“I had to know what was in there.” Her voice turned cold. “If you’d been doing your job, perhaps I wouldn’t have needed to question him at all.”
Kes stiffened. “Do not put this on me,” he said, finally losing his temper. Ifrit blood ran hot and thick, rage always on the surface, unless held in check. There was only so much he could take before giving in to its siren song. “I told you what would happen if you continued like this.”
“Watch yourself,” she said softly.
“Or what—I’m next? Our daughter?” He turned his crimson eyes on her, not bothering to hide the disappointment in them. “The portal’s closed and that Ghan Aisouri nothing but a memory.” He forced himself to soften his voice. “You’ve won, my love. It’s time to stop fighting. Let’s build the world we’ve always wanted. We can—”
“That’s enough, General,” she snapped.
General? When had she ever called him that? He had always been Kesmir, her rohifsa, ever since the day they met, two children on the outskirts of a burned village.
Kes gave her a curt nod, his voice suddenly formal. “Apologies, My Empress.”
And when had he ever called her that, except in bed, the words spoken against her lips as he willingly obeyed her every command? They’d become strangers.
Kes pushed off the wall, but instead of moving closer to her, he crossed to the other end of the balcony.
“Your father . . .” He let his voice trail off.
This was very dangerous territory. But hadn’t she once said, Kes, don’t ever let me be like him? Kes would never forget how her father had hanged a little boy for stealing a piece of bread. How he’d beaten the Ifrit into submission with his notoriously cruel work camps. Or his dark pleasures too horrible to name.
“What about him?” Her voice was cold, verging on hatred.
“The way he . . . You once said—”
“Stop right there. Stop or I swear to the gods I will throw you off this balcony.”
Kes’s blood ran cold. She was gone. Well and truly gone.
He didn’t have to turn around to know she was searching with her mind until she found the spark of his consciousness, by now nearly as recognizable as her own. It’d been a long time since she’d looked inside him in anger. Kesmir sucked in his breath, praying he could hide the rebellion. He threw thoughts of resistance behind memories of Yasri as a baby. It was all he could do until his training with the gryphon started in earnest.
“There was a time you would have asked,” he said as her mind latched onto his.
He faced Calar, ready, and her ruby-tinted lips turned up. Accusatory. Chilling. “There was a time you had nothing to hide.”
Cold terror swept through him. He remembered what the gryphon had told him this morning, during their first session.
If you try to hide something, she’ll know, Thatur had said. The key is to fill your mind with so much that she will tire of looking. The truth will be out in the open, but there will be so much to see that she won’t find it.
Kes knew his mind was full of the horror he’d just witnessed—she would expect that. He added worry about his troops who fought the tavrai in the Qaf range. The gryphon and the secret meetings with his co-conspirators, these Kes gently guided to the farthest reaches of his mind, hidden behind mundane things like court gossip and memories of Ithkar. He thought about Yasri, how much she looked like her mother, especially with her glamoured eyes, a perfect Ifrit crimson. Even the child didn’t know what she was, what power lurked inside her. And as long as Calar reigned, she never would. Kes hastily pushed the worry about Calar someday hurting their child behind one about dinner and how the savri had been off—sour, like vinegar. He already knew that one day soon he’d have no choice but to take his daughter to Thatur for safekeeping. It was only a matter of time before Calar turned on her, threatened.
Kes felt the moment when her consciousness slipped into his. Calar waded into Kesmir’s mind, slow, but steady. Before the coup, Kes had cherished these moments with her. It had felt as though they were together in a secret wood, where nothing could hurt them and no one could find them.
It had been a long time since Calar had been so intimate with him. For weeks, the closest she’d gotten to him were bouts of frenzied lovemaking, a distraction, nothing more. Feeling her inside the landscape of his mind was like getting a visit from a long-lost friend, someone who was both utterly familiar and a stranger.
