’s hands. Slowly, then faster, a bright green shoot appeared. It grew, reaching for the sky—from seed to sapling in mere moments. The trunk thickened and branches sprouted from it, a replica of the lote tree in the Eye, the tree of wisdom. Soon it was full-grown, its thick branches hanging over the top of the pillar, the roots surging toward the ground below. They pushed down, past the bottom of the pillar, then far below Arjinna’s surface. The tree’s magic spread, covering the realm with golden light. Grass and flowers, gurgling streams and healthy, fragrant trees burst from the earth like jubilant dancers. A sweet breeze blew away the stench of sulphur and death, and Ithkar—Ithkar—began to teem with life as well. Trees heavy with fruit covered the once-barren plains, and the lava morphed into surging rivers that brought life to everything it touched.

  And the Eye: as the gold of the lote tree met with the phoenix’s light, a desert appeared, with dunes that glimmered in the moonlight, stretching as far as Nalia could see. It was as if the Sahara had blown across the worlds and settled where the dust and ash and horror of the Eye had once been. Not a ghoul in sight. Nalia’s breath caught and she stared at the realm, her eyes shining.

  “Come,” she whispered, beckoning for Raif to join her. She placed her palms against the tree, just as she’d done in her vision in the Eye. Raif placed his palms beside hers. The silken wood breathed with life, warm, as though blood, not sap, coursed beneath its bark.

  A surge of emotion and power, chiaan, and intent filled her. Raif gasped and Nalia knew he was feeling it, too. It was as if they’d tapped into all the lives and energy of the realm, of every sentient being within it. Nalia wasn’t just aware of the whole—she could feel the individual strands of every jinni in Arjinna, could feel their desire for peace, an end to the war. Each of them a master, Nalia and Raif their slaves, but in a way that felt right.

  These were shackles she was willing to wear. She turned to Raif and he nodded his assent.

  Wisdom was a feeling, a gut instinct that grew inside her like the tree itself, its branches twisting around her bones, her heart. It flooded Nalia, filling her with certainty: she and Raif were meant to lead this realm together, hand in hand, a course set upon over twenty summers before by an Aisouri in the palace and two Djan revolutionaries on an overlord’s plantation. Nalia glanced at her court, her eyes settling on her father. She held out her hand, Solomon’s sigil gleaming in the light of the Widows. Ajwar crossed to her and rested his palm against her own. He looked from Nalia to Raif.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  They both nodded. Other than marrying Raif, Nalia had never been more certain of anything in her life. Her father closed his eyes and began to sing the spell he’d painstakingly created, each word filled with magic and intent. He had a beautiful voice, one that Calar hadn’t been able to silence no matter how hard she tried. Nalia’s finger began to tingle, then burn. Raif gripped her other hand, his forehead resting against her own.

  Just when the pain became unbearable, Solomon’s sigil fell from Nalia’s finger to the soft carpet of grass that had sprung up at the base of the tree. It glowed, blinding, just as it had when they’d first found it in the cave. The ring rose, then hovered in the air between them, the gold turning into four long, liquid strands. Nalia’s skin began to burn once more as the gold twisted around her wrists, then Raif’s, forming an infinity pattern, then splitting as the gold braceleted their wrists with thin shackles.

  The moons disappeared from the sky and the sun broke through the night, a single beam falling onto Nalia and Raif, a benediction from the gods.

  Somewhere, perhaps on some invisible plane of the gods, Nalia heard the faint song of her phoenix.

  Rise from the ashes, it sang. Set this realm on fire.

  Raif sucked in his breath. “Nal, look.”

  Thousands of jinn had gathered below the pillar Nalia and Raif stood upon while others remained in the air, hovering on their carpets. Slowly, as though a wave were moving through the crowd, the jinn knelt. They were of every caste. Some wore the uniform of the tavrai, others wore the armor of the Ifrit or the purple-and-white armbands of the Brass Army. Men, women, children—all gazed up at Nalia and Raif.

  “You honor us,” Nalia said, bowing, her voice somehow amplified as though she could speak into every jinni’s heart. “The land is healing,” she said to her people, “but it’s not whole. It’s only if we work together that we will achieve the peace we all desire. It is the greatest wish of this realm to be free of Calar and her shadows, to be free of our ancient hatred for one another. The revolution isn’t fought or won on a battlefiel
d. The revolution is inside all of us, a war we must fight in our own hearts. When I look out, I see jinn of every caste, helping one another after what we’ve endured together. It’s clear to me that we have won, even though there is so much work left to do.”

