Through the widening space before him, Kes could see an endless desert flooded with moonlight. Instead of the sheer drop that had occupied the space before the cliff, a gaping doorway had materialized. It wasn’t nearly as large as the old portal—that one had been more like a border than a single passage—but it would do the trick.
Calar crossed to the very edge of the cliff. She lifted her foot, then tilted forward. Her heeled slipper sank into Earth’s sand. She gave a cry of delight, then jumped through the portal. Kes stayed where he was, watching. She turned her eyes on him, incandescent in her victory.
Calar in one world, Kes in another. It was an apt metaphor for what they had become.
24
RAIF FOLLOWED SHIRIN THROUGH THE CROWDED streets of the Ghaz, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, trying his best to avoid eye contact. There was a certain thrill to walking among the jinn, right under the noses of the Ifrit who patrolled the cobblestoned streets. Evading death filled Raif with grim satisfaction, one of the few pleasures left him. How many times had the Ifrit and Ghan Aisouri tried to kill him? And yet here he was, a free jinni. For the most part, Raif had had few occasions to come to the market. The tavrai had always insisted that he was too valuable, that it would be easier for Calar to capture him there, with so many spies mingling among the shoppers and merchants. But Yurik’s message had been clear: Raif needed to come, in person. He could have evanesced to the bartender’s rooms in the Third Wish, of course, but Raif was tired of skulking around. He needed to be among the people, in the thick of life. He needed to remember what he was fighting for, what tonight was all about.
Though evening approached, the streets were full of a bustling trade. They passed a bakery smelling of kees, flat loaves of bread dusted with sugar and spices. Steaming pots of chal sat atop tables where jinn sat and talked animatedly with one another while smoking rose-scented tobacco from water pipes. A toothless tiger ambled down the street, pulled along by a jinni not more than seven summers old. Strapped to its back was a crate of sugarberries.
“Wal’kai, wal’kai,” the boy called, hawking his fruit in a lilting voice.
A beggar playing a zhifir leaned against a wall, a small brass bowl hovering in the air beside him. Only a few passerby threw in a niba—most had none to spare. The song tugged at Raif, the memory of the last time he’d heard it tearing him open: staring across the fire at Nalia while Noqril played the song deep in the cave beneath the Sahara. He’d caught her eye and she’d looked away, then stood up and walked deeper into the cave. He’d followed her, down a long, dark tunnel, coming out into a cavern filled with glow worms.
“. . . Raif?”
He started, disoriented as he fell out of the past.
“What? Sorry.”
Shirin shook her head. “Never mind.”
He dug into his pocket and threw a niba into the bowl. The musician nodded his head in thanks as he continued to play.
Soon enough, they were turning into the Vein. Raif could have found it with his eyes closed, so bad was the stench. Other than that, it wasn’t entirely unlike the jinn souk in Morocco—he could see why the jinn on Earth had chosen Marrakech as the hub of their life in exile.
“You think Yurik knows what just happened?” he asked Shirin as the Third Wish’s sign came into view.
That sound, like a human bomb without an explosion. The earth shook and yet the jolt had come from the sky, not the earth. The aurora had begun to undulate, then whirl, like water in a fast-moving current. His scouts had been just as confused as Raif. Nobody knew what it was, though he was certain Calar was behind it somehow, probably creating another horror in her dungeons at the Cauldron. He hoped Yurik had answers. Usually Shirin handled everything between the tavrai and the jack-of-all-trades bartender. Pouring drinks was only a small bit of what Yurik did on a daily basis—Raif knew that. The Ifrit left Yurik alone because they relied on the Wish for information just as much as everyone else. It was the hub of Arjinnan social life, the jewel of the Ghaz, the beating heart of the Vein. Raif wasn’t happy with how much Shirin had come to depend on Yurik since he’d gone to Earth. He didn’t trust the jinni, not entirely. Yurik worked alone, which meant he had no code to follow, no allegiance to guide his decisions and transactions. No counsel. This was dangerous and unpredictable and it made Raif wary.
