“You are my master because you are now the owner of my jar; it’s somewhat of a long story that I think is best told in more comfortable surroundings.” It was not lost on Ridha that they were in some danger of being discovered, particularly as the boy’s jumpiness had disturbed what had no doubt been carefully placed items. “What’s your name?”
“Tariq,” was the brief reply, no patronym offered.
“Morning star,” Ridha said thoughtfully. “Such a beautiful name.”
“My mother chose it, and my father loved her so he let it stand, though it’s too grand for one such as I.”
A scraping at the door startled them both, and Ridha read the spellwork on it in a glance. “You opened the jar, and now I’m obligated to grant you five of your deepest…desires. May I suggest the first one be to remove us from this place? Unless you have another plan?”
“You can do that?”
Ridha crossed his arms over his chest. “I can only work magic at my master’s command. I will explain more fully later and humbly suggest that here, in the palace of the sultan—who is sultan now?” he interrupted himself.
“Zeyn ibn Safwah al-Matgarhi. And if that’s how it works, then I formally wish that you take us out of this place.”
Ridha smiled again with less sincerity. Delectable though Tariq might be, he didn’t seem the brightest of young men. “Hmm, normally it would please me to let you be vague, but since I too would like to leave—and stay out of—this treasure room, would you be slightly more specific as to where you would like to go, young master?”
Ah, the youth was not so dull as to be oblivious to sarcasm. He frowned and said, “The city of Merzouga. I have a room—”
“Good enough,” Ridha said. The great doors began to fall inward. He fluttered his hands together, as if imitating a winged creature. Jinn didn’t need such gestures to perform magic, but humans expected it, because their magic so often required a motion of hands. He also didn’t need to know precisely where they were going, so long as the young master held a specific place in mind.
In the space of a wink, it was done. He caught up with the young man as he collapsed in a fit of coughing and choking, and stared in surprise when he darted suddenly behind a triple-screened partition and violently emptied his stomach. Ridha had never known anyone to be affected by transportation spells that way. Ignoring the incident, he sat on the rather hard pallet that was the room’s most prominent furniture.
“Now that we’re safe…we are safe?”
Tariq did not answer right away, but the sound of water and spitting told Ridha what the boy must be doing. He emerged from behind the screen, pale and avoiding eye contact.
“Safe enough,” he muttered.
“How is it you came to grasp my jar,” Ridha asked, “without knowing what it was? How did you get into the treasure room, yet have no way out? These mysteries trouble me, master.”
“I was sent to collect it,” Tariq said. “By my master. With an ensorcelled ring. The ring was too large for my finger, and when I arrived all…” He gestured towards the screen. “The ring must have slipped off. I had only the length of time in this sandglass.” He partially withdrew a small glass from the saffron-yellow wool sash that cinched an unbleached linen shirt and hid it again in the folds. “It was only as the last grains of sand fell that I realized I didn’t have the ring, then it left. Without me.” He hesitated before adding, “Might I know your name?” The young man looked up then, and Ridha was struck once again by those large dark eyes.
Ridha rose to his feet and placed an arm around Tariq’s shoulders, leading him to the bed. He pushed him gently down on it and sat beside him. “I am called Ridha, and as you’ve likely guessed, I’m a jinni, bound to that jar. I can work no magic save at my master’s command, and even so, I can grant him but five desires, five wishes before I am…impotent once more. Only then can I be passed to another. Who is your master, to have in his possession a magical ring?”
“My master is a great saahir, and I am his only apprentice.”
His voice was as pretty as his face, deep and dulcet. It teased Ridha’s ears and turned his thoughts carnal. Ridha shook his head to clear it. “No saahir can command my magic,” he said. “It is part of the spell that binds me.”
“Oh. If I had given him the jar unopened, he would not be able to open it?”
“He might well be able to pull the stopper, but he could not command me,” Ridha repeated. “I suppose this is not well-known anymore, since I have been stored away so many, many decades.”
“I’ve not heard tell of a jinni bound to a jar,” Tariq admitted. “But—” He broke off with a frown.
