Then I will be queen once more.
Mazen began to hum as he stepped up to the dais. The bones whispered as he reached for the crown. Queen, queen, queen. The word pulsed through his body. Through his fingertips.
He grasped the circlet of bones.
23
LOULIE
Sweet Fire? Wake up, Sweet Fire.
It was as if the world had been reduced to black ash.
Loulie! Lou-Lou-Loulie!
Loulie startled. “Baba?” No one else used that ridiculous call except for her father. She groggily searched the darkness for him.
I am here, Sweet Fire.
The strange darkness abruptly receded, revealing a corridor filled with elaborate mosaics and eerie skull-shaped sconces. She squinted into the dark but perceived no end to the hallway. A thick silence hung in the air, making her uncomfortably aware of her breathing. But it shattered before she could ponder it.
“Over here, Loulie.”
She saw him in the distance then, silhouetted in the blue light emitted by the candles: her father. Broad shouldered and tall, with deep-brown eyes that twinkled with permanent amusement. In one hand he held a lantern. With the other, he beckoned her closer.
“Baba?” Her heart thudded. Once. It can’t be. Twice. You’re dead.
She moved toward him in a daze. Or at least, she tried to. But every time she stepped forward, he appeared farther away. “Sweet Fire,” he called from a distance. “Come. Follow me.” He turned, and his robes—the same robes she wore as the Midnight Merchant—brushed the ground with the motion.
She hesitated. This was clearly a trick. She did not have time to chase mirages down dark corridors. She turned around, searching for the entrance—and saw only a dead end.
The sight filled her with exasperation. Wonderful.
“Hurry!” the phantom called. “Unpleasant things roam the dark, Sweet Fire.”
Sure enough, she became aware of shifting, of whispers in her ears. She suppressed a shudder and started walking. She began formulating a plan. Step one: avoid getting devoured by sentient darkness.
But while she could escape the dark, she could not run from the voices. The closer she drew to the mirage of her father, the louder they became. She gritted her teeth and touched her rings, focused on the burning at her fingertips. None of this is real. This is magic. This is…
Her father began to sing. “The stars, they burn the night and guide the sheikh’s way.”
Loulie startled. Where did she recognize that song from? The more she thought about it, the cloudier her mind became, until only the lyrics remained. The song filled her with warmth and longing. It made her feel like she was coming home.
“Yes,” her father said softly. “We are going home.”
“Home?” The word was faint on her lips. She had given up returning long ago, because… because something had happened. She remembered fire and pain and death. She remembered loss and the denial of loss. She remembered not wanting to remember.
“Home,” her father said gently. “But first, we must bring everyone back.”
Loulie nodded slowly, deciding this sounded reasonable. Plausible, even. She could trust her father; he had never steered her in the wrong direction before. Had never…
A memory surfaced. Shattered and fragile, like broken glass. In it, she sat by a campfire, knee-to-knee with her father. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat disc made of wood and glass. A compass. There are many mysterious things in the desert, Sweet Fire. If ever you find such items, you must take great care of them, for they may be relics enchanted by jinn.
She remembered the warmth of his hands as he set the compass in her palms. Is this compass filled with magic, then? she’d asked.
He’d laughed. It does not work for me, but perhaps it will guide your way.
The memory dissipated. Loulie squinted, renewed her focus. They were just about to turn a corner when her eyes snagged on a particularly gruesome mosaic. In it, sailors sank beneath a blue-black ocean and reached fruitlessly toward the sky. Their mouths were agape, and their eyes bulged grotesquely from their skulls. Loulie arched her head and saw the god they were reaching for: a woman with unnaturally pearl-white skin and black eyes that gleamed like ink. Her hair was a mess of ashy flakes that burned like embers as they fell to the ground. A collar of golden bones circled her throat.
“Loulie?” her father called, but his voice was far away.
She put her hand to the mosaic. It was cold. Cold enough to remind her of her burning rings. Reality came crashing back. She remembered, suddenly, where she’d heard the song. Qadir. This is the song Qadir sings.