She slid the two-faced coin out of her pocket.
Is Qadir possessed? She flipped the coin. The jinn side came up. No.
Is he being influenced by magic? The sultan’s face frowned up at her. Yes.
When she looked up, they were in a chamber similar to the one they’d first entered, only it was not so much a room as an endless stalagmite-filled landscape with no apparent end. Blue-white sand trickled down the spires, pooling on the ground like water. A flicker of motion caught her eye, and she looked down to see her own reflection gaping at her from the ground.
“What in nine hells is this place?” She tucked the coin away and pulled out Qadir’s dagger, eyeing the space cautiously as they advanced. She did not like this place with the strange, reflective sand that mirrored her fear at her from various angles. Even more alarming: when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the entrance—and exit—to the room had vanished.
Panic hummed through her veins. What kind of magic is this?
Qadir stopped. Loulie nearly ran into his back. She paused, heart thundering in her chest as she moved to stand in front of him. “Qadir?”
“Khalilah.” His voice broke on the name. She blinked, followed his gaze to a hill of sand about a mile away. At first, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just endlessly falling sand and their own reflections staring at them from a distance. But then she realized one of the reflections was a solid person: a brown-skinned woman with a nest of braids trailing down her back. Khalilah. Loulie recognized the name. It was the name of the jinn in the compass.
Qadir brushed past her, eyes trained on the jinn with a desperation that made panic bubble in her chest. This was an illusion—it had to be.
Or a distraction. But from what?
That was when she heard the whistle and saw a flash of red in the air.
And then pain in her cheek. Blood dribbling down her chin.
“Qadir!” She shoved him out of the way as another arrow whizzed past his face. Qadir stumbled, turned, and blinked. His gaze sharpened.
The invisible archer gave them no time to think. Another arrow came, and then another and another, until the air was full of them. Qadir moved sluggishly, raising his hand and conjuring a wall of fire to burn the incoming projectiles.
Only—the arrows burst through the flames, undeterred. One caught Loulie’s sleeve; another grazed her leg. Qadir caught one arrow in the shoulder, another in the stomach, and the last in his chest. Loulie cried out as he collapsed to his knees, ash dripping down his face. She crouched beside him as his fire burned low and disappeared, and stared in horror at the silver blood running from his wounds.
The arrows were crafted from iron.
She heard laughter, slow and mocking. “Well, that was disappointing.” She turned to see a man with a wide, shiny smile approaching. He walked with his bow strung, arrow nocked and pointed at Qadir. “Don’t move, merchant.”
The archer paused feet away and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Another figure approached. A heartbeat later, Aisha bint Louas stood behind Qadir, her sword at his neck. “Immortal you may be, ifrit, but even you need time to heal.”
Rage, dark and twisting, burned through Loulie’s heart. Aisha’s expression was utterly impassive. She raised her brows. “Salaam, al-Nazari.”
“Traitor,” Loulie spat.
The man laughed. “Traitor? Who did you think she was working for? We are the forty thieves; we serve one man, and one man alone.”
Loulie stared at the stranger, the thief with the iron arrows clearly meant to disable jinn, and then she glanced at Aisha, who stood patiently behind Qadir.
Waiting. They were both waiting.
Omar, she thought, heart sinking. Omar bin Malik is here.
66
MAZEN
Mazen threw the lamp to the ground and pressed his palms to his eyes. We came all this way for nothing. The realization pulled him back down into his despair. No matter what happened, he would still come out of this a criminal. There was nothing waiting for him outside. His father was dead, his home overtaken, his brother vanished, his title gone.
He sat there shaking for a long time, lungs tight, body tense. Though the minutes were immeasurable, he had the impression that a significant amount of time passed before he finally raised his head. It occurred to him Loulie had not returned.
After some hesitation, he picked up the useless oil lamp, rose to his feet, and headed for the entrance. He’d made it only a few steps when he noticed the man sitting on a nearby heap of sand, silently watching him.
Omar.
Mazen forgot how to breathe.
One of Omar’s brows inched up far enough to wrinkle his forehead. “Salaam, Mazen.” He rose and dusted off his clothing. “You’re as pale as a wraith.”