And yet. Taz had told him that Yurik was the one helping Aisouri infants to escape detection. And that he’d once been on the dark caravan. Nalia would have liked him for those two reasons alone. Which was why Raif was willing to work with him now, trusting Yurik to be part of their plans for Calar, the prison—all of it.
Shirin pushed open the door to the Wish. The place was packed with patrons sipping from goblets of savri, their conversation a din that filled the room. A few looked up as Raif and Shirin crossed the threshold, but it was only a quick glance. Customers at the Wish knew never to look at anyone too closely.
The area behind the bar was empty, but moments later, Yurik pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, carrying a tray with plates of steaming food and a pot of chal. He served the food to his customers, then nodded toward the stairs. Without a word, Raif and Shirin followed the bartender to his room.
“What’s going on?” Raif asked as he closed the door behind him, waving away the cup of tea Yurik offered. “The sky—”
“The portal’s open,” Yurik said. He smiled, but there was a deep sadness there—which didn’t make sense. This was the best news Raif had heard in a year.
“You’re not smiling,” Shirin said, watching Yurik. “Why? Isn’t this what you wanted—what we’ve all wanted?”
The magic, the power such an act would have required . . . and then Raif understood why Yurik looked so unhappy.
“What did Calar do to open the portal?”
His stomach twisted. Anything involving Calar always came with a high price—one she rarely seemed to pay herself.
“A hundred prisoners from Ithkar were taken away early this morning by a regiment of Ifrit,” Yurik said. “No one knows what happened to them, but then the portal opened. . . .”
“Fire and blood,” Shirin cursed. “Just one more day and we would have . . .” She turned away from them, hands on her hips. Those were prisoners who were supposed to be freed tonight.
Yurik watched her, silent. Not for the first time, Raif wondered what was going on between these two.
A burst of red evanescence filled the room and Shirin cried out, drawing her scimitar while emerald chiaan immediately began to spill from Raif’s fingertips.
“Wait!” Yurik yelled, stepping into Raif’s line of fire, palms out.
“It’s me,” said a familiar voice in the smoke. Then a body, a face with a scar across its cheek. Exhausted eyes.
Kesmir.
“Godsdammit, Kes.” Raif’s heart was racing—he’d been so convinced for that split second that Yurik had conspired against them. An ambush, death above a tavern, not on the battlefield.
“Apologies,” Kes said.
Shirin glared at Yurik, her fierce eyes full of hurt. “Since when are you friendly with the Ifrit?”
Shirin had never accepted Kes, though Raif had long ago, against his own will at first and then, gradually, because he’d come to respect him.
Yurik calmly poured himself a cup of chal. “We have a mutual concern,” he said as a silent, heavy look passed between Kesmir and himself.
Raif looked from one jinni to the other. “Somebody better start explaining. About the portal, about whatever mutual concerns you two have. Now.”
“I already told them about the portal,” Yurik said.
“What happened to those prisoners?” Raif asked.
Kesmir crossed to the fire roaring in the stone fireplace and placed his palms against the flames to replenish his chiaan. As he spoke, his voice was heavy. “She killed them,” Kes said. “Sacrificed them to Mora.”
“So you just let them die?” Shirin growled.
&nbs
p; Kes narrowed his eyes. “Everything I do is to dethrone her, to bide my time until I can kill her. I take no pleasure in the loss of life, and being in that room was . . .” He trailed off, the horror in his eyes saying everything. “I know you don’t like me,” Kes said to her. “And, frankly, I don’t like you. But please do me the service of shutting the fuck up. I’m doing the best I can.”
Raif had to bite back his smile. How many times had he wanted to say that himself to Shirin? Yurik, though, stiffened.
“Careful there, brother,” he said softly.
Yes, Raif thought, there was definitely something between the tavern owner and Shirin. He wished she could see it.
Kes sighed, frustrated. “I don’t have much time,” he said. “There’s a lot to discuss.”
“I believe, now that the portal has reopened, I can be of service to you,” Yurik said.
Raif nodded. “The tunnel.”
