Heart of Flame

by Janine Ashbless

  He’d been riding for a good many hours when he caught his first glimpse of his goal and brought the Horse to a standstill with a shout. When he jumped down, his boots sank into the snow halfway up his shins. He waded upslope to where an outcrop of icy rock offered dryer footing and a better view, and then just stared.

  “In the name of God,” he whispered.

  There was not the slightest doubt that this was the place he’d been searching for because the drag in his belly was pulling him straight toward it—and because he’d never seen anything like it in his life. He was standing on a boulder that jutted out from the lip of yet another steep valley like so many he’d passed. The bottom of the ravine was the bed of a milky-blue stream, which ran downhill among banks brushed with the faintest fuzz of green toward what looked like the opening to a larger and more verdant valley. Upstream, the valley kinked a little, back and forth, but not enough to hide the construction that had been built there, straddling the cleft and towering high over the two walls. It had the glitter of ice but it was pink, the color of the roses of Dimashq. It was the shape of…well, of something Rafiq had no real words for. A sea anemone perhaps, or a flower of some kind. It had translucent-looking petals certainly, that burst from a tighter clustering centre and crisscrossed and intertwined. It was hard to judge the object’s scale, but at the very least it must be hundreds of feet deep and hundreds of feet from side to side, and it bridged the valley like a spider’s web strung across a gap between two bricks.

  Rafiq’s heart sank. Anything that had created this immense glass structure must be powerful beyond the dreams of any human caliph or emperor. For the first time the true hubris of his quest came home to him—but then his jaw tightened. This was what he had come here for. This was his goal, the palace of the djinni. This was his Fate.

  His stomach rumbled.

  Biting his lip, Rafiq rummaged through his pockets, not entirely able to tear his eyes from the roseate vision before him but distracted by human weakness. He was used to going hungry for days at a time while travelling, but it wasn’t precisely enjoyable. He hoped to find a forgotten date or crust in some corner of his numerous pockets, but what his hand actually closed over felt harder than either of those. He brought it out before he remembered what it was—the piece of bone from which he’d carved a face in the Abu Bahr. He looked down at it as it lay in his palm. Grease and dirt had worked into the lines, making the features stand out quite clearly. It was Taqla, of course, and he’d been absent-minded enough to almost let her see it at the time. He’d done a good job of the eyes, he thought. Those fierce, troubled eyes always too serious for a young woman. He’d been less certain about the line of the mouth, out of unfamiliarity, but he’d captured the stubbornness well enough even if he hadn’t done justice to the curve of her lips.

  Oh, how he’d wanted to unveil that mouth, and to kiss those lips.

  Rafiq felt a small stab of pain like a fine knifepoint, one that threatened to cut much deeper and wider. Of course, he’d carved this the day she’d told him about her father being killed by a djinni. That bastard of a father who’d tutored her so well in the cold-hearted ways of sorcerers.

  Something shifted inside him. Like ice melting. Or like coals crumbling to ash.

  The father, he thought, feeling dizzy and a bit sick, who had in one day taught his small daughter two such important lessons—that though women might betray men, men could destroy women. And that whatever she did in her life, she must never let a man have power over her.

  “Taqla,” he whispered, closing his fingers over the carved face.

  Suddenly his mind was made up, without need for debate with himself. He turned on his heel—and there standing in the snow behind him was Ahleme, the Flower of Dimashq.

  “Whoa!” he yelped.

  She was exquisite. Slender but molded to enticing curves, rather shorter than Taqla, with hair that fell in a waterfall of enchanting curls. He’d actually forgotten how beautiful she was, but right here, he was left in no doubt because she was barely clothed, so he had a clear view of that narrow waist and those breasts that defied her otherwise virginal slightness by being full and firm and pouting. Against the dead white of the snow her flawless golden-brown skin—and he could see a great deal of that—seemed to glow with an inner warmth. She wore only a transparent scarf of yellow silk swathed about her hips, and a top of the same material that cupped her breasts but was so sheer that he could see not only the shape but the dark tint of her erect nipples. The roll of her hips, the curve of her thighs—they were designed to drive a man mad, he thought. Her lips were lush and ripe for kissing, and when she smiled her face lit up. “You’ve come to rescue me.”

