Freedom's Slave

  Nalia was desperate to go straight to where Raif fought in Ithkar. She wanted to find him, kiss him, never let him go, and kill anyone who dared to hurt him. But she’d made a promise in the Eye—to herself and to the empresses. She had to burn her dead. Her caste needed to be set free, not roaming the in-between, forever locked out of the godlands. From her time in the Eye, Nalia knew there could be no worse fate. And Thatur’s battle strategy was a brilliant one: Calar wouldn’t be able to resist turning her troops on Nalia. It could be the difference in the tavrai winning or losing the battle.

  Touma placed his hand on his scimitar and nodded briskly. “If you insist on this, I shall accompany you and—”

  “Touma, it’s too dangerous,” she said.

  “I have sat by this gate night and day, My Empress, waiting for you,” he said. “I am sorry, but you are stuck with me. And also this: Raif Djan’Urbi would kill me if I let you out of my sight before you were returned safely to him.”

  Nalia frowned. This was an unexpected complication. “All right. But I’m warning you, Touma, you’re risking your life.”

  “Being alive in Arjinna at all is risking one’s life,” he said softly. “I serve at the pleasure of the Empress.”

  “And I serve at the pleasure of the land.” She turned to Thatur. “Take me home.”

  She and Touma climbed on Thatur’s back and she grabbed the feathers near his neck. Her gryphon vaulted into the sky, setting his course for the palace.

  31

  RAIF SPRINTED TOWARD THE PRISON, HIS FEET SKIMMING over the shards of obsidian that covered Ithkar’s floor, jet-black daggers that he kicked into the sky as he raced toward the death he’d prayed the gods would give him. Tazlim was by his side, in charge of the right flank of soldiers, while Raif led the vanguard and Shirin covered the left flank.

  A horn sounded on the ramparts and a swarm of scarlet evanescence hurtled toward him from the prison gate. Raif grinned, high off the blood pumping through his veins, the adrenaline that screamed yes yes yes.

  Beside him, Shirin laughed as the first Ifrit materialized before them, launching herself at the guard with feral joy. The Brass Army roared behind him, and Raif was nothing but his hands that bled chiaan and the blade of his scimitar. He hoped Nalia could see him now, hoped she knew that he was going to burn this prison to the ground.

  The moat was in his sight now, red-hot liquid that the Ifrit on the prison’s ramparts manipulated. Monsters not unlike the sand army Raif had fought in Morocco reared up from the lava, stepping out of the fire and hurtling toward Raif and his soldiers, fireballs in the shape of bodies. The Ifrit in the Brass Army fought fire with fire, blasting the monsters back into the moat with the strength of their chiaan.

  Scalding rain drenched Raif’s advancing army and he was soon surrounded by the cries of the tavrai and Brass soldiers as the fire hit their skin. He nearly dropped his scimitar as the deluge seared his own skin, exposing the bone on his forearm. He followed his Ifrit soldiers, who were strengthened by the inferno and pushed through the fiery assault, absorbing the flames before they could reach Raif. They directed their chiaan toward the moat, pulling the fire away so that the path to the gate was clear.

  Raif grinned at the Ifrit Brass soldier closest to him, nodding his thanks, then led the charge to the gate and, together with Taz, blasted it open, a volley of emerald and gold chiaan surging against the gate like a broken dam. A roar sounded behind Raif as his soldiers advanced. He guessed they had a matter of minutes before Calar descended with her army of shadows.

  As the bodies of the prison guards fell to the ground, Raif bolted through the gate. He was immediately hit with the stench of disease and unwashed bodies, death and despair. Emaciated figures looked out from the doorways of the low barracks that spread across the rough terrain, eyes bright with fever or dull from impending death, most of them children and the elderly.

  “Gods and monsters,” he breathed.

  Bashil had been here? He knew it had been bad, but this was worse than anything Raif could have imagined.

  The air shifted around him and he turned as Taz evanesced, golden smoke spilling around him. “What’s the plan, brother?”

  “We’ll focus on getting these jinn out before Calar comes—our army seems to have the Ifrit covered. Can you lead the ones who are too weak to evanesce back to the forest while the rest of us take care of the guards?”

