Freedom's Slave

  She shuddered and he held her closer, his body warm and real and safe. What would she have done if he’d been dead when she walked into that camp?

  She’d had an immediate dislike of Shirin, but Nalia would be forever grateful for how she’d saved Raif. Grateful that Shirin loved him enough. It’d been impossible not to feel sorry for her, watching the girl’s heart shatter.

  “You pledged your blood to me,” Nalia said, awed. Raif Djan’Urbi, leader of the revolution—her former enemy she’d been commanded to kill, taught to hate—loved her, served her.

  “I pledge everything of myself to you.” He said those words so matter-of-factly. The sun is yellow, spring comes after winter, I pledge everything. The tip of his nose brushed against hers. “My Empress.” The my was proprietary in the best kind of way.

  “But the tavrai—”

  “They’ll have to decide for themselves what or who they’ll fight for. If they choose to fight against you, then so be it.” His voice was laced with sadness.

  She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow. “Raif, I can’t let you fight against your friends, your family.”

  “You’re my family.”

  Family. Such a simple word, but it meant the world to hear him call her that.

  She sat bolt upright. Family: where was Zanari? Nalia hadn’t seen her in the clearing, and no one had mentioned her. It was as if she were—

  “Where’s Zanari?” Her voice went high with panic. Not Zan, not her too. Please, please. “Raif, please tell me she’s not—”

  “Shhh, it’s okay. She’s fine. She’s on Earth.” Raif drew her against him. She sank into his arms, relieved. “Zan’s gonna be so happy to find out you’re home.” He smiled, wistful. “She’s one of the Dhoma now.”

  “Zanari’s with Phara, then?”

  It was hard for Nalia to imagine Zanari ever leaving her brother’s side, but, as she well knew, love made you do unexpected things.

  Raif nodded. “Of course. Did you really think they’d be apart for long?”

  Nalia shook her head. “No.” Her smile faded a little. “So she’s gone—for good?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “And many others before this is all over.” He twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. “What happened at the palace?”

  She told him to the best of her ability, and by the time she’d finished, a look of horror had crossed his face.

  “She could have killed you,” he said. “She almost killed me that way.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “I’m stronger than she is. I know I am. And we have an army. And whatever the Godsnight brings. Who knows how that will work in our favor?”

  “The Godsnight,” Raif muttered. “Perfect timing.” He shook his head. “I wish we could just . . . go.”

  “Leave the war to fight itself?” she asked, shivering as his fingertips trailed over her collarbone.

  “Yes. We’d just run. Wherever Calar’s mind couldn’t follow.” He sighed. “We’d go back to our tent in the Sahara.”

  A soft smile played on Nalia’s face as she pressed her hand against the sheets. Instantly, they became the slippery silk that she’d manifested for their last night in Morocco. Raif stared down at the shimmery fabric.

  “Close your eyes,” she whispered.

  The wooden walls of Raif’s ludeen turned into the animal hide of the Dhoma tents. An intricate Moroccan lamp dangled in the center of the tent, throwing rose light in lacy patterns all over the roof and floor. The room filled with the scent of amber and sandalwood and the faint tinge of a campfire.

  Nalia leaned over Raif, her lips against his ear. “Your wish is my command.”

  He opened his eyes, taking in the changed surroundings. “How did you . . .” He shook his head. “Show-off.”

  She grinned and threw an embroidered pillow at him, the magic so real that grains of sand coated its delicate designs.

  “Oh, now you’re asking for it,” he said.

  Nalia squealed as Raif gently tackled her, laughing as his fingers found her most ticklish spots. When his body shifted on top of hers, she pulled him closer, hungry. Raif’s hands moved down her arms and gripped her waist. She nodded at the question in his eyes, her fingers already undoing the buttons of his tunic.