Ridha gave the alluring youth a questioning look. “Are you not rather old an apprentice to have need of a magical ring for a simple transportation spell?”
“They are not simple; I have seen the making of them. Each sorcerer has his own talent for manipulating sihr. I have only just completed my first year,” Tariq said, a hint of resentment in his voice. “My talent is not yet clear.”
Ridha studied him yet again with more than just his eyes. There was something special about him, something he couldn’t quite puzzle out. But although he carried the stink of magic, residue from the ring and from Ridha’s own transportation spell, the lovely young man seemed to have very little affinity for it. He could never be more than a basic healer, which made him an odd choice for a sorcerer’s apprentice. Unless there was another reason, one not well accepted in the human world.
Ridha narrowed his eyes. “Your master wouldn’t happen to be Malik, the king of your desire?”
Chapter Four
MALIK CALLED THE ring home to him in the middle of the erg. The shifting sea of dunes was a good place to be alone should anything go wrong. Not that he expected anything to go wrong; Tariq was besotted and eager to please, a useful combination in an apprentice who was a son of the Morning Star.
Of course, it took little enough to fall under that description. One had merely to be born in a certain hour and season of a certain year, a circumstance that happened every dozen years or so. His research had culminated at an awkward time—the children of the Morning Star were either too young to be of any use or Tariq’s age, already established as apprentices. Finding Tariq had been so much more than luck; it was a sign that his plans were favoured by the One God.
It had always been Malik’s plan to use the prophecy of Tanit—the goddess of the Free People before the Easterners had come, bringing their One God. It said that a great change would occur when the Morning Star came to the Evening Sun. That most people assumed it had already come to pass was of little relevance. His Morning Star was passing fair to look upon and was neither too dull-witted nor too clever to discern Malik’s intent. Tariq had the auspicious birth, an auspicious name, and a desire to please Malik in all things, which made him perfect. He also had no talent for magic, not normally a quality a sorcerer desired in an apprentice. Unless the saahir intended to use the powers of the Jinn. One captive jinni bound to serve the desires of others.
Tariq’s unnatural desire for him had been unexpected. It made manipulating him so much easier.
When the ring returned to him with neither Tariq nor the perfume jar binding the jinni, Malik could only stare, in a long moment of shock, as the ring fell into the sand. He let his mask of geniality slip away and vented his fury to the sky, an inarticulate cry of rage, and impotent sparks flashing from his eyes, witnessed only by the cold stars and a deaf moon.
TARIQ OWNED ONLY one set of holiday garments. His father was a dyer, however, and within the limits of his wardrobe he had colours more often seen among wealthier citizens. Still Ridha tsked through the limited selection.
Ridha had added a djellaba to his own barely appropriate outfit, elaborately embroidered and unfastened, closed at the front only by his sash. Eying the swirls and patterns of the garment, Tariq asked in a sullen voice, “If you are so displeased with my clothes, why not conjure me some as you do for
yourself?”
“Do you wish me to? Rather a frivolous wish, and one sure to displease your master,” Ridha said blandly. “Won’t he already be unhappy that you’ve opened the jar before he could give you permission? Already down to four wishes?”
Tariq knew he was right. “Why would what I wear have any bearing on how well—”
“Put these on.” Ridha tossed him his holiday clothes, baggy silk salwar in a deep cerulean blue, an embroidered tunic of saffron with matching slippers, and a red silk sash.
He opened his mouth to protest, but Ridha crossed his arms over his broad chest. Tariq tightened his mouth and took the clothes behind the privacy screen that was the only partition in the room. Behind it was a stand, a wash basin, and a pot for pissing in. The dyers and tanners and laundries all paid well for piss. He stripped and quickly washed up before donning the festive clothing.
Ridha sighed when Tariq emerged, and immediately began to undo the buttons that closed the deep opening down the center front. Tariq scarce dared to breathe as the jinni’s warm fingers brushed his skin.
“Better,” Ridha said. “Hmm.”
