Three loud knocks pounded against the door. “Open up!”
Cold, sharp pangs of fear pulsed through her veins. “Noooo,” she moaned. “The palace guards have come for me. It isn’t time yet. Bijam gave me three days!”
“Don’t go. Call your ifrit.”
“I don’t know how to call him. If it was so simple, he’d be here now, wouldn’t he? And if I resist, they’ll hurt you.” She rose and moved toward the door. “Go find Joaidane. Tell him to come to the palace. They’ll expect him to arrive anyway since Bijam wants to see him. Please, Kazim.”
The guard’s fist rattled the wooden door in its frame. Zarina pulled it open before Kazim could protest further and faced the two enormous armed men. An eerie sense of calm swept over her.
“I’m ready to return.”
Chapter
Although the dress was magnificent, Zarina had always thought her wedding day would be a time for celebration and warmth. A time when her father would lead her down the aisle to her future husband. There, he’d join her hands with her betrothed, and they would stand before the altar of the gods together.
The bitter reality placed her before a congregation of the sultanate’s favorite merchants and extended members of the royal family beside a stranger with devious, unfeeling eyes.
A figure-hugging ivory and gold silk top bared Zarina’s tummy, and the matching skirt flowed to her ankles where it covered her lace-trimmed slippers, the dress tailored to her shape as if Sonja had known her measurements.
Less than an hour ago, two of Bijam’s favorite harem girls had draped a red and gold sari around her shoulders—the colors of passion and riches—after brushing out her hair and pinning it beneath a lavish rectangle of pristine silk. Its lace-embroidered edge told a story, a plea to the goddess of fertility to bless her marriage with healthy children.
Little did they know, she’d already been blessed.
Hakkas, a merchant her father once knew as a good friend, handed her to the royal family, reducing her to a possession. She and Bijam walked hand in hand to the altar of the gods where two pillows awaited them. While they knelt on the crimson cushions, a pair of clerics read the rites in tandem. One entreated the gods to have mercy, while the other offered prayers to the goddesses for happiness.
Where was Kazim? Why hadn’t he and Joaidane arrived yet?
Playing the role of the obedient wife-to-be, Zarina’s head remained bowed aside from the occasional stolen glance to her right and over her shoulder toward the doors.
An hour of devout prayer passed before they were allowed to rise, but to her, it felt like minutes. Seconds. Without any way to stall the proceedings, she stepped forward to the table where their marriage contract awaited.
The vizier wrote his name in an elegant script. “Sign or your brother joins your father,” he whispered as he pressed the pen into her hand.
Hating him more by the second, Zarina wrote her name across the paper in gold ink. The signature glittered beneath muted rays of sunlight filtering through the stained-glass palace windows.
“Now you are mine,” Bijam gloated. “You and all you own, including that jinni.”
The sultan chuckled. “What are you whispering over there? Save the flirtation for the bedchamber and bring your new bride, Bijam. A girl who spins gold from straw. We’ll never want for anything.”
“No. I’ll never want for anything,” Bijam replied. He grabbed Zarina by her elbow and drew her close. “Call him now.”
“There’s no need. I am here.”
Bijam spun around, dragging Zarina with him. Joaidane stood a few feet away, his crooked form huddled beneath a tattered cloak.
“What’s this?” the sultan asked. His enormous paunch foiled the ruler’s struggle to sit up on the divan.
“My new wife has a jinni, Uncle, and now he is mine. Which means I have the power to do away with you and remake this sultanate as I see fit.”
The sultan gaped and spittle flew from his lips as he sputtered, “You would betray me in this way?”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re the laughingstock of the family, a burden we entertain out of obligation.”
“Guards! Guards!”
“Don’t bother, they all answer to me.” Bijam snapped his fingers, and nebulous black coils of magic sprung into place around the ruler’s bulky body.
“Release me at once! Bijam! Traitor!”
“Shut up, old fool. When was the last time you left that chair on your own? Walked on your own two feet? What will you do to stop me when you’ve long ago lost the respect of this kingdom? You are unfit to rule.”
