by Amber Lough
She glanced at me once before hurrying inside and leaving me to follow. As soon as I’d entered the grounds, the gate latched behind me with a groan and a clink. “When jinn approach the Diwan, all faces must be seen at once,” Delia said.
The Diwan was the jinni version of the human Court of Honor, but while the caliph resided over the Court of Honor, there was no single man or woman taking charge over the proceedings in the Diwan. Even so, alliances were made and favorites were followed, and many members would try to convince the others to agree to their terms.
The palace doors were made of gold and they too swung open when we approached. I had to take a quick step to stay in line with Delia.
Naturally, I’d heard what the great hall would be like, but when I looked up, I let out a slow breath. I was amazed. None of the stories had described it accurately. The inside was far bigger than it had seemed from outside, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. Hundreds of copper pots hung suspended from chains clipped into the stone ceiling, and from these pots dripped flowers that I did not recognize. A few petals were falling through the air just as we passed beneath them, and I watched them land silently, delicately. The floor was stone, but the sifting petals had softened it over the ages.
Because I’d heard it would be there, I looked to the right-hand wall. There, nestled in a frame of turquoise and silver, was the angel’s feather. It wasn’t truly a feather, but the impression of one. The angel had dropped the feather onto the ground, where it had singed the earth and turned to ash. Iblis had dug up the impression and dragged it with him when he fled the surface, and he had built his palace around it.
While I was awed by the flowers and the angel’s feather, it was the tree that made me pause. In the very center of the hall, beneath a beam of white sunlight, was a gnarled tree twice as tall as any jinni. Wide leaves feathered the branches and soft, topaz-colored apricots dotted the greenery. What was a tree doing down here? How did it bear fruit? How did the sunlight make its way down here? And most importantly, why had I never heard of this tree?
It was a moment before I realized Delia was saying something. “Come, don’t stare at the tree. They’re over there, watching.”
I looked past the tree to where she had pointed. In the back of the great hall, a pair of red curtains cascaded from the ceiling and flanked a shallow set of stairs. At the top of the stairs, and in the glow of dozens of wishlights, sat the eight members of the Diwan on their wide, cushioned benches.
One of them, a woman in the flowing black robes of a Shaitan general, waved us over. “Welcome, Delia and Najwa. Come sit at the table.”
I walked over the layer of fallen petals and through the scented air, past the apricot tree, and up the stairs beside Delia. Because I had to stay beside her, I had to move at her pace, which was quick. The faces of the Diwan all turned toward us, their eyes watchful and their mouths straight as blades. The closer we got, the narrower their eyes became.
The Shaitan general motioned for us to sit on the only empty bench surrounding the low rectangular table. Like a puppet, I sank down at the same time as Delia onto the padding and tucked my ankles beneath me. Then the woman spoke again: “You’re right on time. Delia, does the Corps have anything to report?”
Delia bowed her head. “Yes, Aga.” Aga. This was the woman Atish had mentioned. She was Melchior’s dyad. A leather belt wound around her narrow waist and held her sheathed dagger, which pressed tight against her hip. One long, gray braid draped over her shoulder, its tip bronzed and filed into a point. Her muscular shoulders were bare and revealed her lion mark, as is the custom of the Shaitan. She was the embodiment of litheness and strength, and I was instantly conscious of my softer, weaker body. My only mark was the small blue eye of an owl on my hand.
I scanned the others’ faces and found a man staring straight at me. I gulped, and tried to feign a smile at the man with gray eyes. He did not smile in return. His brows rose, as if he was challenging me, and I could not pull away to look for his mark. But I didn’t need to. I had seen through those eyes before. I had been him, even though it had been just a memory.
Melchior, the jinni who had spurned Hashim’s request when he freed him from the caliph’s prison. The jinni who had, essentially, planted the seed for the war between the caliphate and the jinn.
Delia turned to face me. “Najwa, the Diwan would like your account of what happened in the palace.”