  “Are you sure?” he murmured. “You’re not too tired or—”

  She stopped him with a hard kiss, one that obliterated all thought and turned them into a tangle of limbs, their clothes thrown in every direction. The sheets turned gray from the Eye’s dust and the ash of the burnings. The grit on their skin had trails running through it of sweat, kisses, tongues, teeth. Nalia held on to him and didn’t let go, didn’t look away. I am yours yours yours. Raif pulled her close, gentle, then ravenous, and nothing, nothing would ever separate them again.

  No one would write a song about the feel of Raif’s chiaan flooding her, the way it made Nalia suck in her breath and arch her back as he held her, marveling. The stories would not speak of the way he gasped when she touched him, the way she moaned softly against his ear, her hands gripping his hair as his lips fell against her breasts. The great poets could only imagine the desire that carried them that night, the empress and her Djan revolutionary who would transform their land and the hearts of their people with this ecstatic, all-consuming love that refused to die.

  37

  THERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR AND THEY BOTH jumped, roused from exhausted, blissful sleep. Raif slid off the bed, alert, tense. He reached for his scimitar.

  “Raif?” came a woman’s voice through the door.

  His shoulders relaxed and he turned to where Nalia lay, naked and perfect despite being absolutely filthy from a year in the Eye. “My mother,” he said. “Is it okay . . . ?”

  Nalia sat up, biting her lip. Despite everything that had happened tonight, it was the first time he’d seen her look nervous. “All right,” she said, quiet.

  “Hey.” He reached out, trailing the tips of his fingers through her hair. “I love you.”

  He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder before pulling on some pants. Nalia threw on one of his tunics that littered the floor and the pair of sawala pants she’d been wearing as he walked to the door, shirtless.

  “Raif.” She gestured to his bare chest. “Can you at least pretend we haven’t—you know. It’s your mother.”

  “Nal, I think she knows what we’ve been doing.” He laughed as Nalia buried her face in her hands.

  Raif opened the door and his mother stepped into the ludeen, her long lavender-gray hair shimmering in the candlelight. She looked around the room in confusion and Raif bit back a smile—they’d forgotten all about their Moroccan decor. Her eyes found Nalia immediately and his mother stared at his rohifsa for a long, agonizing moment, her lips a thin line.

  She hates her, Raif realized. She hates her but she loves me too much to say it.

  A Ghan Aisouri, in her son’s bed. A Ghan Aisouri who her son had just pledged his blood to, as his sovereign. His mother hadn’t been there to see it, and he suddenly remembered why: she’d been with Kesmir’s—now Taz’s—daughter. His friend’s loss was a despair Raif couldn’t think of right now. He needed these few hours to himself, to be happy, to smile.

  He would attend to Taz first thing tomorrow, see what he could do to help his friend through the hell of losing his rohifsa. He wanted Taz to be the one to tell Nalia about Yasri, to introduce them, to share stories of the girl’s extraordinary father.

  He watched as Nalia’s eyes traced his mother’s face: he had her eyes, the same stubborn tilt to her chin. The rest of him was his father. It grieved him to know Dthar would never know Nalia, nor she him. They would have liked each other, he was certain.

  “I love your son,” Nalia said, the first to speak.

  His lips turned up—he’d always admired how direct Nalia was. Never coy—she didn’t play games. And he loved that those were the first words she said to his mother. To her credit, his mother’s eyes widened slightly and her f
rown lessened.

  “I love him more than anything or anyone in the realms,” Nalia continued. “I can’t make up for what my caste has done, I know that. And I don’t want this power. But I have it and it’s my duty to the gods and Arjinna to serve the realm.” She glanced at Raif. “I choose him. I always choose him. I have no wish to hinder or dishonor the work the tavrai do or to dishonor your husband’s memory.” She gestured to Raif. “Or his legacy.”

  “Then why does my son call you Empress? Because that is very much hindering our work and—” She turned to Raif. “It dishonors his father and all he stood for.”

  Raif had given his whole life to the revolution. Couldn’t she see that? Couldn’t she be happy for him?