Then he grasped Tariq by the shoulders and kissed him, nipping at his lips and ruffling his hair. All thoughts of Malik vanished, but when Tariq would have responded, Ridha stepped back.
“Yes,” he said approvingly, as if they’d not just had lips pressed together. His voice lowered into a sensuous drawl. “If you came to me like that, I would forgive you anything. Take this.” He thrust the jar into Tariq’s hand. “And I will be by your side, my master.”
And with those words the jinni vanished. “Ridha?”
Here, my sweet master, said a small voice in his ear. Tariq shivered.
Ridha seemed so certain that Malik would readily forgive him under the circumstances. It was with some confidence that Tariq sought out the saahir.
He found Malik in the small study off the courtyard. His master was pacing back and forth, a deep frown marring his face. He wore a long, sashed djellaba with embroidery nearly to his elbows. His headscarf had been unwrapped and lay draped over his shoulders. His black hair was a mass of curls that had captivated Tariq from the moment he’d seen them. It seemed at odds with his tea-brown eyes and all the long narrow features of him, from his slender height, emphasized by his clothing, to the thin mouth and razor-sharp nose.
He felt a sudden guilt for lusting after Ridha because his heart belonged to Malik. “Master,” he said softly.
Malik spun on his heel, eyes widening. Immediately, he cast a shimmer of magic from those exquisite fingers, and Tariq flinched, though it did nothing but touch his skin like a thousand tiny kisses. Impressive, said that tiny voice in his ear, and Tariq shivered once more.
Tariq opened his mouth to speak. In two swift strides, Malik was standing before him. He should be so glad to see you, and you look so delicious, he should kiss you, Ridha’s voice said, like silk.
Malik’s hand flashed, striking Tariq so hard he stumbled and fell to his knees. Stunned, he could only stare up at his master in mute horror, the hot trickle of blood almost lost in the sting of the backhand.
“What have you done?” Malik glared down at him.
Uncouth monster, Ridha said. Wish for me to hurt him.
Tariq ignored Ridha and fumbled with his sash, pulling out the perfume jar. “M-master. Forgive me.” He held it out, arms extended, head bowed. “This foolish apprentice lost the ring but retrieved the jar.”
Malik grabbed the jar and peered at it. “You opened it!”
“I had no choice, master. If I did not, then the jar would have remained in the treasure room, and I would have lost my hands if not my very life.”
“Your life is of no consequence! How many wishes did you use, you worthless worm? After all I’ve done for you, all I’ve taught you, and you lack the wits to accomplish the one thing I needed you to do?”
“Just one, master,” Tariq said softly. He had never truly dared to hope that Malik might care for him, but to hear such condemnation crushed him. He kept his eyes lowered, but couldn’t resist peering up through his lashes. Perhaps forgiveness could still be his.
“One! Just one.” Malik studied the jar, stroking his fingers the length of the silver stopper. “Not so bad, but I had plans for each and every one.” He resumed pacing, the jar in both hands, crossing the room twice before stopping in front of Tariq. “I suppose you know now the jinni will only serve you?”
Tariq nodded. He waited for Malik to return the jar. Instead, Malik waved his hand in front of a cabinet, opened the door, and put the jar inside. He locked it with a key and waved his hand again. A magical lock, Tariq understood.
Malik caught him staring at the cabinet door. “You’ll make no more wishes without my say so, do you understand, Tariq? If you ever hope to restore yourself to my good will, you will wish for what I tell you to wish for and nothing else.”
“Yes, master,” Tariq replied meekly.
“Go to your room, apprentice. I have many plans that need revision.”
Chapter Five
TARIQ SAID NOTHING as he slid the door closed behind him. It was bad enough to have endured Malik’s scorn, but to have his humiliation witnessed by Ridha was almost too much.
He felt rather than saw Ridha resume visibility. “Forgive my saying so, master, but your master must be an idiot, spurning you.”
“I would hardly say spurned,” Tariq returned, each word cutting like a thousand knives. “I failed him. It wasn’t as if I’d run into the room declaring my undying devotion.”
“Indeed,” agreed Ridha. “I suppose we’d best take off your fancy clothes, then,” he added, his voice dropping into that sexy register.