“The people will never stand for—”
A snap of Bijam’s fingers produced a nauseating crack to the sultan’s neck. The awful magical spell held him suspended for mere seconds, and then he slumped forward, head tilted at a grotesque angle. Zarina gasped and jumped, but her husband’s tight grip held her anchored beside him.
“You killed him,” she whispered.
Low murmurs of shock and outrage filled the hall, but no one from the royal family spoke out. Who could blame them?
“As if anyone will mourn the fat, old fool. He was as weak of spirit and willpower as he was of body. Look at how easily he perished from a single spell. Who will miss him?”
No one would, she knew. No one in the city cared enough for the sultan to mourn his death, but they would all tremble in fear with Bijam in charge. He would be a thousand times worse, the sort of ruler who paraded his enemies through the streets to face prolonged and violent deaths.
Like the death he’d inflicted on her father.
“Now, jinni, you will grant me what I desire.”
“You must address me by my name,” Joaidane replied, still bowed over.
“What disrespect is this?” Bijam demanded. He bruised Zarina with his grip, nails digging into her skin.
Refusing to whimper, Zarina sucked in a tight breath. “Please. He’s an old jinni and set in his ways. I must speak his name and offer him a gift before he’ll grant your wish. You should know the ways of the jinn better than anyone.”
The vizier wrinkled his nose and sniffed in disdain. “Make him see sense, or I will hold you responsible, wife.” He shoved her toward Joaidane.
Zarina stumbled forward, but Joaidane reached out and steadied her.
“What is it you wish, Mistress Zarina?”
Despite his weathered and feeble body, she saw through the curse to the handsome soul beneath with the clarity she’d lacked before. She embraced him and set her cheek on his shoulder. Warmth flooded her. “You know what I wish,” she whispered. Leaning back, she placed her palm against his wrinkled cheek and gazed into his misty brown eyes. “I wish you to be free, Rumpelstiltskin.”
Upon the instant she spoke the word, Joaidane’s body erupted into flames, startling but not burning her. The twisting tongues of fire spiraled around him in plumes of violet, red, and gold. Bijam raised one arm to protect himself and materialized a magical shield with the other, its essence shimmering in oil-slick shades.
Zarina remained in her ifrit’s arms, aware of the miracle that had occurred. Flames that should have seared her flesh to the bone instead felt like a warm, gentle caress against her unguarded skin. They tickled her, dancing across her clothes and creating vibrant sparks of color and subdued heat.
The fire died down as Joaidane straightened to his full height. Perfect and strong, he stared down the vizier who was his inferior in every way.
* * *
Centuries had passed since Joaidane had enjoyed the caress of sunlight against his true body. Magic coursed through his veins and spread to each limb, invigorating him with renewed strength. Yasmina may have allowed him a respite each moon cycle, but she’d held back, giving him less than an ounce of the power he’d once possessed.
It returned to him all at once, the flood taking him by surprise. The three nights he’d been given with each full moon had been nothing.
“What trickery is this
?” Bijam said.
“No trickery,” Zarina replied. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at the man she had been forced to marry. “You wished to meet my jinni? Here he is.”
Avarice filled Bijam’s gaze. “Then I command you to make this palace the grandest in all the kingdoms. My queen and I deserve more than this squalor.”
“No.”
“No?” Bijam straightened. He stared at them both through cool and unfeeling eyes. A dead stare lacking life, vitality, or anything like love. “You will obey me. Tell him, Zarina. Make him obey, or you will be the one to suffer the consequences. You and your brother.”
Joaidane lowered his arm from Zarina’s waist. “I think not.”
And with the first taste of freedom he’d had in centuries, Joaidane stepped forward and punched Bijam in the mouth.
Damn. Complete autonomy over his actions felt good. Bijam stumbled back, taken by surprise. Blood trickled down his chin from his split lip, and his eyes glowed with livid fire.