  “Your son calls me Empress because I am the empress.” Hearing those words said out loud was not as hard as Raif expected it to be. He swallowed as his mother’s face darkened. “But I choose to be a servant, not a tyrant. The gods spoke to me in the Eye—”

  His mother snorted. “The gods. Ogres in the sky who care little for our problems, I think.” She turned to Raif. “What would your father say? In one second you threw everything he died for away. Love her, fine. Bow down to her? Pledge your blood?” Her eyes filled. “For shame, son. For shame.”

  He wasn’t angry, not anymore. Just disappointed in her.

  “Papa told me he fought for us,” he said. “Not the tavrai, not the realm. For his family.” Raif came to Nalia’s side and drew her against him. “She’s part of this family now, Mama.” The words sent goosebumps over his skin. “Will you give us your blessing?”

  His mother sighed, one long breath of discontent. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Raif, but I can’t.”

  He’d expected as much. And still it hurt. A lot.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said softly.

  She glanced at Nalia. “Are you in need of a healer?”

  “Thank you. No. I’m . . . I’ll be fine.” Her words came out in one breath, her agitation at the exchange obvious. She was feeling guilty, he could see that. Nalia thought she was breaking apart his family. This was no way to start a life together.

  There won’t be a life together if you don’t fight for one.

  “I’ll let you . . . rest then.” His mother glanced pointedly at Raif’s bare chest, then gestured behind her as she stepped outside. “There’s also the matter of—”

  “Of me,” growled a familiar voice behind her.

  Thatur poked his head inside the ludeen. His beak snapped as he bit out his words, taking Raif’s room in with one sharp-eyed glance. “My Empress. This arrangement is highly inappropriate. I’m sure Djan’Urbi here would be more than happy to manifest a suitable ludeen for you, seeing as he pledged his blood to the empress, who should not be sleeping in the quarters of a common soldier.”

  “Thatur—” she started, but he held up a wing to silence her as though it were a hand.

  “By ancient law and divine right, you are the sovereign of this realm. And”—his eyes flicked to Raif, then the bed—“I humbly suggest you conduct yourself as such.”

  Thatur’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Raif’s mother bristled and he gently shook his head at her. Raif, unlike his mother, was well accustomed to the gryphon’s gruff superiority.

  “Thatur, now’s not the time,” Raif said. “You can boss her around some other day.”

  “Her place is on the throne,” Thatur growled. “My job is to keep her alive until she can get there. If you haven’t noticed, there are hundreds of jinn in this camp who wish to see her dead, and you two . . .” He cleared his throat. “You two together is only fanning the flames. It’s not safe here.”

  Raif frowned. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

  “I know a place,” Thatur said. “My nest is—”

  “I’m not leaving Raif,” Nalia said.

  Ever, he thought. He never wanted to let her out of his sight again.

  “And if I leave this camp tonight, I’m telling the tavrai I’m afraid of them, and I’m not,” she said. “If there’s any way to salvage a partnership, I need to do that. We stay until a decision is made at the council meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Her tone brooked no argument, and Thatur gave a frustrated growl before backing out of the ludeen. “Stubborn as ever, I see. I’ll take my leave—under duress.” He bowed. “Sleep well, My Empress.”

  Raif rolled his eyes at the emphasis on sleep. He and Nalia hadn’t seen each other in a year—what did they possibly expect of them? But Thatur was right: it looked bad. And Nalia was right, too: if they truly wanted to work with the tavrai, they shouldn’t give them a reason to be angrier than they already were.

  “I missed you, too, Thatur.” Nalia smiled at her gryphon as he launched into the sky with an angry flap of his wings. Raif bade his mother good night, then closed the door.

  He leaned against it, arms crossed, watching Nalia from across the room.

  “He’s right, Nal. You’re . . . we shouldn’t . . . gods . . . If you want to fix things with the tavrai, maybe it’s better if we—” He shook his head. What was he saying? “No. I thought you were dead for a whole year. Fuck them.”

  He was across the room in two strides and he pulled her against him, his kiss incinerating every breath of space between them.

  “I choose you,” she whispered. “The tavrai—the whole realm—will just have to deal with that.”