  “Ahleme?” Even as he said it he knew it wasn’t her—that it couldn’t be. The magical lodestone in his entrails was not pulling toward her, whatever other attraction his body might be feeling. And he doubted very much that the daughter of the Amir of Dimashq had any means of arriving in the middle of a snowfield so swiftly that she made neither warning—nor footprints. “Aren’t you…cold?” he said, letting his gaze fall pointedly to her bare feet, which did not even dimple the snowcrust.

  “You do remember me?”

  “I remember Ahleme,” he said softly. “You’re not actually her.”

  She flushed, oddly blue. “No. Of course not. I cannot leave the Palace of Glass. The djinni has me trapped there! Only—my dreams seek out those whom I remember…with affection.”

  “I see. I’m flattered.”

  She stepped onto the rock and looked up into his face, her eyes huge and trusting. “You have come to rescue me, haven’t you?”

  “I…”

  “You mustn’t lose heart now! I’m held at the mercy of that evil djinni. You must save me! I cannot bear this slavery!” She put her hand up and caressed his cheek, her fingers quite warm and real, her touch tremulous on his jaw. “Yazid means to force me to bear his child.”

  “Ahleme,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t understand.” Her breath was like perfume of roses, the scent of her skin intoxicating. “He wants from me a son with Djinn powers but the authority of a Child of Solomon. He means to free all the Djinn from their bonds so that they’re no longer subject to the rule of Mankind. You must not let me bear that child. Take me away swiftly or slay me, but I must not bear such a son.”

  “What?” This was entirely new to Rafiq and he was furthermore struggling to think past the caress of her fingers on his skin and the heave of her breasts beneath the straining silk.

  “A child with the magic of the Djinn and the heart of a Man! Do you think anything will stop such a one laying waste to all the Earth? Do you think that anything living will escape enslavement or death?”

  Rafiq grabbed her wrist and pushed it from him. “Ahleme, I can’t.”

  “You can.” She pressed up against him bodily, then turned and rubbed like a cat, the curves of her barely veiled behind writhing into his crotch while she looked up and back at him, her eyes pleading, her arm lifting to caress his cheek and to tilt her perfect, quivering breasts. “Yazid is away from home now. You must come and steal me swiftly away. Your reward will be beyond price, my rescuer.”

  It would have been impossible to have been unmoved by that lithe body, the roll of those slinky hips and the press of her firm skin. Rafiq couldn’t help his arousal, but he clenched his teeth and took her by the shoulders and pushed her away. “Ahleme, no,” he said, rather more roughly than a man should ever address the daughter of his amir. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I am not the man who will rescue you.”

  “Why not?” she demanded, tears brimming in her doe eyes.

  He swallowed. “Because I love another.”

  “Another?” She looked incredulous.

  “And I will not lose her or leave her. Because I’m going back to her now, God willing. I’ve made a mistake. My Fate lies with her, not here.”

  Her mouth twisted. “You presume to decide what Fate i
s written for you?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  The dream-Ahleme took a deep breath, going pale—not pale like bloodless flesh but pale like snow, then whiter yet, colorless like the very burning heart of a furnace, so bright that Rafiq could hardly look at her and he flinched away, wanting to retreat but having nowhere to go. He could feel the blast of her body heat scorching his eyeballs.

  “You’re in for a sore disappointment then, Son of Earth,” she hissed, and as she spoke, she started to grow. Two, three then four times as tall as a man she grew, still beautiful, still naked, but no longer Ahleme either in color or features. Across her white-hot skin black script danced, indecipherable, and around her head and shoulders flame raged, wilder than any hair. “If Yazid will not abandon her and you will not rescue her, then I will have to kill the little whore myself,” she spat. Then she raised one foot and slapped it down on the boulder, and with a crack like a whip turned into a silken scarf that fluttered away into the sky.

