Freedom's Slave

  “Agreed.”

  It was time to end this war, time to build, and heal, and grow, but Nalia couldn’t do that until she was ready to face Calar. Though Calar had refrained from using her shadows, she’d employed a different strategy, one that wore Nalia down as surely as any battle could: hahm’alah, the magic of true names.

  She hadn’t been surprised when Calar began using the ancient form of communication between jinn. Usually only a jinni’s parents, siblings, children, and spouse ever knew a given jinni’s name, but Calar had stolen Nalia’s true name out of Bashil’s head—it was how she’d been able to trick Nalia while in Morocco, using the name to lure Nalia to a secluded location deep in Marrakech’s souk. She used it now to torture Nalia day and night, a barrage of hateful images Nalia could never return because she herself did not know Calar’s true name. Nalia would feel a slight tug on her heart and have no choice but to see whatever Calar sent her.

  Bashil, convulsing on the ground.

  A pile of dead Aisouri, after the coup.

  Calar, torturing a tavrai messenger.

  On and on they came. They kept her up at night so that she was forced to roam the onyx halls of the Cauldron, the very walls of which seemed to bleed evil energy. The torches on the wall cast sinister shadows and the heat suffocated her, mist from the volcano slipping through the windows, coating the walls with moisture so that they constantly sweated. There were rooms Nalia avoided, either because the energy was too dark or what was inside them too vile. Raif always found her at some point, drawing her back to bed, staying up with her until she fell asleep.

  She was absolutely exhausted. The fight with the tavrai, the move across the realm—it had taken more out of Nalia than she wanted Raif or anyone else to know. The Ifrit stronghold was full of jinn: Kesmir’s recruits who’d defected from the Ifrit army, Brass soldiers running messages, Nalia’s advisers. She couldn’t walk down the hall without being consulted on one matter or another.

  And then, of course, there was the ring. Nalia rested her forehead in her hand, elbow propped up on the throne.

  “Are you ill, My Empress?” Taz asked with concern.

  “I don’t know. Tired, I guess.” She placed a hand on Taz’s arm. “How’s Yasri?”

  Taz had recently tried to explain death to her, what it meant that her father was in the godlands.

  “She’s doing as well as can be expected. She misses Kes something terrible.” He looked down at his hands, his mouth tightening. “As do I.”

  “It won’t get better,” Nalia said, “not for a long time. But he gave you a gift in her, I think.”

  “She makes me laugh.” Taz shook his head, wondering. “Even when I’m in the worst place, worrying that Kes wasn’t burned . . . She’s a sweet girl. Sometimes . . .” He hesitated. “Sometimes it hurts to look at her. She’s so like him.”

  “And her mother?”

  “That I don’t know. Yasri asks after her sometimes, but not too often.” He smiled at Nalia. “She keeps pointing to her eyes, asking about you: Nah-la. Nah-la.”

  Nalia laughed. It was adorable how her little Ghan Aisouri sister couldn’t quite say Nalia’s name. “Bring her to me sometimes, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the boy—are they getting along?”

  Taz had told her about a child who had been of great assistance to Kesmir—Quan. He’d been brought to Ithkar not long after Kesmir’s death and was now in Taz’s care.

  He nodded. “He’s like a big brother to her. I’m grateful for them both.” Taz stood and bowed. “Anything else I can do?”

  “Oh, Taz, you’ve done so much. No, thank you. I’m fine.” He raised his eyebrows. “Really, I am.”

  “I have it on good authority that Thatur won’t have time to train you today. Every now and then, I believe an empress is allowed to take a nap.”

  “You know what? That’s a good idea.”

  He spread his hands. “My job is to provide wise counsel, is it not?”

  She followed him out of the throne room and headed down the hallway to the rooms set aside for her and Raif. She’d magicked them to look like their tent in Morocco, the only comfort they had in the nightmarish palace. Few jinn had skills like Nalia’s. The ability to create and maintain an illusion such as this was something learned from Shaitan mages, most of whom Calar had killed. There were still so many jinn who were unable to manifest some of the most basic necessities, though Nalia was trying to fix that. Small classes were now being held, taught by the few Shaitan in their ranks. There was also a healthy bartering market, the jinn trading wishes to suit their needs.

