“The trick is to fake it until you make yourself believe it,” Loulie said. It was Qadir’s advice, and she had never clung to it as fiercely as she did now.
The next day, Loulie strode ahead with the compass, slowly turning bends and stepping down crooked paths until she stopped. The compass’s arrow was jittering so wildly it looked possessed.
“We’ve arrived,” Qadir said.
Loulie eyed their surroundings skeptically. As far as she could see, this stretch of the Sandsea looked the same as any other. She looked questioningly at Qadir, who shrugged and walked straight into it. The sand around him burned away, revealing a sloped tunnel that led into the Sandsea. When Qadir turned to face them, the markings on his skin blazed gold and red, and his eyes danced with fire. He sighed, and wisps of smoke curled out from his lips like shisha from a smoker’s mouth.
Loulie rolled her eyes. “Show-off.”
Mazen simply stared, slack-jawed.
“Don’t fall behind,” Qadir said, and then he turned and walked deeper into the Sandsea, burning a hole through the world as he did so. For a few moments, Loulie stared quietly into the darkness. Fear, sudden and primal, froze her in place.
Mazen stepped forward so that the two of them stood before the Sandsea together. He flashed her a weak smile. “Fake it until you make yourself believe it, right?”
Loulie glanced one last time at the outside world—at the sun hanging in the crystal blue sky and the smoky clouds in the distance. Determination sparked in her. I’ll be back, she thought.
They stepped into the darkness of the Sandsea.
64
MAZEN
A long time ago, when Mazen had been a boy and his father had first told him the story of the lamp, he’d asked why, in all the years the lamp had existed, the royal family had never retrieved it.
Tell me, Mazen, do you know of a way to enter the Sandsea?
Mazen had suggested a ship that dove into the sinking sand. His father had laughed—one of those rare, honest laughs that shook his whole body—and said, What you suggest is magic, my son. You would need magic.
Now, as Mazen wandered into the Sandsea, he felt that magic gather on his skin like invisible dew. It hung like mist in the damp air and made the darkness before them shimmer. He would have been in awe if he hadn’t been so anxious. Because he had no idea what he was doing.
But then, his life had been out of his hands the moment he’d gone on this journey. Now his future had been burned to cinders, and his memories lay in the depths of a cavernous hole. Every time he stood at the edge of that pit, every time he thought of his father, of Hakim—it took all that he had to resist falling in and succumbing to his misery.
So he did not ruminate. He followed blindly, all the while thinking, This is all I have left.
Eventually, the dark tunnels widened into cavernous chambers filled with hills of blue-white sand. Rivers of sand cascaded down the walls from the darkness above them. The chamber was only the first of many impossible wonders. As they continued, the landscape grew increasingly more spectacular. Soon there were trees growing from the sand. And then entire forests, entire buildings.
They passed through golden gates couched between deity statues Mazen did not recognize and stepped into what appeared to be an abandoned souk. To Mazen’s left: pots of spices and nuts; a cart stacked high with fabrics that changed color and pattern; and iridescently glowing ceramics. To his right: glass lanterns filled with multicolored smoke; shattered mirrors that reflected his face with multiple expressions; and delicately decorated boxes of lokum. He shifted his gaze upward and gaped at the stall canopies, which shifted color before his eyes. Some were trimmed with intricate, shimmering gold patterns that moved fluidly, like water.
“Qadir.” The merchant’s voice was faint. “What is all this?”
Qadir did not respond. He headed toward a copse of glittering fruit trees in the center of the souk. Mazen followed. His initial opinion of the apples was that they were oddly shaped: less round and more… sharp? He reached for one of the lower-hanging fruits and gasped aloud when his fingers brushed the surface.
The fruit was made of glass.
Qadir plucked an apple off the tree and bit into it without hesitation. Mazen could hear the sharp crunch of glass as the ifrit chewed, but Qadir seemed unconcerned. He was smiling.
“I grew up with these trees,” he said. Though he was looking at Loulie, his gaze was far away. “They only grew in the capital, and the fruit they bore was five times more expensive because it came from magic seeds.”