  They talked well into the night, holding each other as they tried to make up for a year’s worth of words and kisses and chiaan.

  Finally, she pulled away. “I love you, but we both smell terrible. What should we do about it?”

  “I smell as good as a vixen rose, but yes, you really do need to clean up,” he teased.

  She gave him a playful shove and as he manifested a bath for her, she slipped out of her clothes. He watched her, admiring the lines of her body, the swell of her breasts, the Ghan Aisouri tattoos that swirled over her hands and arms. Nalia stepped inside the tub, sighing as she submerged her whole body underwater. She looked so happy when she came up for air and stuck her head over the lip of the tub that he laughed out loud.

  “Other than being in bed with you, this bath is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me,” she said.

  “More amazing than manifesting lightning?” he asked, grinning.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She laughed, splashing the water like a child. “I’m alive, you’re alive, and soon I’ll be clean—everything is perfect.”

  With a simple swirl of her finger, she changed the water every few minutes when it became gray with dirt. He washed her with a cloth and his hands, marveling the whole time. To touch her—to hear her voice and see her—it was as if every wild dream he’d ever had had suddenly come true. Raif no longer kept expecting to wake up from a dream or discover that he was dead, that he was in the godlands. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if Malek and Bashil were nearby. This was real. Real.

  Slowly, the filth of the Eye disappeared from Nalia’s limbs. Once she was clean, she pulled him in with her, clothes and all, and they held each other in the warm water, scented with the jasmine soap that Nalia manifested—one of the few things from Earth she loved. He laughed as she helped him take off his sopping wet uniform, closed his eyes, and smiled as she scrubbed the battle off his skin, washed the hopelessness right out of him. When she was finished, she changed the water once more, then leaned against him, her back curled against his chest.

  “Tell me our story,” Nalia said as she lifted her foot out of the water, her slender leg coated with iridescent bubbles.

  “I have to change it, I think,” he said, holding her tighter. “An empress can’t live with a farmer.”

  She went quiet, still. Raif had been joking, but now it dawned on him that it was true—no matter how much he changed the realm, he was no partner fit for someone like her. He could barely read and yet he was in love with a jinni who spoke the old language and could manifest anything under the sun. A jinni
beloved by the gods, who’d saved her time and time again.

  “Nal?”

  “What about with an emperor?”

  He froze. “What?”

  Nalia turned, facing him, unashamed of her naked beauty. Thick strands of hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing her face, which glowed from the heat and the scrubbing she’d given it. Opalescent bubbles were scattered across her skin like pearls. It hurt to look at her.

  “Can an empress live with an emperor?” she said.

  Was she saying what he thought she was saying? Because that was . . . it was . . .

  Raif shook his head. “Rohifsa, I’m not . . . I could never . . . I—”

  “Will you marry me?”

  He gripped the edges of the tub, staring at her. Nalia cocked her head to the side, waiting. A birdlike gesture he now realized she must have picked up from Thatur in childhood. There was no jinni worthy of her, least of all Raif. And no jinni could possibly rule by her side. There was no one in the realm who—

  Tazlim, a voice inside him whispered. Tazlim is worthy. The realization threatened to crush Raif. Gods, why hadn’t he thought of it before, how perfect they’d be? His courtly elegance, his ferocity on the battlefield . . . With Kesmir gone, the way was clear for Nalia—Taz was already devoted to her, though it would take him centuries to fall in love again. No matter. Royal marriages weren’t about love—they were a partnership forged to govern a people well. Raif had demonstrated his inability to lead three times in this day alone: near suicide during the battle, giving up his position leading the tavrai so he could wallow in his grief, and drawing a line that not one of his soldiers was willing to cross. No, he couldn’t govern by her side.

  Raif had lived through her death: knowing she was alive was all that mattered now. This would be one more thing he’d sacrifice for the realm. For her future happiness. Wasn’t he used to that?

  There was a gentle splash of water as Nalia raised her hand and tilted his chin up. Her eyes were ancient and strange and devastatingly familiar.