  Nalia crawled onto the bed, curling up into a ball in its center. The sigil pulsed against her skin, keeping her awake. An incessant tapping. It wanted to be used and did not like being ignored. After a half hour of tossing and turning, unable to rid herself of the aching weariness because the godsdamn ring wouldn’t shut up, Nalia sat up in bed and pulled her Aisouri dagger from where she’d left it on a small table.

  “Enough,” she said into the empty room, to the ring, to Calar.

  Nalia held the dagger against her skin. One quick slice—maybe two, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get through the bone the first time.

  They’d tried everything to get the damned thing off her finger and now she was alone, reduced to tears, an unwilling master who was hated and feared by all but a handful of supporters and the Brass Army.

  It was as though she’d harnessed every jinni in the realm, turning them into beasts of burden she could move at will. She was terrified to say a word, fearful she’d accidentally force someone to obey a command. It was a curse, being a master. She didn’t want this power, wanted the ring off—lost at the bottom of the sea, melting in a volcano. It was sucking on her chiaan, this terrible leech of hers.

  Just as she began to press the razor-sharp blade against her index finger, the door to her quarters opened. “Nal, your father’s ready to—” Raif stopped, his eyes traveling from Nalia’s tear-stained face to the dagger in her hand. Then he went very, very still. “Look at me,” he said, gentle. “Sweet one, look at me.”

  She did. “I have to get it off, Raif. I can feel it, all the time, it’ll make me bad, it’ll make me like her—”

  “Rohifsa. I love you so much. I love every single bit of you, and if you cut off your finger, that will break my heart. Okay?” He moved toward her with tentative steps. She gripped the knife, paralyzed.

  Raif knelt down and placed his hand over the ring. His palm was warm and his chiaan calmed the terror galloping through her. “We’ll find a way,” he said “But this isn’t it.”

  He pulled the dagger out of her hand and Nalia fell against him as he gathered her up in his arms.

  “This wasn’t in the visions, me wearing the ring,” she said. She’d been obsessing over this, day and night. How had she diverted from the gods’ will? “I must have made a wrong step, I just, I don’t know. . . .”

  “Yasri wasn’t in the visions either, was she?”

  She paused, looking up at him. Raif was right—she hadn’t thought about that. And a poor role model she’d be for her Ghan Aisouri sister, cutting off her finger because she didn’t trust herself, because she was a little bit tired. Because she was embarrassed.

  “Nal, who knows what all that stuff in the Eye meant? You did the only thing you could—I’d be dead if you hadn’t.” Raif kissed her head, then helped her to stand. “First, savri. Then your father is going to fix this.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, drawing her toward a small table where a bottle of savri and glasses sat. “No big deal. I’m just never letting you out of my sight again.”

  She raised her eyebrows and he gave her a tiny wink. “Sit. Drink.”

  41

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, RAIF WAS GUIDING NALIA PAST the hideous tapestry of Ifrit exploits that lined the main hallway, which Nalia had
insisted they keep up as a reminder of the Ghan Aisouri’s misuse of power. The small tower where Ajwar Shai’Dzar conducted his experiments was at the back of the castle, far from the fortress’s bustle. As one of the foremost scholars in the land still living, he’d set himself the task of learning everything he could about the ring. The steep staircase that led to the tower had a banister made of interlocking bones that had been blackened by soot. Nalia went up the steps slowly, pulling up the long, flowing kaftan she wore. Raif was behind her, one hand on the small of her back. The door at the top of the stairs had a carving of a dragon’s gaping mouth.

  “Lovely people, the Ifrit shirzas,” Raif said.

  Nalia pushed open the door to the small room. Her father and Taz sat at a long table that held a pot of chal and several delicate tea glasses. They stood as she came into the room, respectful. Touma and Thatur remained standing, ever on alert. Despite being in the Cauldron, her father had managed to make it surprisingly comfortable. Colorful lamps he’d no doubt manifested himself hung from the ceiling. Candles, stuck to tables and shelves with their own dripping wax, were scattered throughout the room.

