If the paths existed, they were well hidden. From their vantage point, the Sandsea seemed impenetrable, infinite. And yet this was their final destination. Mazen ought to have been relieved. Instead, he was filled with dread.
He tried to settle his nerves by speaking into the silence. He addressed Aisha, who rode beside him. She seemed especially sullen today, too distracted to even roll her eyes at him.
“So about the ifrit in your mind…”
Her gaze snapped to him. Mazen smiled nervously. “I’ve been wondering if you had a name. ‘The Resurrectionist’ is a bit of a mouthful.”
Aisha raised a brow. “You already know who I am. I am Aisha bint Louas.” When Mazen simply stared at her, the thief sighed and said, “I need a body to act in this world, Prince. And while I can force my mind on others through possession, that is not how a deal works. No, your thief and I are one and the same.” She paused, a wry smile on her lips. “Even if she has yet to accept this.”
“Her name used to be Amina,” Qadir said, casting a glance at her over his shoulder.
Aisha scowled. “Used to be.”
Loulie, who was riding beside Qadir, snorted. “You jinn are all so melodramatic.”
Aisha’s cheeks colored at this, but she said nothing until they arrived at the outpost, at which point she excused herself to search for supplies. After promising to meet them by the tents, she rode off, leaving Mazen to follow Qadir and Loulie.
He was shocked by the number of travelers. Whereas the rest of the oases had been small and quiet, this one was teeming with people. Mazen saw immediately that there were two areas: a miniature souk made up of small clay buildings and scattered stalls, and a larger camping area by the water that had a corral for horses and camels. In the market, travelers dressed in foreign garb bartered and gossiped and exchanged goods and currencies from all over the continent. Mazen saw artists and mapmakers, poets and storytellers, soldiers and smiths.
He did not realize until they’d reached the tent area that it was because this place was a tourist destination, a way for travelers to see the Sandsea up close. He was bewildered. But while the merchant and her bodyguard were obviously disgruntled by the crowds, Mazen was relieved. Crowds had always made him feel safe.
That was why, after helping Loulie tie their horses down in the corral, he returned to the souk. Mazen breathed in the smells of spices and food and musk and smiled. Quite unintentionally, he flashed that smile at a young tribeswoman who was out shopping with her mother. She smiled back before turning away with a blush. Her stern-looking mother saw him and frowned. There was some intense scrutiny in her gaze he didn’t understand.
Surely I don’t look that suspicious? He could not help but be offended.
Of course, it had been a few days since he’d bathed, and his hair and clothes were matted with dust, so maybe he did look like some sand creature. He stepped back into the crowds, away from the glaring mother. Conversations slid past him like smoke.
“Blasphemous! No man could pull that off…”
“… He was imprisoned by his father for years! Isn’t that enough of a reason?”
“… in Madinne! An absolute tragedy. Gods bless the innocents who died in that struggle.”
Mazen stopped so abruptly a merchant nearly knocked him over. He cursed at Mazen as he rushed past. Mazen barely heard him. He turned and spotted the gossiper wandering into an alley with his conversation partner.
He followed, pausing just long enough to drape his shadow over his head before he chased after them. He ran to the other side of the souk, but by the time he arrived, the men had disappeared into the crowds.
Weak-kneed, Mazen fell against a nearby wall to catch his breath. It was okay; he could ask around for news from Madinne. Surely there were others who could enlighten him.
As he stood, a flicker of color caught his eye. An illustration tacked onto the wall. Curious, he stepped back to view it in full detail.
His own face, illustrated in remarkably vivid detail, frowned back at him. There were words printed beneath the image: Mazen bin Malik, exiled prince of Madinne. Traitor to the throne. Wanted for murder of the sultan.
Mazen stared.
Murder.
He tried to breathe and failed. His heart leapt into his throat and then down into the pit of his stomach. He experienced the peculiar sensation of drowning in himself.
Wanted for murder of the sultan.
There were numbers beneath his name, but he couldn’t read them. The world swam before his eyes. He stumbled in place. Pressed a palm to the wall, breathing hard.