Freedom's Slave

“Will you marry me?” she asked again.

  “No,” he said softly. It was the hardest thing he’d ever said.

  Nalia’s eyes widened in shock, her voice drowned in hurt. “No?”

  Why did that one word feel like he’d reached into his chest and ripped out his own heart?

  “You need to rest. We can talk about this later.” He manifested a towel and handed it to her, turning away because the pain on her face was too much to bear. Gods, he was so confused. He loved her so much, what was he saying, where were these thoughts coming from? It was insane, the idea of him being an emperor. He didn’t even like his soldiers to call him sir—how could he bear being called My Emperor?

  Nalia grabbed the towel he held out to her and threw it to the floor. “Later? No, you don’t get to tell me you won’t marry me and then just go back to sleep. Why, why would you do this?” Her voice broke and he watched his stubborn, strong girl force the tears in her eyes to keep from falling. It made him fall even harder for her.

  “I’m no emperor,” he said, meeting her furious gaze. He put his hands on her shoulders. “I love you. I love you with every breath I will ever take, I will serve you until my dying day. But me on a throne beside you? No. Tazlim, maybe—”

  “Tazlim? What are you— Raif.”

  She closed her eyes and took a breath. Then she slid forward and pulled him against her. She was strong—stronger than he imagined a jinni living off nothing but hallucinogenic leaves for a year could be. The shock of her against him, with not a single layer between them, was too much. There was no resisting this, her. He’d been a fool to think it possible, even for a minute.

  “You once told me,” she said, her voice no louder than a sigh, “that I could belong to someone without them owning me.”

  He remembered: the cave full of glowworms, making love on a carpet of moss.

  “We belong to each other,” she whispered against his lips.

  He couldn’t concentrate, not with her pressed against him like that. It’d been so long since he’d felt anything. Since she’d returned, all those months of suspended desire had been rushing through him, making up for lost time. He gasped as she pressed her palm against his heart, unprepared, as usual, by the intensity of her chiaan. It was dipped in lightning, a new magic forged in the desert sands of Morocco, sharpened by grief in the Eye and the tutelage of a mythical creature. He was a godsdamn fool for even considering a life that wasn’t by her side. The real sacrifice, he realized, wasn’t giving up the position of power she offered him. It was being willing to go against everything he believed in, to wear a crown on his head, if it meant he could have her for himself. If it meant he could serve the realm in a better way, however unexpected it was.

  “Stubborn as ever, I see,” he said, repeating Thatur’s words.

  “So I’m told.” She grinned—she’d won and she knew it. Nalia moved her lips to his ear. “Marry me,” she whispered.

  He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, her chin, her forehead. His emerald Djan eyes met her violet Aisouri ones.

  A soft smile played on his face. “As you wish.”

  Her entire face lit up. “That’s a yes. Yes?”

  He laughed and pulled her deeper into the warmth of the water. “Yes, Nalia. I’ll marry you.”

  38

  Nalia stands at the top of Mount Zhiqui, gazing to the north. In one hand, she holds the Amethyst Crown, its gems sparkling in the moonlight. In the other, her fingers grip her Aisouri dagger. The Ifrit territory lies before her, a patchwork of gray, black, and red. Volcanoes spit fire into the sky and the smoke and ash that lie like a blanket covering the peaks and valleys have turned the Three Widows crimson—open sores that bleed over the land.

  The smoke suddenly clears and Ithkar comes into impossible focus. Deep inland, a castle made entirely of volcanic rock looms above the landscape, the specter of what an Arjinna ruled by the Ifrit would look like. Its sharp angles give it the appearance of a Gothic cathedral. This, Nalia knows, is the Cauldron—Calar’s former seat of power. She’s heard stories of it many times, described to her by the older Aisouri who’ve flown above it on their gryphons during late-night raids and surprise attacks.

  Certainty settles over Nalia as she gazes at the land. She will build her kingdom from the ashes. Set this realm on fire.

  “It begins here,” she says.

  The moons flicker in response.

  Nalia awoke, eyes wide. It begins here.