She pushed deeper, prodding for the things he’d tried to hide. There were doors there she’d opened long ago: memories of the coup, flashes of happier times in his childhood, before he’d lost everyone he loved. She glanced at his memories of their early days together: that first, fumbling kiss, the sound of her ecstasy as they made love, Kes watching her sleep beside him. She pushed deeper. Calar was like a blind woman in a room full of familiar objects, searching for the one thing that didn’t fit.
He knew she could only sustain her connection for so long. He just had to wait her out. Kes added a disagreement he’d had with one of his officers to the front of his mind, fear that she no longer loved him—she’d like that. After a few more minutes, Calar broke the connection.
“Leave me be,” she said, brushing past him. She didn’t turn to look at him and, after a moment, he left the room without a word.
“If Yasri wakes up in the middle of the night, bring her to my rooms,” he told the guard waiting outside the throne room. The young sentry nodded, eyes wide. Kes knew she had heard that jinni being tortured, seen the broken, bleeding body being dragged down the hall toward the cauldron.
After what he’d just witnessed, Kes couldn’t leave Calar alone with his daughter. Not anymore.
As soon as he entered his rooms Kes flung off his cloak, burning with rage and shame and . . . relief. Gods, he’d done it. He’d actually hidden something from her. He crossed to his private balcony and stepped outside. The throne room and Calar’s chambers were around a bend, far enough away that she couldn’t sense him.
He stared out over the land he’d helped to conquer. It still felt foreign, despite its loveliness. Kes almost missed the soot-filled skies of Ithkar with its volcanoes spitting lava and the black, shining rock that covered its barren plains. Terrible in its beauty, each day a struggle to survive. But it was home.
Without the smoke that had blanketed Ithkar’s sky, he could finally see all the colors in the aurora that splashed across the gods’ midnight-blue canvas. This swath of rainbow each night was too cheerful by far. The Three Widows were bright, bathing the meadows in the south and the sea beyond in misty silver. The Widows, at least, were familiar, though in Ithkar they’d been transformed by the smoke in the air into three blood-red discs, their presence ominous. On this side of the Qaf, the Widows were mysterious sisters of the night, enigmas shrouded in iridescent gowns. He could only remember fragments of the old legend. The sisters were wives to the three gods of the sun: the god of dawn, the god of day, the god of coming night. Jealous of one another, the gods fought among themselves, arguing over whose sun burned the brightest. Kes couldn’t remember the rest—there were no books in Ithkar, no people of letters. All he knew was that the three brothers burned to a crisp, their souls combined into one ghost sun, leaving their moon wives forever widowed, lonely keepers of the night.
So many of the jinn legends were stories of broken hearts. He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when his own heart was ripped to shreds by the one person he thought he’d always be able to depend on. He leaned against the banister, running a hand over his close-cropped hair.
Below him was a perfect reflection of the palace on the still surface of the Infinite Lake and the soft roar of Antharoe Falls tumbling over the mountain cliffs. The palace never failed to intimidate him with its glorious domes and masonry, the gold and mother-of-pearl tiles that shimmered in the moonlight. For so long it had been a place of terror, where the Ghan Aisouri sharpened their weapons, waiting, he knew, to kill every last Ifrit. Then it briefly beca
me a place of victory and pleasure, where he and Calar were finally free to begin building the life they’d always dreamed of. Now it was once again a place of terror.
Kes’s crimson eyes moved beyond the lake, to the patch of darkness in the east, near the base of the Qaf range. The Forest of Sighs. According to the Ifrit spies who reported to both him and Calar, it’d been well over two months since Raif Djan’Urbi had graced the land with his presence. More likely than not, he was stranded on Earth with the Ghan Aisouri Calar so desperately wanted to kill. He had to admit, it’d been a rather brilliant move on Calar’s part, forcing the Shaitan mages in the palace to close the portal using the Ash Crones’ death magic to destroy the ancient doorway to Earth. He’d thought that would be enough to temper Calar’s madness, but it had only served to strengthen it. He realized now that the only thing that kept Calar in check was the threat of someone more powerful. With the Aisouri stuck on Earth, there was no one to challenge her. Not until Yasri came of age.