  “Ah, My Empress,” her father said as Raif shut the door behind them. Awkward and maimed, he motioned for Nalia to take the seat at the head of the table.

  My Empress. She was his daughter and yet he wasn’t comfortable using her first name, let alone terms of endearment.

  “Hello, Father,” she said, settling into the leather chair.

  She tried not to stare at his face, at what Calar had done to him. He was hardly recognizable. She wondered how excruciating the pain had been, how he’d managed to survive it. There hadn’t been much time for discussion, and so for days they’d remained strangers to one another, just as they’d always been. Until they talked about Bashil. They’d cried together over his death and he shared stories of her brother that Nalia had never heard. It had been a sweet hurt, learning of her brother’s antics on the plantation her father owned. But when they weren’t reminiscing about Bashil, there was little for them to discuss and so they remained formal with each other, as though they were still in the palace, at court.

  Nalia had never known quite how to speak with her father. Before the coup, she saw him infrequently, a phantom she shared certain traits with, one who occasionally came to court but spent most of his time at the palace locked in the library with the other scholars. She’d seen his plantation only once, on a routine patrol with the Aisouri. They’d never shown one another affection. Nalia did not love him, nor, she supposed, he her. But she was nevertheless overjoyed that he’d survived Calar’s wrath and grateful to Thatur for keeping him alive.

  Now she sat across from him, drinking chal, the earthiness of the Arjinnan tea a balm. A plate of food sat on the table—fresh fruit her father had manifested, along with warm bread and hard-boiled eggs. A tureen of soup sat steaming beside a stack of bowls—cardamom and rose and lentils, her favorite. Did her father know that? Or was it his favorite too?

  Taz stood and began pouring soup into the bowls while Thatur gave Raif a rundown about training and Touma updated him on security. Taz passed a bowl to Nalia, and she sighed in contentment as the fragrant soup slid down her throat.

  “Do you know,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today.”

  Touma shook his head as he glanced at her over Raif’s shoulder. “This is not good, My Empress.”

  “He’s right,” Taz agreed. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  A smile flitted across Nalia’s face. “I did manage to survive a year without meals.”

  Ajwar turned to her. “When there’s time, I would love to hear more about this heart plant.”

  Raif sat down beside her, resting his scimitar on the table. “What do we do about this ring?” he asked, dispensing, as he always did, with small talk. “It’s becoming unbearable for her.”

  “May I?” Ajwar asked, holding out his hand.

  Nalia hesitated for a moment, then nodded, reaching toward him. Her father gently took her hand into his own. His chiaan was curious and bright, an inquisitive energy that reminded her of Bashil. This moment was one of the few times he’d ever touched her.

  Ajwar inspected the ring and her hand for some minutes, mumbling to himself. Seemingly satisfied, he let go of her, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “It’s astounding magic,” he said with the awe of one of Earth’s scientists. “As you know, the overlords once had rings with a similar purpose. I myself had one—” He stopped, looking at Raif, apologetic. “A fact which I now greatly regret,” he added. “But those rings, they didn’t have a fraction of this one’s power.”

  “Can it be destroyed?” Nalia asked. “I mean, without having to cut off my hand.”

  “No one is cutting off your hand,” Raif said, tense.

  “If you were to cut off your hand, yes, I suppose you would no longer be able to control jinn with the ring,” Ajwar said. “But”—he reached over and lightly patted her hand—“this would not be a wise course of action.” He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I don’t believe it can be destroyed. I suspect Antharoe might have tried and failed. It would explain why she had to hide it on Earth. There are old diaries of hers I once had the privilege to read. She never said it directly, but her dismay over the existence of the ring leads me to believe that she would have destroyed it if she could. As far as my understanding goes, the ring only ever left Solomon’s hand after he’d died. To me, this suggests that the ring will not come off until you . . . well.”