  Taz nodded and Raif rushed toward the prisoners, grabbing the jinni closest to him, a male Marid. “We’re here to help, grandfather,” Raif said. “My jinn will lead you to safety. Can you help gather the prisoners?”

  The jinni placed his fist over his heart in the tavrai salute. “It would be my honor, Raif Djan’Urbi.”

  Raif bowed. “The honor’s all mine.”

  Most of the prisoners wouldn’t be able to evanesce, even though the bisahm over the prison had been destroyed and its gates flung wide open. These jinn were on the brink of death—most of them clearly did not have access to their chiaan—and it was obvious that the shadows had also been here, ravaging the land. There was the telltale black dust they left behind when they’d sucked the chiaan in an area dry.

  Raif shielded his eyes as he looked up. Noqril was pecking out the eyes of the Ifrit in quick succession, blood dripping from his beak. Raif knew it must lonely up there without Samar; he hoped the Dhoma leader could see them from the godlands.

  There was a battle cry behind him and Raif whirled around, throwing the dagger strapped to his belt at an advancing guard. The Ifrit fell and Raif threw his chiaan into the jinni’s heart, killing him instantly. Another guard sprinted toward him and Raif jumped to the side. He swung his scimitar in an elegant arc, the blade flashing in the moonlight. It connected with Ifrit flesh and the jinni’s head flew off.

  “Nice,” Shirin said appreciatively. Her blade dripped with blood and her eyes were bright with battle lust.

  Raif grinned. “All in a day’s work.” His father would have approved, happy that all the sword-fighting lessons he’d given Raif throughout his childhood had paid off.

  For what felt like an hour but was likely only a matter of minutes, Raif cut through the bodies of Ifrit, sometimes with his scimitar but most often with perfectly aimed shots of chiaan. Raif was a machine as he made his way through the prison, a god of death, Mora incarnate. He had no thought except where he would next direct his energies. Blood, bone, and breath to a master bound. That’s what it had said on the shackles Malek had forced Nalia to wear. Now he too had a master, and Raif was bound to its deathly commands: kill, kill, kill.

  A high keening pierced the air and Raif cursed as lightning-fast figures vaulted from the high wall surrounding the prison, their gaping maws filled with needle-sharp teeth: ghouls. He darted to the side as one of the creatures reached for him, its claw catching on his tunic. White-hot pain shot down his arm, and Raif turned to face the ghoul. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Taz already leading a long line of prisoners out a side gate.

  Raif shifted into a defensive position, his eyes on the ghoul’s. He wanted a hard fight—blood and bones breaking. No magic, no blades. He wanted the fight of his life.

  “Hungry?” Raif dropped his scimitar and held out his arms as he faced the ghoul, grinning.

  There was a howl to his left, and before Raif could turn he was thrown to the ground, Shirin’s body on top of his. Behind her, the ghoul cried out as a barrage of chiaan hit his chest from a nearby Brass soldier. The monster fell heavily to the ground, dead.

  “If I weren’t trying to save your life, I’d kill you right now, you bastard,” Shirin said. And then she was shaking, her eyes filling, her body wracked with sobs.

  It took him a moment to realize that Shirin—Shirin—was crying. Raif put his arms around her, dazed and feeling a little cheated as he lay in the mud holding the wrong jinni. He’d been so ready to die. Fool. Nalia would be furious if she knew what he’d been about to do. But it hadn’t been a conscious choice. It w
as instinct now, this desire to die. What was happening to him?

  A trumpet sounded and Shirin pulled away as a burst of red evanescence tumbled over the ridge: the Ifrit army, Calar and her shadows no doubt not far behind.

  “Fire and blood,” Shirin muttered. “I was hoping we’d have a little more time.”

  Raif scrambled to his feet, suddenly exhausted, bone-tired. I’m done, he thought.

  The realization hit him, clear and final. This was the last battle he’d command for the tavrai. The last time he would lead them. It suddenly occurred to Raif that Zanari was right—it was time to go. There was nothing here worth fighting for, worth dying for, now that the prisoners had been freed and the portal opened.

