Mazen sighed into his coffee. The sultan looked up from his cup. “You haven’t stopped sighing since we sat down. What are you thinking about, Mazen?”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders at the sound of his name. This afternoon, he would become Omar, King of the Forty Thieves and high prince of Madinne. But right now, seated before his father in the diwan, he was, blessedly, himself.
“The usual.” Mazen blew on his coffee. “Jinn, shadows, nightmares.”
The sultan set down his cup. It was the same one he always used—a small porcelain cup decorated with multicolored roses. It was the same pattern Mazen’s mother had used; she and the sultan had shared a set. “The jinn is dead and, if the gods are just, burning in hell.”
Mazen nearly choked on his drink. It didn’t matter that the shadow jinn had nearly killed him—he still felt pity for her. It was a weakness, he knew, one he had no right to. And yet he could not stop thinking of the rage and pain that had clouded her mind.
The sultan shook his head. “This will never happen again. Once I have the lamp, I will destroy the jinn. All of them.” When Mazen said nothing, the sultan leaned forward, bushy brows drawn together. “Why are you against this search? The Midnight Merchant is a criminal. I am giving her a chance to redeem herself.”
“Not all jinn are evil, yuba. Mother used to say that in her stories—you remember?”
Mazen knew he’d said the wrong thing when the sultan’s expression went icy. “Has your memory grown so patchy you do not remember she was killed by one of those jinn?”
“But she believed—”
“Your mother, gods bless her soul, was softhearted.” His eyes sparked with some emotion Mazen could not place. “I’ll be damned if I let the jinn take you because you inherited her sentimentality. Remember, Mazen, the desert is no place for bleeding hearts.”
Mazen’s mother had once said the opposite: that in their country, a soft heart was more valuable because the desert dried out a person’s emotions. But he did not say this to his father.
The sultan drew back with a sigh. “I hope you understand I just want what’s best for you.” His gaze was thoughtful as he refilled his cup from the dallah. “That is why I have decided to have you trained in swordplay.” He didn’t even look up when Mazen cringed. “It will give you something to fill your days with. Until Omar returns, I want you to remain in the palace. It is safer here.”
Mazen set down his cup before it fell from his hands. His mother had not believed in responding to violence with violence. It was the reason he’d never been trained to use a weapon. The reason the sultan had stepped down as the King of the Forty Thieves. But that had been before her death. Mazen ought to have known it would only be a matter of time before his father put a blade in his hands.
If only he knew it was Omar who was going to wield that blade. It was almost humorous. While he would have to pretend to be adept at using a sword, Omar would have to play at being incompetent. It seemed they would both have their work cut out for them.
His father smiled. Not a crooked smile, but an earnest one. “This will be good for you. Who has ever heard of a prince who doesn’t know how to use a weapon? You hold the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders, Mazen. You cannot protect it with just good intentions.”
His father had a point. Never mind the fact that Mazen could barely pick up a blade for fear of having to plunge it into some living thing, or that he detested violence. He was glad, at least, that it would be Omar who bore the bloody weight of their kingdom in the future. Mazen had never wanted anything less than he wanted the throne.
“If it is boredom you fear, do not worry.” The sultan blew on his coffee. “We will fill your days with productive work. I have already told the councillors you will start attending our meetings. I expect to see you at our afternoon gathering tomorrow. Understood?”
Ah, so swordplay and politics were to be his routine for the foreseeable future. But Mazen would not step into that life—not yet.
“Yes, yuba,” he said softly.
That was how he said goodbye to his father—not with a hug or a kiss to the forehead, but with an admission. When he left the diwan, his heart was heavy with everything left unsaid.
It was the fifth hour of sunrise when he made it to Hakim’s study. He’d been preparing for his journey, packing clothes that were not his and conversing with Omar about things he needed to know as the King of the Forty Thieves. His brother had given him most of his possessions—everything except for his crescent earring, which he refused to part with. It was also the only thing missing from Mazen’s disguise now as he stood outside Hakim’s door.