The soldiers surrounding him jumped to attention. While they brandished sabers sharpened to a razor edge, Joaidane traced his fingers through the air and drew a circle.
A fine layer of dust and grit lifted from the floor, creating a sandstorm that swirled with howling force, expanded, and slammed into the guards. They flew back and crashed into the wall. Two didn’t move, but the other three struggled to their feet.
“Don’t just stand there!” Bijam shouted to them.
Joaidane tucked Zarina behind him. “Why shouldn’t they? Unable to do your own dirty work?”
The spiral column of sand glowed hot with energy, then spread out, creating a wall of molten slag. It hardened into a translucent glass bubble and trapped the three of them inside. No matter how hard the guards pounded against the barrier, it held firm against the onslaught.
“Are you afraid to fight someone who has a chance of defeating you?” Joaidane asked softly. “Picking on those weaker than you doesn’t make you a man. It doesn’t even make you powerful.”
Yasmina’s lesson made sense now. For all the time he’d spent as the beggar, he knew how it felt to be weak. Defenseless.
An entire palace of servants and dozens of harem girls had suffered under Bijam and Sultan Kaspar’s dominion.
No more.
“I’ll give you one chance to leave this palace. Leave Samahara and never return. Swear upon your magic to live forever in exile, and I’ll allow you to live.”
“Leave my kingdom?” The vizier chuckled. “Hand over my wife, and I’ll be willing to forget this happened, jinni.”
“She isn’t yours to take.”
Bijam raised a rolled parchment in his fist. “This says she is! Did you think she was yours to keep? We’ve been bound before the gods and goddesses—”
The marriage scroll caught fire in Bijam’s hands and burnt to ash in seconds.
“You! Traitorous whore! This is your doing!” Bijam’s murderous gaze turned on Zarina. He flung out a hand, hurling dark tendrils at her. Joaidane slashed them from the air with a single swipe from his hand.
“You can’t harm me with spells, and you can’t keep her. I know the rules that bind your kind.” An oil lamp from the altar flew into Bijam’s hands. He chanted over the brass and traced circles on the metal lid. Each one glowed white-hot and shimmered with magical energy. It called to Joaidane, the voice of a siren luring him toward his nemesis.
“Joaidane, what is he doing?”
“Don’t worry, just stay behind me.”
Magical energy twisted and tangled in the air. It sparked against the glass barrier, building like a storm cloud above them.
“Disobedient jinni, I summon you to this lamp. You will serve me.”
Zarina cried out in warning and alarm. The dark clouds shot down from the ceiling and engulfed Joaidane, swallowing him whole. He endured the storm, took charge of it, and wrangled the chaotic energies into a tight ball between his palms. Then he snuffed them out with a single clap.
Bijam paled. “I… Why isn’t it working? You’ve broken the rules. You should be mine and bound to this lamp!”
Joaidane took a step forward. “It hasn’t worked because you prepared that spell for a jinni. I am Joaidane of Ankirith, son of Enchantress Safiyya and Ifrit Prince Samiran.”
Stumbling back from them, Bijam stared. “That can’t be. You’re dead. The stories claim you died long ago.”
“The stories were wrong.”
Bijam’s mouth twisted into a furious grimace. He reached behind him, then hurled an explosive bolt of dark energy, but the expected assault crackled against Joaidane’s shield and fizzled into harmless shards.
The fierce onslaught continued. Despite the imminent danger before them, Zarina never left his back. She clung to his shoulders, a warm and encouraging presence as he guarded them both. But she meant too much to risk.
Spinning in a graceful circle, Joaidane cast Zarina back and away from him, then captured her within a second, smaller barrier, much like the one barring Bijam’s guards from interference. She beat her fists against the translucent wall in protest. Continuing his spin, he transformed the stray grains of sand whipping around them into glass and launched them at his opponent.
Blood dripped from a cut across Bijam’s cheek when a shard slipped past his barrier. The vizier wiped it away and narrowed his eyes. Whether he slung fire, ice, or entropic spells meant to suck the life force from his enemy, Joaidane countered with ease.