  A ball of fire arced over the sky from the westernmost ridge of the Qaf, where a small Ifrit outpost looked over the prison. It hit the ground, a thunderous blast that threw Raif off his feet. Shards of obsidian rained down and Raif covered his head as their sharp points lacerated his skin. Another ball of fire, this time so strong that the ground leaped up. For a moment Raif was suspended in midair, riding the wave of the blast until he fell back to earth, the ground coming up hard and fast. Pain exploded in Raif’s side as bone connected with rock. He heard the groans of the others around him.

  “What the—” Raif looked toward the mountains and went cold at the sight: a legion of Ifrit soldiers had evanesced into the prison grounds, twice the size of the Brass Army, fresh and ready for battle.

  A burst of golden evanescence engulfed him—Taz. “The prisoners are safe. I’ve got them manifesting tents over by—” He choked on his words, staring at the newly arrived Ifrit. “Oh, for gods’ sakes.” He pulled out his scimitar. “Here we go again.”

  Shirin put her hand on his arm. “Wait. They’re not fighting us.”

  “What?” Taz took a few steps forward, Raif behind him.

  It was true. The Ifrit who’d arrived weren’t fighting the tavrai—they were taking down what remained of the prison’s security forces and the ghouls.

  “Kesmir,” Taz whispered. “These are his jinn.” He turned, grinning. “All is not lost.”

  Shirin hurried to spread the word, but Taz waited with Raif, the need to know what had happened to Kes pressing against his heart. Had they helped him escape? It was too much to hope for, but Taz couldn’t help fanning that flame. He’d never been one to give up, to lose heart. Even the loss of Lokahm and all those years in the bottle hadn’t been able to crush him.

  He turned to Raif. “How do you want to proceed?”

  “You should talk to them,” Raif said.

  Taz cocked his head to the side. “I think it would be best if you—”

  Raif shook his head. “It wouldn’t be best.”

  Defeat—no, surrender—had settled around Raif’s eyes. He placed a hand on Taz’s shoulder. “I’m not my father. And I’m done trying to be. You and Kesmir’s Ifrit,” he said, nodding toward the approaching jinn, “will change this realm for the better. Unless the gods have other plans, which, judging from the sky tonight, they do.” Taz opened his mouth, but Raif held up his hand. “This isn’t my fight anymore. I’m done, Taz. I’ll fight until Calar is dead, but then I’m going back to Earth to do what Nalia wanted more than anything else—I’m going to unbind every jinni on the dark caravan. And when I’m done . . .”

  He didn’t finish, but Taz could see in his eyes exactly what Raif planned to do when he was finished liberating the jinn enslaved on Earth.

  “Go,” Raif said softly, before turning away and grabbing a burning torch from its place on the inside wall of the prison. Taz watched as Raif touched the fire to one of the wooden barracks. The flames licked the wood, devouring a wall before Taz turned away.

  He crossed the yard, one hand still holding his scimitar. These might have been Kes’s jinn, but they weren’t Taz’s, not yet anyway.

  “Jahal’alund,” said a female Ifrit dressed in battle leathers. Her eyes blazed crimson and her red hair fell to her waist, shimmering strands that glowed in the moonlight: Fazhad, the Ifrit Kes trusted most, his right hand in the rebellion.

  Behind her stood three other Ifrit soldiers: Halem, Xala, and Urum. Taz had only had occasion to speak with them a handful of times over the past year, coordinating attacks, passing along information. Just behind them stood Ajwar, Nalia’s father, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

  “Fazhad,” Taz said, his voice barely a whisper. “How is he?”

  She shook her head, her eyes going to the moons: the second-most powerful jinni in the Ifrit army was trying not to cry. And Taz knew, he knew, and he held out his hands, as though the air could hold him up but it couldn’t and he was on his knees Kes Kes Kes.

  It didn’t matter that he was the commander of the Brass Army or that these jinn would never respect him again. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. This was what it was like in those first weeks in the bottle, a gaping hole inside him, the loss unbearable, darkness and nothing, nothing but this dagger point of grief slicing into his heart. This would be the blow that would kill him.

  “Tell me,” a voice beside him growled: Raif.

  Fazhad took in a shuddering breath. “He’s gone. Calar . . . it wasn’t pretty.”

  Taz fell forward, his head against the shards of rock, and they cut into him and he wanted to gouge out his eyes, slice his throat. He gripped the shards, let them break the skin on his hands.