  In Ithkar, of all places. The Brass Army wasn’t going to like this at all.

  The candles in Raif’s ludeen had burned out, but the moonlight beamed through the bottle-glass windows that had been fashioned into all four walls of the ludeen, bathing the room in a colorful display of light. Raif lay beside her on his stomach, one arm flung over her middle. He was clean-shaven now, once again resembling the Raif she’d fallen in love with. Their clothing littered the floor and the bathtub stood in the middle of the room, the water long gone cold.

  The ludeen creaked in the wind, like a ship at sea, and the branches of the widr tree it was nestled in swayed like the gentle lapping of waves.

  Raif opened his eyes, a soft smile spreading across his face. “You’re still here,” he said.

  She brought her lips to his forehead. “I’m still here.”

  He tilted his chin up and kissed the tip of her nose. “And we’re getting married.”

  “Oh, good, I was afraid you’d change your mind,” she teased.

  He shifted onto his back. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  She crawled on top of him and rested her head on his chest. “Not a chance.”

  Nalia had known from Raif’s hesitation after those words left her mouth—Will you marry me?—that he was fighting a war inside. Love versus Duty. Self versus Sacrifice. Not once did she imagine he didn’t love her enough to say yes. Which was why there’d been no way she was getting out of that bathtub until she knew Raif Djan’Urbi was going to be her husband.

  “Raif?”

  “Hmmmm?” He was still half asleep, drawing lazy circles on her back.

  “It offends the tavrai to see me here. This is the only part of Arjinna they call their own and they’ve fought hard for it.” She propped her chin up so she could see him better. “I won’t deny them their sovereignty. There will be no more fighting between us, no more death. We’ll form a kingdom in exile. Calar took my throne . . . so I’ll take hers.”

  There was a momentary heavy silence.

  “You want us to go to Ithkar,” Raif said, going still.

  Nalia nodded. I will build my kingdom from the ashes.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he said. “That place is a wasteland.”

  “Exactly,” Nalia said. She slid off Raif and sat up. “There’s plenty of space. A castle for us to set up in. And the best part—Calar won’t be expecting it.”

  “That’s . . .” Raif paused, considering. She could tell he was working it out, all the pros and cons, as though it were a battle. Coming up with a strategy, logistics. Finally, he nodded. “That’s actually kind of brilliant—even if it is hot as all hells there. And if this meeting with the tavrai goes as badly as I think it will, we’ll have a place to go.” He held up a finger. “Which reminds me.”

  Raif opened a small drawer in the bedside table and handed her the sigil. “I need you to keep this on you, Nal.”

  “Raif, I carried it for a year so I could give it to you.”

  “Think of it as . . . an engagement present,” he said.

  She snorted. “I don’t want it. Give me something pretty. Give me nothing at all.”

  “There was a reason I put it in your safekeeping to begin with,” he said. She started to speak, but he gently put his fingers over her mouth. “Before you say it—I’m glad I didn’t have it while you were in the Eye. I probably would have used it and gotten all of us killed in the process. And if you can manage to keep hold of it in the homeland of the ghouls, I’d say you
’re the best candidate for the job, wouldn’t you?”

  “If the tavrai find out, they’ll be furious.”

  “They already are furious.”

  She sighed. “There’s no other choice?” Nalia didn’t want it against her skin anymore. It felt cold, evil.

  “You’re the one who can grab bolts of lightning from the sky,” Raif said, planting a kiss on her head. “I think it will always be safest with you. And hopefully someday soon, we can get rid of it.”

  He was right. Nalia reached up and took the leather strand the ring hung from and once again placed it around her neck. The ring rested beside the white feather, burnished gold against snow white.

  Raif ran his fingertips along the feather. “Why do you think the phoenix gave this to you?”

  “I don’t know. But she never did anything without a reason.” Nalia hadn’t had time to think of the why—she’d been grateful for the reminder of the creature who’d saved her life, and a reminder of all that she’d seen in her visions.

  “We should talk to your father. Maybe he’ll know something about it,” Raif said.