“Precisely,” Yurik agreed.
For years Yurik had been the gatekeeper of a secret tunnel that began beneath the Wish and ended at the portal. Countless serfs had escaped their masters this way, running from their plantations in the dead of night. Raif himself had used it once or twice. It was an incredible feat, hundreds of miles of dirt that had to be moved with magic and sweat. It had been there since before Yurik’s time, a secret he’d inherited from the jinni who’d owned the Wish long before him.
“Calar wants to act as quickly as possible,” Kes said. “She’s transporting jinn from the prison to Earth to sell in exchange for arms.”
Fire and blood. The dark caravan would be up and running once again—of course.
“It’s not going to work,” Raif said, remembering the blur of events in Los Angeles, when Nalia had been trying to steal her bottle from Malek. “The main supplier for your guns is no longer in the business.”
It was one of the things Nalia had insisted on doing before she left Earth. She’d refused to go back to Arjinna until she’d done all she could to end the caravan. Convincing Sergei, the human wishmaker who controlled the human arms trade, to stop working with the Ifrit had been a start.
Kesmir smiled, sad. “Yes, we know this. Unfortunately, there are many humans who are interested in the business arrangement the Ifrit offer.”
Nalia had worked so hard to stop the caravan—there was no way it was growing under Raif’s watch. He had to find a way to keep the prisoners from being sent to Earth.
“How is she getting the jinn for the dark caravan to Earth—bottles?” Raif asked.
“Yes,” Kes said. “Calar has already put half the prisoners into bottles. Not all the prisoners in Ithkar—just the ones she thinks are most likely to fetch a good . . . price.” At least, Raif thought, Kes had the good grace to be ashamed. He doubted he’d always been, though. Raif had grown friendly with the Ifrit general, but he’d never forgotten all the ways Kes had turned a blind eye to—or assisted in—Calar’s evil schemes. “She’s having the traders transport them—tonight,” Kes continued.
“She doesn’t waste time, does she?” Shirin muttered.
“We need to get those bottles before the traders get their hands on them,” Raif said. “There’s no way I’m letting Calar start the caravan again.”
There were already hundreds of jinn trapped with their masters on Earth who still needed to be freed. Maybe that was what Raif could do after the war—leave this realm behind him, do Nalia’s work for her. His heart lifted a little for the first time in a year.
“Agreed.” Shirin sat on the edge of the small room’s only table, a thoughtful expression on her face. “What if we let Calar transport the jinn out of the prison—do the hard work for us—then intercept the traders on Earth’s side of the portal?” she asked. “We could send any tavrai we can spare through the portal in the next few hours.”
Raif grinned. “Raiga, you’re brilliant! Yes. That’s what we’ll do.”
Shirin blushed and Yurik fixed Raif with a scowl. “That’s a pretty big risk. The traders aren’t easy prey,” he said. “And you’d be fighting three separate battles: one on Earth, one at the prison, and one at the castle.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have two armies at my disposal,” Raif said, “and an Ifrit rebellion to take care of the palace. I think we can handle a few skag traders. The prison—well, that’s another matter.”
“What time are the traders taking the jinn through?” Yurik asked.
“Not for several more hours,” Kes said. “We have time, but we’ll have to be quick.”
Shirin turned to Kes. “Is the portal heavily guarded?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“That needs to change,” Raif said. He crossed to the tray of chal and poured himself a cup. “I’ll need the portal free of guards, so I can send some tavrai through in the next few hours. We’ll need your help on this side when the traders go through. Guards sympathetic to the cause who will kill any traders who come back sounding an alarm. Can you make that happen?”
Kes hesitated, then nodded. “The traders used to always go through around midnight. Even though we’ll have friendly guards, I wouldn’t have your tavrai evanesce there—lookouts on the Qaf will see your smoke.”
“Hence, the tunnel,” Yurik said.
Kes glanced out the window. “I need to get back to the palace before Calar realizes I’m gone. I’ll fill in my soldiers, find the right guards for the portal—we’ll be ready.”
