12
MAZEN
Mazen dreamed he was being stabbed to death by his brother. He was in the palace diwan, and the room was empty of people save for Omar, who stalked toward him with a black knife. Mazen held up his hands. He begged. He screamed. But there was no compassion in Omar’s eyes, just a terrible, all-encompassing hatred. He stabbed Mazen in the throat. In the chest. Again and again and again and…
Mazen woke in a panic, heart tight and body trembling. The minute he opened his eyes, sunlight assaulted his senses. He shrank back with a groan. There was a voice and footsteps and then hands leaning him back against his pillows.
“Shh, sayyidi. You are safe.”
It was a voice Mazen recognized. Karima? Sure enough, when he looked up, his personal servant stood over him. Her thick brown hair was tied into a bun, and there was a wan smile on her face. “Welcome back to the world of the living, sayyidi.”
Mazen balked at the tears in her brown eyes. “Karima, why are you crying?”
“Because you are alive.”
Alive? He glanced down at his uncovered chest and froze when he saw the huge gash marring the skin above his heart. “Karima.” His voice was faint. “When did that get there?”
Even when Karima filled him in on what had happened, he could not piece together the memory of the incident. He remembered wanting revenge on his brother for a reason he could no longer recall. He remembered darkness and pain. He remembered the Midnight Merchant standing in a doorway and holding up what looked like a bloated star. And he remembered a word—inconsequential—and the sensation of falling into his own body.
How could he not remember almost dying? According to Karima, the only ones who’d been there to witness his revival were the sultan, his brothers, and—
“The Midnight Merchant.” He sat up abruptly. A sharp ache shot through his chest, making his vision go spotty. Mazen exhaled through clenched teeth as his room became a blur of colors. Karima tutted and tried to get him to lie back down, but he waved her away. “What has the sultan done with the merchant?”
He could still remember the spark of recognition when he’d seen her face in the darkness. Loulie al-Nazari and Layla, the girl from the souk, were one and the same.
Karima shook her head. “The news is that the sultan plans to speak with her over ghada’a. Do not worry, sayyidi; I will deliver the news of your recovery immediately.”
“No.” The Midnight Merchant had saved him—twice—and now the sultan was going to send her to her death? He would not allow it. Standing was an ordeal, but he forced himself to his feet. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he was breathing hard with exertion, but it was a small price to pay for movement.
Slowly, painstakingly, he made his way over to his closets. “Sayyidi!” Karima set a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I do not understand. Why would you want to see the Midnight Merchant now? You can barely stand! If the sultan finds out I let you leave your rooms—”
“I’ll tell him I pushed past you like a rogue camel.”
“But your wounds—”
“Already sealed. Why, I didn’t even need stitches!” Pain flickered through his chest when he laughed, and he had to take a deep breath to collect himself. Karima bit her lip. Then, after a few moments’ hesitation, she began to assist him. She helped him pull a tunic over his head and carefully pin his mother’s shawl, and once he was presentable, she walked him to the doors and the guards outside. When the men protested Mazen’s leaving, Mazen stood as tall as he could manage under the crippling pain and said, “I am going to see my father, even if I have to crawl my way to his diwan.”
The men relented, though they insisted on helping him down the stairs and through the corridors. Everywhere Mazen went, servants stared at him in shock and offered flustered greetings. The corridors had never seemed so long, the sun so bright. But then, at last, they were at the diwan doors. The guards outside eyed him warily.
“Sayyidi,” one of them said. “The diwan is changed. Please, watch your footing.”
Mazen did not understand his meaning until he stepped inside. He nearly stopped breathing when he saw the plethora of green before him: sage-green leaves and chartreuse pathways of grass and emerald shafts of light that burst through the canopies of trees. Mazen stared at it all in wonder as he navigated his way through the vibrant underbrush. Surrounded by the hum of insects and the twittering banter of birds, he found it impossible to conceive of this place as the diwan. But then he saw the tile buried beneath the grass and the mosaicked walls hidden behind the vines and trees.