“I will destroy you. Both of you!” Bijam sneered.
“No, you won’t. Your time of torturing innocents is done, Bijam. No one will have to live in fear of you ever again. You will never beat another servant. Never cheat another vulnerable citizen.”
“And how do you propose to stop me? You are nothing but a spoiled man. A half-breed of no significance, turned away by his own kind. His own mother.”
“That isn’t me anymore. But better to be a spoiled man than a traitor and kin-killer.” Fire streamed from Joaidane’s outstretched hand, the spell creating molten puddles against the floor.
Bijam staggered away from the heat, but the streams of fire seared through his shield and caught his clothing aflame. The panicking vizier cried out in alarm and beat the flames with both hands. He scooped them from his clothing like a sculptor molding clay and thrust the malleable spell toward Zarina.
The attack slammed against the shield, splintering the arcane glass.
No. Not her. He will never harm her.
Taking all of his fury and all the resentment and bitterness he’d bottled over the centuries, Joaidane stomped his foot against the floor. A cataclysmic wave of power erupted from beneath him and cracked the tile, splitting a zigzagging fissure between him and Bijam.
In the heat of the moment, with fire and sorcery raging around them, time slowed to a treacherous crawl in which Joaidane became aware of everything happening around him. Palace guards fought against his spells with hammers, clubs, and swords while members of the royal family fled the room, and Zarina—sweet and fearless Zarina—prayed fervently to the goddess of mercy. For him.
The crevice widened. Bijam’s short-lived, gloating grin appeared behind the billowing waves of smoke. “No!” he cried. As his face transformed into a mask of horror, the vizier dove for the ledge and scrambled as the floor beneath him crumbled. He hung over the precipice, and then he tumbled into the chasm, his final scream a fading echo in the palace chamber.
Beyond the glass bubble, the remaining guards fled. Joaidane dropped both shields, the glass fading away into nothingness.
“Joaidane!” Zarina called. He turned as she sprinted to meet him. He caught her around the waist and spun her around. Oblivious to the chaos around them, they held each other and basked in the warmth of mutual affection, love, and their triumph over the unscrupulous vizier.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her ear.
“You’re thanking me? You… Joaidane, you just saved me.”
&nbs
p; “But not before you saved me first, desert rose.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “From this day forward and for the rest of my life, my heart will always be yours.”
…Happily Ever After
Following the death of Sultan Kaspar at his nephew’s hands, the citizens of Naruk rose against the remaining members of the royal family and exiled them under threat of death if they ever returned.
For the first time in his long life, Joaidane found himself lauded as a hero. He and Zarina had liberated her city—perhaps all Samahara from the tyrannical rulers—and in doing so, had returned countless daughters to dozens of families.
Joaidane sank the lavish palace beneath the sand, but not before redistributing all its wealth to the poor. With Zarina’s blessing, they gifted a skein of golden thread to every family.
And then they turned their attention to her father’s business.
Alongside Zarina, Joaidane worked harder than he’d thought possible, and with magic, he improved their home residence, storefront, and all other aspects of their lives. He shared magic freely with the community and the other impoverished merchants, restoring crumbling bricks, torn banners, and workshops in disrepair.
Wherever he helped, he provided tools for the citizens to prosper even more by their own hands.
And every evening, he retired home alongside his new wife. She rewarded him for grueling days of work with limitless kisses and satisfying nights beside her. He couldn’t get enough of married life and thanked the gods for each precious moment.
Exhausted from a long day of benevolent spell usage, Joaidane collapsed on the divan in their receiving room. Zarina wasted no time in crawling onto his lap.
“I love you,” he murmured against her dark hair. “But your neighbors are needy people.” There seemed to be no shortage of tasks to do around their residential area, and he’d used magic to repair dozens of roofs across lower Naruk.
“You don’t have to do so much for them.”
“I know.”
Zarina and the Djinn Page 18