“One more thing.” Raif glanced at Yurik. “Are you up for a little more traffic in your tunnel tonight?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“The Dhoma aren’t the only jinn who want to leave the realm,” he said. Zanari would get what she wanted, after all. A new life on Earth, at Phara’s side, living with the Dhoma. The thought made him happy and relieved. She would be out of range of Calar’s shadows. She’d have a chance at a life with her rohifsa. “I’d like my sister to guide anyone who wants to leave through the tunnel: the elderly, children—whoever. We can put them in bottles, just like the traders do. Then we’d only need a few jinn to make the crossing. They’ll carry the bottles, just like we did for the Brass Army in the cave on Earth.”
Yurik frowned. “Do we have to do this tonight? There’s so much else—”
“If things don’t go as we hope,” Raif said, “we won’t have another chance to get anyone through the portal.”
Because we’ll all be dead, he thought.
“Wait. Let me get this straight,” Shirin said, her voice shaking. “You’re saying that we’ll help anyone who wants to go, even if they can fight?”
Raif nodded. “Yes.”
“Raif. That’s crazy. We need all the help we can get—”
“We’re fighting for freedom—that includes the freedom to choose the battles we fight.”
“Raif—”
“Vi fazla ra’ahim,” he said softly. You are a sword. Nothing more.
They looked at each other for a long moment; then she placed her hand over her heart in the tavrai salute, eyes hard. “As you wish, Commander.” She spit out the words—a bad taste in her mouth—before throwing another angry look Kes’s way. She stalked out of the room and as soon as she slammed the door behind her, the air seemed to lighten.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” Yurik said to Raif.
“Don’t give up on her,” Raif said softly.
He hoped Yurik understood the sentiment behind the words: You love her in a way I never can.
Yurik threw a yearning glance at the door, then shook his head. “Gods be with you in the battle, Raif.”
He grabbed the tea tray and waited for Shirin’s stomping on the stairs to end, then swept out of the room. Raif moved to follow, but Kes stopped him, a hand on his arm. He shut the door behind Yurik, then stepped closer to Raif.
“There’s something you need to know,” Kesmir said. “I wanted to wait until the last minute to tell you and it seems that last minute has arrived.”
What
else could he possibly be hiding? “Out with it, Kes.”
“I have a daughter.”
Raif’s eyes widened. It was hard to imagine the Ifrit commander as a father. Not just because he was so young. Raif couldn’t picture a baby in his arms, a child calling him Papa. It changed his whole idea of who Kes was.
“With Calar?” Raif asked.
Kesmir nodded.
“Better you than me, brother,” Raif said.
“Yes, well . . .” Kes looked away, frowning. He seemed to be fighting a battle with himself.
“Kes. I know that we . . . I guess you could say we got off on the wrong foot last year.”
Kes’s mouth quirked up. “To put it mildly.”
“Yes.” Raif rested his hand on the Ifrit general’s shoulder. “What I’m saying is, you can trust me.”
“I know. It’s just . . . my child is unlike most children.”
“She messing with minds, too?” Gods, another Calar.
Kes shook his head. “She’s . . .” He pitched his voice even lower, and when his eyes met Raif’s they were fearful. “She’s a Ghan Aisouri.”
Raif stared. “What did you just say?” he breathed.
“My daughter is a Ghan Aisouri.”
There were no words.
“That was my reaction, too, when the healer placed her in my arms.”
Raif shook his head, ran his hands over his face. “Just . . . give me a minute, brother.”
There were so many thoughts, so many questions and feelings going through him, Raif didn’t know where to start. He stood, pacing. Kes watched him, silent.
“What does Calar . . . think . . . about her daughter being what she is?” Raif asked. “I would have thought . . .”
“That she’d kill her?” Kes finished. Raif nodded. “I know. I considered taking my daughter and just running. I can’t explain it, but the feeling I had when I saw her—I’d known her for a few seconds and I was already willing to do anything for her.” Kes swallowed. “Anything. But there was no time—Calar was already sitting up, holding out her arms.”