“Neither did I.” Aisha grabbed the bangle from him, squinted at it as she turned it over in her hands. “So long as the blood’s not poisonous and has no ill effects, I don’t think it matters.” She handed it back to him, but when she commanded him to put it back on, he hesitated.
Though Omar’s reflexes had helped him survive this far, he missed feeling at home in his own body. “Just for a few minutes, I’d like to take a break from all this treachery.”
Aisha scoffed. “Fine.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Anything else you want to tell me before I run some errands and find the merchant?”
He blinked at her. “Errands?”
“Have you forgotten that I need to buy another horse?”
Mazen flushed. He had forgotten. Aisha’s runaway horse had been the last thing on his mind when they fled from the ruins. The merchant had barely been conscious, so Qadir had chosen to seat her in front of him so he could hold her on the way to Dhyme while Aisha rode Loulie’s horse.
“Such an impressive memory you have.” Aisha snorted. “So? Any other revelations?”
Again, he found his eyes wandering to his shadow, a muted silhouette on the colorless wall. He shook his head. “No, but don’t worry about calling the merchant. Let me find her. I know where she is.”
He’d seen her storming away from the inn and heading back in the direction of the wali’s residence when he returned last night.
To Aisha’s skeptical look, he responded, “I have some things I need to discuss with her. Don’t worry; you’ll have the whole journey to harass her for the relic.”
And, though he was nervous to do so, he needed to check in on Ahmed again. No matter his anxiety at seeing the wali—It’s my fault he was possessed; I left the relic in his diwan—he had a responsibility as the high prince to check on him. He did not think it would absolve the guilt that clung to him like a second skin, but he did not expect it to. He did not deserve that release, not when he had been the whole cause of this disaster.
“Fine.” She tilted her head up, chin jutted defiantly. Then she slammed the door behind her, leaving him alone. Mazen sighed.
He wondered, vaguely, if he and Aisha would ever be able to trust one another.
34
AISHA
You speak as if you’re his servant, not his comrade.
The words pounded through Aisha’s mind, building into a cumbersome headache as she wove her way through Dhyme’s central souk. She edged her way past slow-moving morning crowds and sleepy-eyed merchants, all the while ignoring the rumbling of her stomach as she passed carts selling fresh breads and hummus and labneh.
Servant! She was no servant. Nine years ago, when Omar had started rebuilding his father’s decimated thief force from the ground up, he’d recruited her off the street first. They were not friends—would never be friends—but she was no mindless soldier.
Yes, she was here because of Omar. But she was one of his thieves; she had pledged herself to his service all those years ago, and she never reneged on her promises.
Aisha groaned. Prince Mazen’s ability to get under her skin was uncanny. She was tempted to blame it on her sleep deprivation, an embarrassing consequence of her overthinking.
Until last night, the jinn—the collar—had been silent since their romp through the dune. Aisha had thought herself immune to the creature’s internal mockery. The last thing she’d been expecting when she pried the collar off Ahmed bin Walid’s neck was for the jinn to speak to her in memories—reminiscences that were not even hers.
She had gotten so lost in those memories she had forgotten reality. It had not been until she saw the merchant gripping the collar that she realized she’d nearly succumbed to its power.
And as if that near failure hadn’t been humiliating enough, the bizarre memories had trailed Aisha to bed like mist and encompassed her dreams like fog. Even now, she could remember the vision that had kept her awake: the human man, bleeding crimson into the sand as his tribesmen sawed off his limbs. She remembered blood in her lungs, walls of sand, and the feeling of drowning as her lover’s tribesmen cut into her heart—
Aisha bumped headfirst into a young noble wearing a turban stuffed with peacock feathers. She waited for him to apologize. He waited for her to apologize. When she simply looked at him expectantly, he scowled and shoved her aside. “Riffraff,” he muttered.
Aisha took the opportunity to steal an apology from him in coin—three silver pieces, easily pilfered from his fine, embroidered pockets.