  She nodded. Her father was one of the most learned scholars in the land. If he didn’t know what the feather meant, then no one did.

  A knock sounded on the door and he groaned.

  “Is it always like this?” she asked. “People knocking on your door at all hours?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.” He smiled, rueful. “No one’s exactly used to me having company.”

  Nalia burrowed farther into the warm bed. “I’m not getting out this time.”

  He slipped out of bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “I wouldn’t let you even if you wanted to.”

  He threw on some clothes and then crossed to the door, taking one more longing look at her before heading out. She heard voices, but they were too quiet for her to recognize them.

  “What’s going on?” she asked sleepily as Raif came back in. He tugged on his boots and tied the laces before coming over to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Shirin’s finally calmed down, thank gods,” Raif said. “It’s been years since I’ve seen her that angry. We’re gonna try to talk everything through before the meeting.”

  “Talk it through? Raif, she wanted to hang you.” Nalia sat up. “Let me come with you, at least.”

  Raif gently pushed her back against the pillows. “This is how Shirin is. I’ve known her since I was ten summers old. She loses her temper, tries to cut down everyone around her; then she cools off and we pick up where we left off.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Nalia said, doubtful.

  “Shirin knows the tavrai can’t fight Calar and the Brass Army. She’s a good leader. She knows that in order not to destroy her army, she has to accept ours.”

  “What about me being the empress?”

  Raif sighed. “I’ll try to explain about what you saw in the Eye. That might help. But . . . yeah, she’s never gonna be okay with that.”

  “It’s just you two?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He smiled and kissed her gently. “I’ll be fine, rohifsa. Now go back to sleep.”

  After a few minutes it was quiet again on the porch. Raif didn’t come back and she soon fell asleep, seduced by the softness of the bed, the clean sheets.

  Nalia awoke to the door bursting open. She sat bolt upright, forgetting her lack of clothing. Thatur immediately covered his eyes with a wing. “For the love of the gods, child!” he growled, forgetting his courtly manners.

  “What happened?” Nalia asked, panicked. She reached out a hand and a tunic lying on the floor hurtled toward her.

  “It’s Raif,” he said. “I think he’s being ambushed.”

  “What?”

  “He went into the woods for a talk with Shirin and then I noticed that Jaqar fellow—”

  “Take me to him,” she said. “Now.”

  Shirin couldn’t look Raif in the eye. It was the first time she’d ever been truly ashamed of herself.

  What am I doing? she thought. In what universe was it okay for her to hold a gun to Raif Djan’Urbi’s head?

  She’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, that Raif would be in possession of the ring and that he’d simply be outnumbered, without any choice but to give up the sigil. But in her heart she knew that Jaqar’s plan would play out. Nalia had the ring. Nalia would die. Shirin knew it would feel bad, but actually being here, doing this to him . . .

  “She won’t give you the ring,” Raif said quietly.

  He hadn’t bothered to fight her. That had been the worst part. Raif had been so eager to make up, so quick to believe Shirin wanted to mend their rift, that he’d agreed to take a walk, had gone so far as to tell Thatur, who’d been guarding his ludeen, that he’d be fine. The relief on his face when Shirin said she was sorry, that she’d lost her temper and of course she wouldn’t have him hanged, had made her sick to her stomach. Making things right mattered so much to him—she mattered so much to him. Why couldn’t she see that before?

  Shirin had even produced a few tears. Those, she was certain, had sealed the deal. Shirin Djan’Khar did not cry easily. He’d believed her because she’d always given him every reason to trust her. He’d believed her because she knew that the last thing he wanted was to lose the ragtag family of soldiers he’d grown up with. And he’d believed her because he knew she loved him. Perhaps that was his biggest mistake, thinking that love wouldn’t make someone do horrible, desperate things to the person who didn’t love them back.

  Raif had always fought with his heart, not his head.

  She’d taken him to the small, secluded clearing where they’d once trained together in the early mornings. Shirin had come to think of it as their space and no one else’s. The hurt, the shock in his eyes when Jaqar and the others took hold of Raif, the way she could see the jinni she loved realize what a fool he’d been, that he’d tied his own noose—she’d rather die than see that again.