I told them about Kamal’s appointment and Ibrahim’s return. Then, when I was done, everyone began speaking at once.
“Ibrahim must be assassinated,” the woman to my left said.
“You cannot ever return,” the man beside her said to me.
“No. She must go back and watch,” another man said to the first.
But I was paying close attention to Melchior. For some reason, I wanted most to know what his response was.
“So he chose Kamal as vizier,” he said to himself. He leaned back on the bench, pressed his palms onto his thighs, and nodded. “A wise choice.”
“Melchior,” Aga said, giving me a jolt at the mention of his name, “Ibrahim must be dealt with.”
Melchior sighed. “Yes, but I do not think an assassination is the answer.” Relieved, I nodded in agreement, and he raised an eyebrow at me. “You think so too, child?”
“Sir, she is a member of the Corps,” Delia interjected.
“Quite right. But she is also a child.” Then, to me, he said, “Have you accepted the position as jinni consul?”
“I do not believe it was presented to me as a question, but I would accept. If the Diwan wishes, of course.”
Melchior’s mouth twitched. “You’re far more agreeable than I’d expected.”
“Sir, the Corps would like to know when our new master will be named,” Delia said.
Aga looked around the table at the other jinn, all of whom nodded. Then she swished her hand at the table. A second later, a ring of small cups appeared, steaming and full of tea. She picked hers up and the rest of us followed. I brought the cup to my lips, where it burned. “Sip, and we will speak,” Aga said.
“No need,” Melchior said, setting his cup down on the table. It was already empty. “We have a magus to train, the Corps is without a master, and the warrior prince has returned to Baghdad. It all points to one thing.”
“Melchior,” Aga warned.
“Faisal was my replacement. Now that he is dead, I will come out of my retirement and resume command.”
This statement sent the Diwan into another round of outbursts, starting first with Delia. “But you’ve retired!” she said.
“Yes, but I am not dead. You are too inexperienced to take on the command, as I know you wish to do. Besides, you’re not a magus, and I think it’s best—”
“Enough, Melchior,” Aga said. She tapped at the hilt of her dagger, and all of us fell silent. “Delia, in this case, I agree with Melchior. But he will not conduct the day-to-day operations. You will do this, as you did under Faisal. And there will be an understanding, Melchior, that Delia will be training to replace you.”
Melchior snapped his fingers at the cup and refilled his tea. Then he held up his cup to Delia. “A partnership, then. Now, where is your sister?” he said to me. “I must begin training her as soon as possible, because as we all know, the death of Hashim was not, after all, the death of the war.”
Melchior was the reason the war had begun in the first place. He should have been there, instead of Faisal, to face Hashim in Baghdad. He should have seen the man he’d created with his neglect.
All of this I kept bottled inside me. With a forced smile, I bowed to Melchior and left the Diwan, shuffling through the layers of petals that had fallen to the ground. None of them had browned at the edges like real petals do. It struck me, just before I stepped over the threshold, that nothing in Iblis’s Palace changed. Not even the hearts of old men.
WE EMERGED A little higher than the village, on one of the plateaus atop the gorge. I kn
ew we weren’t likely to see anyone there, and after I shook off the feeling I got when I turned into a flame, I made sure the others had made the journey.
Atish was staring at me openmouthed.
“What?” I asked. His skin was more golden in the late-afternoon sunlight, and I used this opportunity to look at him.
He snapped his mouth shut. “Nothing.”
Shirin shoved his shoulder. “I told you she transported like that. Pure sapphire.”
They were talking about the magus part. “How can you see my flames when I can’t see yours?”
“You could have seen ours if you looked,” Shirin said, “but you were focused on what you were doing. It’s a good thing.”
“Right.” I cleared my throat. “So, we are on a plateau, where we take the animals to graze sometimes. The river is down there,” I said, pointing to the edge of the plateau. It was a cliff, really. “And the village is downriver, about ten minutes away.”
Shirin frowned. “Why’d you have us show up so far away?”