  The jinn let out a cheer and Nalia stepped back as Raif moved forward. “Tavrai, Ifrit, Marid, Djan, Shaitan”—he turned to Nalia. “Ghan Aisouri. We have spent too many years in darkness, too much time bowing to masters who enslave us to their evil desires. This ends now, today. My father fought for this moment, to see what I see before me—the castes standing side by side, equal, with real hope for the future. I married a Ghan Aisouri because I love her, because I see that it doesn’t matter what color your eyes are or who you are taught to hate. In love, we are united. We are your slaves and you—Arjinna—our master. Help us build. Help us grow. Help us heal. Together, we are light to one another, a race united by one wish, one goal: to be free, equal jinn. The future begins here. Now.” He placed a fist on his heart. “Kajastriya Arjinna.”

  Amid the cheering a cry pierced the air as Thatur swooped by and Taz, who jumped onto his back, cried out, “Kajastriya Sula! Kajastriya Sulahim!”

  Light to the Empress. Light to the Emperor.

  The jinn took up the cry, and sunlight burst across the realm, covering every inch of darkness—except for one patch of land. The palace lay shrouded in a starless night, waiting for Nalia and Raif to claim the throne that was rightfully theirs.

  The Godsnight was over. A new day had dawned.

  48

  NALIA STOOD ON THE SOFT BLACK SAND, FACING THE Arjinnan Sea. She’d dreamed of this in the Eye: golden light, rich like butter, melting over the turquoise sea, bathing her in its warmth. There were times during the Godsnight when Nalia had never expected to see dawn break over Arjinna again.

  Now she filled her lungs with good, clean salt air. The water temple of Lathor stood in the distance, rebuilt by the Marid. The temple-in-the-sea’s liquid walls shimmered in the early-morning light, the domes blue against the lavender sky. The wind—so gentle, nothing like the windstorm of the Godsnight—swirled around Nalia, filling her with its chiaan, a stronger energy than she’d ever experienced on Earth. She focused on the rough granules of sand beneath her bare feet, the feel of her chiaan rushing through her in anticipation of what would come next.

  “Begin,” Thatur said, his voice a low rumble.

  He stood to her right, holding a thick wooden stick in his claws. Nalia knew that wood would be making contact with her skin again and again before their morning training session was through. Thatur was a strict taskmaster: nothing but perfect form would please him. His presence, that stick—it was the past come to life once more, a promise that all was not lost. Her race lived on—here, now. Nalia could feel her dead Aisouri sisters around her, invisible witnesses, guardians who would not let her fail.

  This was the weapon that would destroy Calar: not a ring of power but Nalia’s stubborn refusal to submit. She’d gone through these poses as a slave on Earth, as a despairing jinni in the Sahara, and now on the land she’d reclaimed, its empress.

  Raif sat on a rock, knees pulled up, watching her, his eyes heavy with sleep. He’d spent the past few days with the defectors from Calar’s army, the force he and Taz led now vastly larger than whatever soldiers Calar had managed to keep with her in the palace. But—as Taz and Raif had seen time and again in that year when Nalia was gone—Calar’s shadows would more than make up for the lack of flesh-and-bone soldiers. Raif glanced more than once at Thatur’s stick, frowning. She knew he hated it, but both she and Thatur had been firm: this was the Ghan Aisouri way. Nalia let go of her awareness of Raif and Thatur and retreated inside herself as she raised her hands to the sky in Dawn Greeter—the first of the thousand poses of Sha’a Rho.

  Despite her year in the Eye, the movement slid through her muscles, familiar. As she moved through the poses, Nalia could feel the difference the phoenix, the heart plant, and the ring had brought to her chiaan. Her power had become expansive and at the same time more anchored than ever before. She felt the pull of the land, could feel Raif more acutely. There were parts of him that would always be inside her after their vows to one another, after everything they’d gone through.

  Moving through these ancient poses was not just for Nalia’s benefit, but for all of them. Nalia could feel the despair, envy, terror, hope, love, hunger—everything that burned in her people’s hearts. The collective energy of the jinn coursed through her veins, inserted itself into the very marrow of her being. She was Arjinna, its bright, flowing, moving center.

  “Focus, child,” Thatur said. “You are the trunk of an elder pine rising to the sky.”

  Nalia heard the wind catch Thatur’s stick before she felt it against her leg. Pain shot up her right side and Nalia let it flow through her as she concentrated on the movement.

  She adjusted her leg so that it was in the proper alignment, her lips turning up as she entered the next pose: Floating Leaf. She’d missed this beautiful tyrant of a bird.