There was a knock on the door to his rooms and Kes turned. “Enter,” he called.
One of his scouts crossed the threshold. “Sir, something’s happened at the Gate of the Eye.”
“Can you elaborate on that?” Kes said, barely keeping his annoyance in check. It wasn’t this jinni’s fault he was coupled to a madwoman.
“There appears to be . . . well, an army coming through it.”
“An army.”
“Ye—yes. Led by Raif Djan’Urbi.”
Kes’s heart quickened. Had the Ghan Aisouri returned, then?
He reached for his scimitar and the richly embroidered tunic that Calar insisted he wear as the Royal Consort.
“Let’s go.”
For the first time in a long, long while, Kes felt something like hope stir in his chest.
9
KES KEPT TO THE SHADOWS, GROWING INCREASINGLY concerned as jinn streamed into Arjinna from the Eye. The gate was little more than twisted metal, and the jinn who came through it kissed the soil before scattering along the wall to replenish their chiaan. Were these the Dhoma he’d heard so much about? But from his soldiers’ reports, their numbers hadn’t been nearly this plentiful.
Every now and then Kes’s eyes strayed to the wall that kept the monsters of the Eye out of Arjinna, its stones as ancient as the land. Try as he might, he’d never been able to cover or erase the images the tavrai had painted on it. They glowed at night: colorful renderings of Dthar Djan’Urbi and his son holding up a broken chain, sadrs from the jinn holy book, the Sadranishta.
Give ear to us, o gods, hear the cries of our blood.
After an hour crouched in the long, lavender grasses that covered the hills overlooking the wall, Kes told the squad he’d taken with him to return to the palace. There’d be no fighting tonight. From his vantage point behind a boulder, he could see the Djan’Urbi boy and his sister, and, other than a handful of tavrai, he didn’t recognize any of the other jinn. How had they managed to cross the Eye? Calar had been so certain that closing the portal would keep the Aisouri away.
Kes looked harder. The Aisouri must have been in disguise—a smart move on her part, given the unhappy welcome she was sure to receive from the tavrai. Djan’Urbi had his work cut out for him, that was certain, but recruiting an army that rivaled the numbers of Kes’s own ensured he was off to a good start. As the jinn made their way into the Forest of Sighs, it was clear that Calar could no longer be assured a victory. Kes’s heart lifted at the prospect of defeat—then he wouldn’t be the one to bring her down. Maybe he could salvage his little family. It was an unlikely prospect—gods knew what would become of Calar if she were once again brought low by an Aisouri.
And what of this supposed daughter of the gods? From all that he’d learned about her, it seemed Nalia and Djan’Urbi had forged some kind of bond with one another. Her unexpected alliance with the tavrai leader suggested she might be different from her dead sisters. She might be someone his daughter could even look up to, learn from. Kes shook his head. What was he thinking? This Aisouri had been taught to kill Ifrit, to subdue all the castes. If she wanted the crown, she’d very likely get it. And the Ifrit? They’d be sent back to their hellish life in Ithkar, or systematically destroyed. How to broker a peace while Calar still had leverage, that was the real question. Yet if he aligned with the Aisouri in any way, it would kill Calar just as surely as that purple chiaan that had wiped out whole Ifrit families, including his own. Would he go so far as to dishonor the memory of the Ifrit dead, to give in now that his people were so close to building a world that included them? Kes grabbed fistfuls of the grass beneath him, tortured by the choices he would soon have to make. He wasn’t nearly qualified enough for this task.
He waited until the clearing before the gate was empty, then evanesced back to the palace, his heart heavy. Calar was waiting for him in the throne room, her hands clutching the onyx arms of the new Arjinnan seat of power. For once, she was more afraid than him.
“Well?” she asked, her voice sharp.
“I didn’t see her. But she’d likely be in disguise,” he said.
“So it’s true, what your scouts told me?”
“Yes. Somehow Djan’Urbi was able to get through the Eye.”