“It was smart,” Atish said curtly. “Let’s go.” He gestured for us to approach the cliff. When we got to the edge, my breath caught in my throat. There was the river, just as I’d left it. Just as gray-blue, just as flooded, and probably just as cold. The rope bridge still strung across, damp from spraying water. It probably hadn’t been touched since that day I’d been dared to cross it.
“That’s a long way down,” Shirin said.
I looked downriver, making sure no one would see us peering over the cliff. But there was no one. In fact, the riverbank was emptier than it usually was this time of year. “I’ll show you how to get down,” I said.
I took them along the goat path. Each step I took filled me with an increasing sense of excitement. I was going to help him. I was finally going to do something right.
By the time we were down by the river, I couldn’t hold myself back. I was ready to run. “Come on,” I said, looking back at them over my shoulder. Shirin was twenty feet behind, eyeing the river with caution, but Atish was right behind me.
He trotted up to me. “How long do your wishes last?”
“What?”
“I’m asking because we have to turn ourselves invisible soon, and we don’t have the endurance someone like Najwa has. We cannot afford to be seen.”
“I don’t know how long. Long enough?”
“Wait, Zayele,” Shirin huffed. When she caught up with us, I realized how out of place we looked. Emeralds dotted her uncovered hair, and Atish’s Shaitan mark reflected the sunlight like polished armor. And I had completely forgotten to wear a hijab.
“Save the wish for now” was all I said. We hadn’t gone far when I saw a figure crouched beside the river, kneeling on the gravel between two piles of wet laundry: Yashar.
His turban was stained with rust-colored mud, his sleeves were wet to the elbows, and his shoulders were shaking. Everything I had planned on saying left my mind in an instant as I stumbled down the embankment, sending rocks scattering into the river.
Yashar lifted his head. “Who is that?” he asked. He was washing the women’s underclothes, which no man would normally touch, young or old. His eyes were covered by a dirty strip of cloth that wound around his head and was tucked beneath his turban. Why had they given him this chore? Why had they covered his eyes?
“It’s me,” I said as softly as I could.
“Zayele? No, it’s not you.”
I pushed some clothing over and knelt beside him. “Yashar, it’s me,” I said, laying a hand on his forearm. He shook his head.
“No.”
“You don’t want it to be me?” I asked, smiling now. “I’m back.”
He dropped a pair of undergarments and the current dragged them away. Then he put his other hand on top of mine. His hands were shaking. “Zayele,” he croaked.
I pulled him into me, pushing his face into my shoulder and holding him there. “What did they do to you?” My throat constricted, and I knew I was about to cry.
“Why are you back?” he asked.
“I’m…I came to help you.”
He pulled a strip of cloth off the wide rock he had been rubbing it against. It peeled away with a rough, gripping sound. “You found me a job there?” he asked.
“No. I’m going to heal you.”
“Zayele,” he began, pulling away from me. “You can’t heal me. It just…it just happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it is my fault,” I snapped. “Please, let me heal you.”
Shirin had started to come down to us, and the rocks clattered. Yashar jerked out of my arms and turned himself to face her. “Who—”
“It’s my friend Shirin.”
“That’s not a Baghdad name,” Yashar said.
“Hello, Yashar,” Shirin said. Her voice was like honey tea, and I could see it soothing him. As she scrambled over the gravel and picked her way around the laundry, she kept talking. “Zayele and I are going to try to heal your eyes.”
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“Yashar,” I began, “after I left, I found out some things about myself.” I hesitated. What would he do when he found out? I hadn’t considered this at all until now, and I suddenly realized that it mattered. I couldn’t tell him. Not until I’d healed him.
I had to do it now. I had to make a wish that I knew no words for.
“Shirin, what do I do?”
She frowned. “Yashar, can you see anything when you have this strip removed?”
“Only a bit of light and color. But they don’t want to see my eyes anymore. They say they aren’t nice to look at.”
“Would you mind if I took it off and had a look?” Shirin asked. Yashar shrugged.