  Nalia had heard several versions of the story on Earth, one of which described a host of slaves bowing before the Master King for nearly eighty years, following his last command. None of them knew that he’d been dead all that time until the ring slipped off his finger and clattered to the floor of his throne room. They’d had no idea they were free. His last command had been for them to bow before him, and so they had: for eighty years.

  “So I have to die?” she said, her voice high with panic. She could almost hear Malek’s voice: That’s absurd. I want a second opinion—someone kill this fool for wasting my time.

  Ajwar leaned forward, his eyes on Nalia’s. It hurt to look at them—those were Bashil’s eyes. “I’m intrigued by your vision at the lote tree. No jinn in the history of our race has ever been so fortunate. Truly, the gods were with you. Did you see the ring in your vision?”

  Nalia shook her head. “No. There was a point at which all I saw was gold light radiating from my hand. And Raif was beside me.”

  “A thought,” Taz said, leaning forward and looking down at the ring himself.

  “Of course, Tazlim,” her father said.

  Nalia knew the two of them spent countless hours studying the old texts together. It was Taz’s favorite thing to do, and Ajwar was the only other jinni in Ithkar with the passion—and aptitude—for such tasks.

  “We’ve been focusing on how to destroy the ring or take it off her finger. But what if we . . . separated the power itself from the object?” Taz said.

  “Isolate it,” Ajwar said to himself..

  “Somehow, the power to enslave was placed in the ring,” Taz said. “By Solomon’s god or a human mage—whoever made it.”

  “But if something can be put into the ring . . . ,” Nalia said, grinning at Taz.

  Raif’s eyes lit up. “It can be taken out.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair, heaving a relieved sigh. “I knew if I got the smartest people in the realm together, you’d figure something out.”

  “An extraction spell, yes?” Taz said, glancing at Ajwar.

  Ajwar studied the ring, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t think it’d be possible to take power out—it’s treating Nalia as a host, much like a parasite. The ring only works when worn—thus, by fusing with the wearer, it acts in its own self-interest, resisting anything that threatens it. In taking power out of the ring, we may accidentally extr
act her power, which puts her life at risk. However, I may be able to reverse the direction of the power.”

  He gently tapped his forefinger with his chin, deep in thought. Nalia swallowed the lump that formed in her throat—Bashil used to do that. She’d thought it was one of his little quirks, not something he’d picked up from their father.

  “What do you mean by ‘reverse’?” Raif asked.

  “Whoever wears the ring would be enslaved to all the jinn of the realm, rather than be their master,” Ajwar said.

  “No,” Raif immediately said. “We’re not doing that.”

  Yes. Yes, we are. Nalia felt a rush of recognition at her father’s words, a rightness. Of course. This was what the lote tree had been saying. She knew she’d have to give up her freedom for the realm—she’d just had no idea it would require this.

  The room was heavy with silence and Raif looked around, his expression incredulous. “We’re not doing that. It would kill her. They’d command Nalia to, I don’t know, jump into a volcano.” He turned to Nalia, eyes pleading. “Don’t tell me you’re actually considering this? Nal, you could barely handle one pardjinn master. This would be thousands of jinn masters, and most of them do not like you very much.”

  Nalia hated to see his pain, his worry. But Raif’s love for her was part of why his council couldn’t always be taken into consideration: he refused to put her in danger. As soon as her eyes met his, he cursed under his breath.

  Nalia glanced at Ajwar. “Can you do this?”

  He hesitated. “You must understand, this is incredibly difficult magic—the most advanced I’ve ever seen. I’d need time and . . . I honestly agree with Djan’Urbi on this. I don’t recommend it.”

  She felt Raif relax beside her.

  “When I was enslaved on Earth,” Nalia said, “my master had a painting of the lote tree in his office.”

  Ajwar raised his eyebrows. “A human knew of B’alai Lote?”

  “They have a different name for it: the Sidrat al-Muntaha. It’s located in the seventh heaven—the closest humans can get to Allah. Like us, humans believe that the lote tree is a way to get divine inspiration from their god.”