“Antharoe and the Blind Seer,” she said to herself. “I bet they used that sister of his. Her voiqhif is how they found the Aisouri in the first place.”
Kes rested a hand on his scimitar. “So what would you like to do about this?”
Calar stood and began pacing before the throne. Her heeled slippers echoed in the empty chamber.
“The Aisouri must be killed. That I will do myself.” She frowned. “Somehow.”
“We’ll have to come up with a strategy—we have an awful lot more jinn to fight now,” Kes said.
“We’ll do that tomorrow. For now, leave me be.”
He gave her a small bow. “As you wish.”
Calar had resumed her pacing and she merely waved a hand without looking up. “Go. I’ll see you when I come in.”
Kes made his way to Calar’s rooms, his heart heavy. When I come in. Obviously he was expected to share Calar’s bed tonight, despite what had happened mere hours ago. He was a whore then, his body to do with as she saw fit. He used to look forward to his nights with her, filled with love and laughter, the chance to see a side of Calar that no one else was privy to. There was gentleness in her, vulnerability. He’d seen her cry, and she him. She’d loved Kes so well for so long. But now she was only a monster in pretty packaging.
He sat heavily on the bed and his head fell into his hands. Kes wanted her back. But they’d chosen different courses after Yasri was born. He couldn’t follow Calar to the dark places anymore.
Hours later, Calar slipped into bed beside him. Kes lay on his side, feigning sleep. Calar leaned closer and wrapped her arms around him. Her scent, so familiar: campfire and some unidentifiable musk. He felt the dampness of tears on his bare skin.
“Kes . . . I’m sorry,” she whispered. He lay there, silent. “I don’t know what came over me. I . . . I’m not really like him. I can’t be like him.” A sob slipped out of her and he turned and gathered her into his arms. No matter what she did, a part of him would always want to protect her, love her, help her.
Please let her come back to me, he silently prayed to Ravnir.
“You scared me,” he said quietly, his lips against her glossy white hair.
She tightened her hold on him, burrowed into his chest. “I know. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Gods, what was he supposed to do? One minute she was a creature fashioned from darkness itself, the next a frail girl, terrified of the blood that ran in her veins.
She looked up, her crimson eyes wet. “I love you so much. I don’t ever want to hurt you—or Yasri. I swear it.”
He was silent.
“Kes, you believe me, right?” Panic tightened her voice. “You two . . . you’re my heart.”
He was saved from answering by
frantic pounding on their door. Kes instinctively pushed her behind him and reached for his scimitar, where it leaned against his bedside table.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Fazhad, sir.”
He relaxed and slipped out of bed, pulling on a pair of drawstring trousers. “Enter,” he said.
The light from the torches in the sitting room outside the bedchamber outlined a reed-thin jinni with auburn hair that fell to her waist. Fazhad was one of Kes’s inner circle, an Ifrit captain who’d seemed nothing but loyal to Calar until Kes accidentally discovered she wasn’t loyal in the least. He’d never expected her to turn, but when he caught Fazhad sobbing in a broom closet after watching Calar torture a child who’d been helping the tavrai, he knew he’d found an ally.
“My Empress,” the captain said, catching sight of Calar. She bowed before turning to Kes, her eyes bright. “The scouts you asked me to keep near the forest have just returned.” Fazhad paused. She was a jinni of few words and would never have come to the empress’s rooms in the middle of the night unless it was absolutely necessary.
“And?” he said.
“The Ghan Aisouri is dead.”
Kes’s breath caught in his throat. Hopelessness washed over him. Fool, don’t let Calar see. Behind him, he felt her stiffen.
“Explain,” Calar said.
He turned, his eyes resting on her face, its contours lined by the moonlight that bled into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her fists gripped the black silk sheets, the softness she’d shown him moments before disappearing entirely, though her face was still wet with tears.
“We’re not entirely sure of the details yet,” Fazhad said. “The scouts overheard the newcomers discussing it. They suspect she was attacked by a ghoul in the Eye. No one could find her and they had to leave her behind.”