  Rafiq didn’t have any time to watch where she went. He could feel the rock sliding away beneath his feet. He flung himself forward upon the snow but suddenly his boots were scrabbling in empty air. He flailed his arms but the snow slipped and fragmented under his blows, and without warning, he was falling backward down the steep hillside, blinded by white, snow beneath him and above him and in his mouth, choking even his final cry.

  When he hit the bottom the white turned to black.

  She saw him fall. Circling high overhead, the swallow had watched as he pushed the girl away and the girl became a giant, and then the giant vanished. Now she saw the collapse of the ice and she dropped through the air, blue wings glinting. She didn’t have much strength left. She’d flown night and day, always eastward, pursuing a Horse that travelled faster than even she could fly, snatching insects on the wing and ignoring the danger of nocturnal predators as she flew blind under the stars. Her consciousness had narrowed down to a tiny point, such that even the sight of the woman embracing Rafiq hadn’t made any impression. But when he fell, the last part of the swallow’s mind that was still able to think as Taqla took her down into the narrow valley, scudding though the cloud of hanging ice crystals and flopping onto the lumpy snow.

  She changed, bursting from swallow form into a writhing ball of yellow fur, growing with every kick and snarl and roll until she was lion shaped and lion sized, her amber eyes frantic. She shook herself off as she found her unsteady feet and then bounded across the fallen snow, head low, nostrils flaring. She sought the scent of man among the nothingness of ice, the faintest hint of warmth, and when after long long minutes she was almost witless with despair, she found the coppery tang of blood and began to dig. Broad paws scooped and shovelled. He was a foot beneath the surface, a lumpen, huddled shape blanketed in white. She grabbed the folds of his clothes in her great jaws and hauled him out bodily, dragging him beneath her and between her paws until she’d laid him out on the surface. His head sagged limply. The blood was from a gash on his cheek, but it was already freezing.

  That was when her lion shape failed and Taqla collapsed on top of Rafiq’s chest. She moaned with pain then bit her lip to stifle the noise. Running her hands over his chest, she tried to discern if it was still rising and falling. Snow stuck to the weave of his clothes.

  “Rafiq!”

  He didn’t respond. His eyes were shut, his black hair caked with powdered crystals. Taqla pressed her cheek to his chest, trying to still her own gasps so that she could listen for his heartbeat. Her cheek went wet. She could be sure of nothing.

  “Rafiq, please—God is merciful—please hear me! Wake up!”

  “Taqla?” His voice was little more than a gasp, but it was a voice.

  She flung herself on him then, kissing his cold lips as if she could breathe life into them, wiping the ice and the blood desperately from his face. “You’re alive! You’re alive!” The pain in her every fibre was forgotten as his lids opened and his dark eyes looked up at her. “Oh, God is great!”

  He lifted stiff fingers to touch her cheek, like the hand of winter itself. “You’re not the real Taqla either,” he said with a weak smile. “She’s got a temper like a scorpion and she treats me like dirt.”

  That was when Taqla realized that she was straddling him, and she sat back hurriedly into the snow, breaking from his grasp. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  Rafiq started to ease himself into a sitting position, wincing as he discovered his bruises, his gaze fixing on her as he drew deeper and surer breaths into his cold chest.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “Nothing too bad.” He brushed ineffectually at the caked snow on his torso and tried another smile. “You came back to me.”

  “I came to help you.” She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. “I thought you might need magical help, that’s all. Nothing’s changed. We’re not… I just don’t want you to die.”

  “Nor me. That was too close.” Rafiq managed to roll onto his knees.

  “So why weren’t you wearing this, you fool?” she demanded, brandishing her wrist and the scarab necklace looped around it.

  “A fool, am I?” He said it wryly, without rancour, and she blushed even more.

  “It could have saved your life!”

  He shook his head. “What is it?”

  “Don’t you know? You gave it to me! Where did you get it from?”