  “I think she’ll give us the ring,” Shirin said. “And I think you know that, too.”

  This awful plan would work, if only because if she were Nalia, if she had something that would keep Raif alive, she’d give it away in a heartbeat. But there was no point in telling Raif that. This betrayal, there was no coming back from it.

  “Would you really kill me?” he asked.

  The uncertainty in his voice hurt. He didn’t know if he could trust Shirin with his life anymore. By turning on him, by conspiring against Raif, she was already breaking her blood pledge. Her word, it meant nothing now. It was as if all those days and nights of fighting side by side had amounted to nothing. One choice had wiped everything they had away.

  No, she wanted to say. Of course I’m not going to kill you. But Nalia doesn’t need to know that. Jaqar had only been able to convince her this plan would work because when Nalia looked at Raif, Shirin could see the ferocious, undying love that she herself felt for him. The kind of love that nothing, not even the gods, could take away. That jinni would do anything for him. It was the only reason Shirin had agreed to Jaqar’s plan in the first place.

  But now that she was here, all Shirin could see was how she’d been played, how stupid she’d been. This time she’d acted with her heart, not her head. They were going about this the wrong way. This was how the Ifrit did things.

  Would you really kill me, he’d asked her.

  “How many traitors have you seen me execute, Raif?” she said.

  “I’m not a traitor, Shirin. Everything I do is for the realm.”

  “No, everything you do is for her.”

  “It’s the same thing,” he said.

  “That’s the problem, Raif: it’s not the same thing.”

  There was a commotion in the stand of trees across from where Shirin stood with Raif and, a moment later, Nalia burst into the clearing, followed by Taz, Thatur, and Touma.

  “Raif!” His name was a strangled cry that broke from her lips.

  He smiled, soft. “I’m sor
ry, rohifsa.”

  It was the calm certainty that radiated from him that was Shirin’s first clue that none of this would play out as she and Jaqar had expected. Raif had already fought whatever battle had been coming—Shirin just wasn’t certain what the outcome of it was.

  Nalia and Raif stared at each other, silent.

  Jaqar sauntered toward Nalia, a smug smile on his face. He was followed by a dozen of his toughest fighters, each holding a semiautomatic weapon stolen from the Ifrit. “As you can see,” he said to Nalia, “we aren’t so easily dismissed.”

  “You were never dismissed,” she said, her eyes glued to the gun pressed against Raif’s temple.

  “That,” Jaqar said, crossing to stand beside Raif and Shirin, “is a matter of opinion. It’s very simple: give me the ring or Raif dies.”

  “Your logic is faulty,” Thatur growled. “If that boy dies, Nalia will kill each and every one of you and still be in possession of the ring. You’ll lose everything.”

  Violet chiaan seeped out of Nalia’s clenched fists and Jaqar pointed his gun at her. “She may be the most powerful jinni in the realms, but she’s just a pile of skin, blood, and bones if one of these things has its fill of her. No jinni is as fast as a human gun. She knows this. She saw that with her own eyes in the palace. And if he dies, she loses everything, too.” He smiled at Nalia. “Don’t you?”

  Uncertainty pooled in Shirin’s stomach. She’d assumed Nalia would bargain and yet she just stood there in silent conversation with Raif.

  For the first time since Nalia had walked into the Forest of Sighs, Shirin realized just how much she’d let her broken heart take over: What am I doing?

  Did Shirin want Jaqar to have the ring? Did she want it? No. She’d been so angry at Raif, so jealous of Nalia, that she hadn’t been able to see straight, to think any of this through. She’d never once thought about what would happen to the ring after it was in Jaqar’s hands. Shirin’s eyes swept over the jinn gathered at the temple. Nalia and her guard were outnumbered three to one. Jaqar’s forces had guns; Nalia had none. Formidable as her power was, it wouldn’t be enough. That was what Shirin and Jaqar had counted on. The chances of both Raif and Nalia coming out of this alive were slim. The chances of either of them coming out of this alive were slim.