I saw in an instant that Shirin was not like me at all. She didn’t grimace or flinch as she unwound the cloth, peeling off the grimy top layer to reveal the pure, soft layer wound over his eyes. His irises were thickly scarred, and the color of milk, and I watched as Shirin’s expression went from concern to disappointment. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “You can’t alter the healing after it’s done.”
“But it never healed!” I said.
“It’s fine, Zayele,” Yashar said. “I’m used to it now. I can do almost anything, even though no one believes me. I’m not just a blind person.”
“No! We came here to do this. And I know I can.” I glanced up at Atish, who was busy scanning the riverbank for others. I reached out and put my hands over Yashar’s eyes. I would be able to do it. I was a magus. I had powers Shirin didn’t have. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and thought of how Yashar had been before the sandstorm. How he’d always been out in front when we raced, how excited he’d been when describing a particular butterfly he’d seen, how he’d always known what everyone was feeling, just by looking at their faces. Everyone had loved him for that. But then I’d brought him to a sandstorm and ruined his life.
“I wish for you to be able to see again, Yashar.”
The wish bubbled up inside my chest and flooded into my palms. Without warning, I remembered the darkness of the tunnel I had been lost in, in the Cavern. I’d been blind like Yashar there, in the dark, and had been terribly, terribly afraid. I did not want him to be alone in the dark. I did not want him to be afraid, ever again. Then the wish, as real and heavy as jeweled rings on my fingers, throbbed, and I let it go.
The wish released with a bolt of fire, leaving my fingertips tingling. I let them drop off his face, and opened my eyes.
Yashar shuddered in terror, peeled away from me, and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
Then a circle of darkness rushed in, clouding everything, and I fell.
—
I woke with a pounding in my head, and I wanted to press on my temple to relieve some of the pain, but my arms wouldn’t budge from my sides. I creaked open my eyes and saw a headboard of clear crystal shooting straight up from above my pillow and poking through a low charcoal ceiling. I could te
ll by the oily-rich smell that I was in the Cavern again.
I had been laid out on a bed and wrapped tightly in thin wool, with my arms tucked in. I tried to pull them out, but someone hadn’t wanted me to use my arms. Ever, judging by how tightly I was swaddled. For a brief moment, I worried I was wrapped in a kafan and readied for burial, but there were other beds beside me, some with people lying on them.
“You might be a powerful jinni now, but you still do foolish things, Zayele.” Rahela was sitting on a stool beside me, tapping her foot.
“What?” I croaked.
“You take these risks, without thinking of anyone else.”
I tried to sit up, but I was cocooned, and strained against the swaddling. “What do you mean?”
A boy’s voice cried out on the bed beside me, and my stomach lurched. It was Yashar, lying on his side, facing me. He had drawn his knees to his chest and was shaking his head side to side. A band of sweat had soaked through the top of the wrappings on his eyes, and his skin was the color of wet clay.
“Yashar,” I said, but he kept shaking his head. Could he not hear me? “Yashar, it’s Zayele.” Again, he didn’t respond.
“He is what I mean,” Rahela said. Her voice was a mixture of disappointment and sadness. “You did something to him, without his consent.”
“He sleeps.” A woman came to stand between our beds and looked down at me with a severe frown. “Although this is not the kind of sleep one wants.” She wore a long gown with a matching emerald scarf tied over her head. Her hairline peeked out, revealing thick, wavy hair with a streak of silver. But it was her nose—straight as an arrowhead and pointing down at me—that caught my attention.
“Is he all right? Where have you taken us? Why am I dressed up like the dead?”
She crossed her arms. “As I said, he sleeps. I’m Razeena, head physician. You are wrapped exactly as one who fights off her healers needs to be wrapped. I let Shirin handle you, but you scratched her so badly that she needed attending.” She paused, inhaling sharply through her nose. “Of course, she should have restrained you to begin with.” Then she bent over and pulled on the end of a strip of cloth. When my arms were free, I pushed myself up onto my elbows.
