“Always. Ever since he came to the palace.” Mazen deflated with his sigh. It had been a long time since he remembered the moments he spent with his whole family. He remembered the meals they’d shared in the courtyard, the nightly stories his mother had told. He remembered the way his father had smiled, with unbridled joy in his eyes. The way Hakim had wandered the gardens, bright-eyed and free, pointing at different flowers and describing them to Mazen.
“When my mother was alive, the palace was a sanctuary for us, not a prison.” His voice cracked, and he had to pause to take a deep breath. “My father was a different person then too. He was kinder, more patient. My mother taught him to trust again after… well, you know.”
“The wife killings,” the merchant murmured. “He really never explained why he did it?”
Mazen shook his head, mute. The rumors always said it was Hakim’s mother who had inspired his distrust, but that had never seemed like the full truth. The sultan himself never spoke of those murders. Mazen suspected he never would.
“Well, Shafia was a marvel for being able to change him,” Loulie said.
“She was.” He pulled his knees to his chest, rested his chin on them. “Back then, my father was too. He didn’t care about jinn and relics. He talked about redemption.”
Once, I wanted to be like him.
He could see the merchant watching him out of the corner of his eye. She surprised him by saying, “Well, if there’s anyone who can show him the meaning of redemption, it’s you.”
Mazen looked up at her. “Me?”
The merchant shrugged. “The way I see it, you could have left me behind in the ruins, but you came back. And when I asked you about Imad, you answered me honestly.” Her lips quirked. “I can tell; you’re easy to read.”
“You saved me before too. Twice.” He sighed. “My father was the one to send you on this quest. The least I can do is try to see you safely through it.”
The merchant turned away with a snort. “Your honesty is a foible, Prince.” She paused. “But also a treasure. Don’t underestimate your ability to influence others.”
She left him alone to puzzle over the words.
58
AISHA
Some nights, when Aisha was alone, the desert spoke to her of death. She heard the distant cry of souls buried beneath the sand and the murmurs of relics lost to time. And some nights, when she let her mind wander, she heard a voice from memories that did not belong to her. It was soft and lilted and full of laughter.
When she closed her eyes, she could see its owner: a tall, handsome man with a bright smile. And though she did not know him, her heart would nonetheless soar. My queen. He grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles. I love you, habibti. Forever and always.
But then that memory would collapse, replaced with an image of her beloved bleeding crimson into the sand and screaming as his tribesmen tortured him. Traitor, they said. Infidel. And then he was dead, her precious Munaqid, lying broken in a pool of his own blood as they came for her, and she couldn’t breathe; there was only rage, and a sorrow so deep it was endless.
“Stop,” Aisha gasped. Her breathing was ragged, her eyesight hazy with tears. “Stop.”
She came out of the memory with a cry, body trembling as she fought to put a lid on emotions that were not her own. She scowled, hating that even now, a vision of the ifrit’s human lover was trapped behind her eyelids. She recognized that name—Munaqid. It was the name of the human who had saved the world from the Queen of Dunes in the legend.
The ifrit scoffed in her mind. The only one Munaqid saved was me. She paused. But our time together could only last so long. His tribe killed us in the end.
The first time the queen had shown Aisha this vision, in Dhyme, she hadn’t been able to decipher it. Now that the answers were before her, she wanted nothing more than to forget them.
“I don’t care,” Aisha said, but her voice was thick with tears. She cursed as she stood and paced. She glanced over her shoulder at the tents they had set up for the night. She knew that Qadir was awake. She’d felt his eyes on her when she left the encampment.
The ifrit chuckled in her mind. Did you know that back then, I was known as Naji? I made a deal with that human girl, same as I made a deal with you. We were one, Naji and I.
Aisha shuddered. It was hard to dismiss the reality of the ifrit sinking into her own mind when, so often, she was unable to distinguish between their thoughts. True to her word, the Resurrectionist had not forced her to do anything against her will—but what did that matter if her presence continued to erode Aisha’s autonomy regardless?