  Then he heard Raif’s voice in his ear—calm and soft. “Think of Yasri, Taz. She needs you—you’re all she’s got. You’re her father now, do you understand me?”

  Yasri.

  Oh, gods, that little girl. Taz squeezed the obsidian in his fists harder.

  He called on his last reserves of strength, then nodded, suddenly numb. “Okay,” he whispered.

  Raif helped him stand and Taz looked at the jinn before him. He’d always felt things deeply: the gods, his lovers, life itself. It was a weakness he could not overcome.

  He gave a small bow. “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  Kes. Kes.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Fazhad said. “You honor him with your grief.”

  Raif turned to Fazhad. “What’s happening at the palace?”

  “When Kesmir . . . when we realized Calar was still alive, we fought as planned,” Fazhad said. “She didn’t release her shadows, but it was impossible to get into her room.”

  “Then how do you know Kesmir is—” Raif began, but Fazhad held up her hand.

  “A servant girl went into Calar’s room when she heard the empress screaming. Calar was on her balcony—she didn’t see the girl. Kes was already gone. He had the look of—” Fazhad glanced at Taz.

  “Say it,” Taz said.

  “She used her shadows on him,” Fazhad said, her voice soft.

  Taz turned away, fist in his mouth. It was the very worst thing he could have heard. As the minutes passed, only a small part of him was aware of the conversation that took place around him.

  “Need a plan—” Raif was saying.

  “Room for us in the forest—”

  “Shadows any second now—”

  There was more talking, just a distant blur of voices to Taz, and then Raif was leading him away. “We’ve gotta evanesce, brother. Grab my hand.”

  “What’s happening?” Taz mumbled as he felt Raif’s fingers close around his own.

  Taz’s training was only now beginning to kick in through his fog of grief. Focus on the task at hand, bottle everything else up. Be like the tavrai: You are a sword, nothing more.

  “Our army just got a whole lot bigger,” Raif said. As evanescence pooled around them, he tugged on Taz’s hand. “Look at me, Taz.” Taz looked. “We’re going to destroy Calar. For Kes. For Nalia. For all of us.”

  Taz nodded. “Okay,” he said, as if to himself. “Okay.”

  His rohifsa was gone, but there was still a war to fight for the Arjinna Kes had been willing to die for. And a little girl who’d be waking up soon, asking for her pa
pa.

  32

  ARJINNA LAY BENEATH NALIA, A DISTANT CANVAS OF burned fields and spilled blood. She gave herself over to the sensation of the world falling out from under her. The feeling tugged on her memory: late-night patrols high over the Qaf range, swooping into Ithkar in search of Ifrit, joyrides over the Arjinnan Sea on sleepless nights. Each memory was filled with the exact sensation of speed and weightlessness that coursed through her now. Flying on Thatur’s back was one of her earliest memories. Aisouri were matched with their gryphons at age three, thrust into the sky whether they were ready or not. That first time had been terrifying—her whole world growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared entirely. Thatur had been a gentle teacher: firm, yet warm. So different from her mother. Her happiest moments were spent skimming the sky above her land, closer to the stars and far from the palace.

  The Three Widows shone like a torch lighting Nalia’s way to the home of her childhood. She held on to Thatur by squeezing her knees against his sides, fingers gripping the thick feathers at the nape of his neck. Nalia could feel the flap of the great wings in her own skin, the rhythm thrumming through her. Despite her exhaustion and the horror of this homecoming, she felt the familiar thrill of the sky, the delicious dance of wind and cloud on her skin.

  Touma sat behind Nalia, holding her so tightly that his fingers dug into her ribs. He cried out every time Thatur dove through a cloud or swooped closer to the earth.

  “Oh, gods,” he gasped as Thatur plunged into another cloud. “Does he really have to do that?”

  Nalia let go of Thatur and spread her arms, trailing her fingers through the swaths of mist. It was like holding a god’s hand. She laughed, tasting the sky on her tongue.

  “Are we there yet?” Touma gasped, his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Almost,” she said as the palace came into view. It loomed over the Infinite Lake, the moonlight outlining the mother-of-pearl domes, the towers and spires of her youth.

  Every window glowed—clearly Calar had discovered what was happening in Ithkar.