Tariq offered him a wry smile. “I suppose.” He was too freshly wounded to be soothed by Ridha’s lust.
Or so he thought until the jinni began, ever so considerately, to undress him. He untied the crimson sash, his arms going about Tariq’s waist briefly, long enough to put his cheek close to Tariq’s. Then he folded it as carefully as a servant might and put it into the cupboard he had ruthlessly vandalized earlier.
He pushed the tunic up, sliding his hands over Tariq’s chest, murmuring his appreciation. Tariq lifted his arms, allowing the jinni to remove it. Ridha tossed the tunic aside and ran his hands over Tariq’s shoulders and biceps.
“Where does a sorcerer’s apprentice come by such muscles…?” he murmured, turning his attention to the lightly defined pectoral muscles next.
“I am the son of a dyer,” Tariq said, surprised. He thought men who liked boys preferred them to be softer, though he was nineteen and found his unnatural desires were not directed at boys in the slightest. “This is wrong,” he whispered.
“Says who?” Ridha kissed the heat in his cheek and left a trail of wet kisses down his neck.
“T-the One God.”
Ridha chuckled and pushed Tariq gently to the bed. “Before the One God was elevated, he was but one of many gods, Tariq. And I have travelled far and wide and can tell you the one truth of a truly benevolent god, for they are all variations on the same golden rule: behave towards others as you would have others act towards you, or do what you wish if it harms none. All the other rules of gods are invented by men usurping the authority of their god to force their views of right and wrong on the people.” He rubbed a nipple with his thumb, bringing a gasp of pleasure from Tariq. “What harm is done anyone by this act? None, so the gods smile on us, and it is only their priests who frown.”
The words made so much sense to Tariq, he gave up the pretense of resistance. Instead, he tugged at Ridha’s thick flowing hair and scratched his back as the jinni licked and kissed his way unhurriedly down his chest, pausing to graze his nipples with the bare edge of his teeth. Tariq pushed off the bed with his heels, eager to thrust his erection against the magnificent body atop him.
He whimpered and moaned and gasped, “Ridha…”
Ridha smiled against his stomach and pulled at the ties
of his pants. “Darling Tariq.”
Ridha’s hand was the first since his own to touch him there, that way, and he writhed. He’d stroked himself off to so much less, he knew he was about to make a fool of himself.
Ridha’s mouth suddenly closed over the head of his cock and Tariq lost whatever shreds of control he had. “Ridha,” was the only warning he could give, and then it was too late; his body released into the jinni’s mouth.
“Mmm,” Ridha murmured, crawling back up to meet Tariq’s eyes. “Been a while for you, too, hmm?”
“Never,” Tariq blurted, cheeks burning.
Ridha stared at him and then kissed him, guiding his lips open with his tongue. Tariq tasted himself in Ridha’s mouth, salty and sour. He broke the kiss to stare back.
“You…that tastes…”
Ridha smiled and kissed his nose. “Like many delicacies, it’s an acquired taste.”
Tariq was unsure what he should do, what came next, and then it did not matter. The door to his room slid open. Malik spoke a sharp word of banishing and Ridha was gone.
Tariq yelped at the jinni’s sudden absence, reaching to cover himself. “Master!”
Malik gave him a disapproving stare. “I came to apologize. It seems I came just in time to save you from ravishment.”
Tariq thought he’d been fairly thoroughly ravished and had failed only to return the favour. He said nothing, though, and pulled on a long robe to fully cover himself.
“I trust that wasn’t a wish.”
“Master! No!”
“The jinni told you I can’t command his magic myself?” Off Tariq’s nod, Malik continued, “Then you know I intended for you to open the jar anyway. It was…irrational of me to be angry. I thought I’d lost you, as well as the jar. I said things I didn’t mean. And I apologize.”
Tariq had nothing to say. Today had been the longest, most emotionally wrenching day of his life. He wasn’t sure how he felt, how he was supposed to feel. He nodded awkwardly, without making eye contact.
Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One Page 2