  Nalia vaulted into the air, arms and legs outstretched, a pinwheel of motion and light. The golden shackles on her wrists caught the sunlight as the sun rose to the sky, blinding her. Nalia closed her eyes as her hands searched the currents of the wind. She stayed there, suspended above the sand, her body dipping with the gusts that swirled over the beach. When she landed, Thatur gave a grunt of approval.

  They went on like that for nearly two hours, bruises blooming over her skin as the stick made contact with her body again and again. Magic hummed through her, obliterating all thought. There was only breath, and Thatur’s watchful gaze, the crash of the sea upon the shore.

  Finally, it was over. Nalia lay on the sand, her arms outstretched in the thousandth pose: Faithful Warrior. She held her breath in honor of the dead, the dead she had now burned, the dead who lived inside her, who she carried in her heart.

  The dead she would avenge tomorrow.

  When Nalia opened her eyes and let out her breath, Thatur was standing over her. This face, with the blue feathers around its eyes, this face that she’d never expected to see again after the coup, glowed with pride.

  “Your best practice yet,” he said. He gave her a slight bow. “My Empress.”

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  He threw the stick into the ocean. “I know.”

  Nalia wanted to see the look on Calar’s face when she realized her enemy was using the very same secret passage as the one they’d walked through together four years ago, when Nalia had set Calar free. There was a certain poetic justice to that.

  The tunnel through the western Qaf range—which began in Ithkar and ended in the bowels of the palace—was narrow and dark. Thatur had insisted on going first, followed by a small handful of Brass soldiers, then Nalia, Raif, Touma, Taz, Ajwar, and two more Brass soldiers. They’d decided to keep their company small, so as not to alert Calar or her guards. Once Calar and her soldiers knew of their presence, Ajwar would break the palace’s bisahm, which would allow the whole of the resistance’s army to descend upon the Arjinnan seat of power.

  Nalia remembered the tunnel’s musty, earthy smell from that night leading Calar to safety. She remembered the way her heart had beat so hard, she was certain her mother could hear it all the way at the other end of the palace. She remembered the stench of the Ifrit girl—of Calar—blood, urine, days of not being able to bathe, the sweat of pain and fear lying over her like a second skin.

  Why did I do it, Thatur? she asked the gryphon. Why didn’t I just follow orders?

  Because you were meant to rule this realm, Thatur thought to her. And if the coup had not happened, then the lote tree would not have been planted here. The land needed you.

  I have so much blood on my hands, she said. Raif’s best friend. Jaqar.

  Child, everyone in this realm has blood on their hands.

  That answer wasn’t good enough for Nalia. She couldn’t help but feel unworthy of the c
rown she hoped to have on her head by the end of this night. It was infinitely easier to accept, though, knowing that burden would be shared by Raif. She took several deep breaths as she tried to center her chiaan. She was nervous. Scared. She knew her training would kick in when the time came, but Calar fought so differently from any of Nalia’s enemies—she was too similar to the Ash Crones. And her shadows: Nalia had only heard of them. The thought of actually encountering the creatures made her insides roil.

  Thatur slowed as they came to the end of the tunnel. “No matter what happens,” he said in a low voice, his gaze on Taz and Touma, “do not leave the empress’s or emperor’s sides.” They both nodded, solemn.

  There was the sound of rock scraping against rock as Thatur moved the passage’s hidden door aside. Dim light filtered into the tunnel. Nalia swallowed. This would be the first time she’d been inside the palace since the coup.

  “You okay?” Raif whispered, taking her hand.

  “I . . . don’t know.” She smiled at him in the close darkness. “It’s hard, coming back.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re back for good.”

  They came out into a familiar empty hallway lined with torches. To the right were the laundry and kitchens. Though no sound came from them, Nalia knew a servant could run into them at any moment. The palace smelled different—like campfire smoke, not the amber oil that had once burned continuously in its halls. Nalia wondered what else had changed.

  Thatur turned to Nalia, his eyes boring into hers.

  Salaa’Khim, My Empress.

  Salaa’Khim, my friend.

  Victory or death.

  Thatur led the way to the throne room. They’d decided to go there first. When they reached it, Nalia motioned for all but a few Brass soldiers to remain outside the tall double doors that led to the heart of the palace. She knew the palace guards would be there any minute, making their rounds. She wanted to keep that battle away from what was going to happen with Calar. She needed her core fighters completely alert, not worrying about two-bit guards. Her father bowed to her, wordless, his eyes conveying his fear and hope. Ajwar turned and made his way to the tower, from which he could break the bisahm when the time came. Nalia watched him go, then faced the doors before her. Raif took her hand and his chiaan rushed through her, calm strength that burned away fear.