  “It was a gift from the Pale People.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she gasped. “You could have used it to show me where you lay in the snow! What if I hadn’t been able to find you? You could have been buried there forever!” Her voice cracked.

  He grinned, crookedly. “So you still love me then?”

  “I…” She shut her eyes, trying to block the gaze that seemed to be eating into her soul. “That’s not important. We’re not going to be together, we’re no good for each other. I’m just—” And then her eyes flashed open again because Rafiq had taken hold of her and pulled her to him. With a squeak of protest, she flung up her hand. She was going to push his face away, but he caught her wrist.

  “Don’t hit me again,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I might get to like it.” He was holding her to his chest, his arm snaking round behind her to keep her trapped. Her heart started to hammer painfully.

  “Let me go,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “No.” He was still smiling, but his eyes were now serious. “Never. I’m taking you home to Dimashq, Taqla. I’m not going to marry Ahleme or become the grand vizier, I’m going to marry you. You and no one else. And I will love you and you alone until I die, and on the Day of Judgment I will walk through the gate of Paradise at your side. That is my Fate.”

  Her eyes burned with tears, but she laughed. “Don’t be a fool. And don’t take me for one.”

  “Taqla,” he said with a shake of his head, “listen to me. I will bow to your wisdom and your whim all my days, but I’ll not surrender to your fear. You can’t make me run. However you hurt me—and, you know, you do that quite a lot; I’m getting used to it—I will still love you.” His lips brushed hers, his face so close that it filled her whole world, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I will still love you.”

  His kiss closed on her. His lips were cold and chapped and bloody—and they broke her. She opened to him, clinging to him, tears streaming down her face, and he kissed her hard and fierce then sweet and gentle, then wild and hungry and then deep and aching with promise—all the kisses of a lifetime. And in the middle of all those kisses she understood that there were some things that no one, not even a sorceress, could control. Some things that simply had to be trusted. In the shape of a bird she had flown a thousand miles for the sake of this man, and she had done it not by commanding the wind beneath her pinions but by trusting it to bear her up. She wrapped her fingers in his loose, wet hair and kissed him back until they were both burning and dizzy and had to break to draw breath.

  “Will you love me then
, my sorceress?” Rafiq asked. “Forever?”

  She stroked his face, trembling so much she couldn’t speak but managing to nod. He laughed and kissed her once again, this time with a joy that bubbled up so uncontrollably that he pulled her over on top of him and they fell into the snow. He rolled her and pinned her and she gasped with laughter.

  A thin, high wail cut into their ears. They both froze, and Rafiq lifted his head. Taqla saw the color drain from his face.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I think it’s the djinni killing Ahleme,” said he.

  There was another noise, a roar, like a lion upon a desert horizon. Snow sifted down from the steep walls of the ravine at its note. Then a howl harsher than a falcon’s made Taqla’s blood curdle. The two, roar and howl, rose together in a cacophony on the pellucid air.

  “And that?” she gasped.

  “That’ll be the other djinni.”

  “There are two?” She struggled from beneath him into a sitting position.

  “Apparently so.” Rafiq knelt up. “One wanting to sire his children on her, one wanting to stop it.” He looked at her somberly. “It’s not our problem, Taqla. We’re going home and staying alive.”

  The first thin scream echoed out again.

  “We can’t just abandon her,” Taqla whispered. “Not now.”

  Rafiq brushed her cheek with his fingers.

  “They’ll tear her in half.” Taqla scrambled to her feet. “Come on. We have to try to save her at least.”

  He sucked his cheeks but nodded and joined her standing. “How do we get there?”

  “Like this,” she said, gritting her teeth and stepping away to give herself room. Then she changed shape. Not smaller than her own form this time, but much bigger. It didn’t hurt so much as shrinking herself, but it hurt enough to make her cry out. The sound was musical as it left her throat. She shook out her copper-colored feathers and clawed at the snow, a perfect facsimile of the Senmurw bird.

  “In the name of God!”

  “Get up on my back,” she fluted, “and hold tight.”