Pressing a hand to the wall for balance, I counted the steps as we descended. Thirty-three was a holy number. It was the number of Djinn who gathered together to forge the First Mortal in their war against the Destroyer of Worlds.
I stumbled in the dark at the bottom. The Sultan was close behind me. He steadied me with a hand on my waist. For a moment I was back in the camp, Jin’s hand on me. I’ve got you. I pulled away quickly.
This wasn’t like the rest of the palace. Instead of smooth marble, the walls were rough-hewn stone. A low ceiling was supported by squat pillars that went on line after line into the shadows, like ancient soldiers standing to attention. The only light came from a hole in the ceiling, casting a bright circle in the dark vaults. As we got closer to the light, I could see the pillars were carved with patterns that had been worn down, like centuries had run them smooth. Maybe longer than centuries. I wasn’t sure how old the world was. But this seemed like a place that was here at the beginning of it. The years had buried this place, but it had survived.
Standing under the light was like being at the bottom of a well. The circle of light was about as wide as my arms stretched out. But the sky above was only the size of a half-louzi piece. My bare toes brushed something cold. Looking down in the lamplight, I realised that there was iron set into the ground in a perfect circle, patterns woven through it. An identical circle glinted off to my left. And another, just beyond that, covered in dust and dirt.
‘What are these?’ I pulled away from the iron instinctively.
‘You’re from the edge of the desert,’ the Sultan said. ‘You are a descendant of the nomads who carried stories across the sands. You must know all the ones of the old days, in the times that the Djinn walked among us openly. When they still loved mortals. Well.’ He gave me a sly glance. ‘You are walking proof that they do still, occasionally. But there was also a time when my ancestors ruled with the help of the Djinn. That was what the Sultim trials were, thousands of years ago. Tasks set by the Djinn to choose the worthiest among the Sultan’s sons. Not a series of foolish tests designed to turn men on each other.’ A series of foolish tests which Ahmed had won outright. ‘In those days, princes would climb mountains and ride Rocs to bring back a single one of their feathers. They drank water under the sleepless eye of the Wanderer. True feats. But though we cling to those traditions, the days of worthy princes are long gone. As are the days when the Djinn used to come here and surrender their power inside these circles in good faith, while the Sultan surrendered his weapons, and they traded counsel.’
I ran my toe along the edge of the circle. I’d heard of these in stories. Places where the Sultan summoned a Djinni by his true name and then released him again. It was a sign of trust. If I counted the circles, would there be thirty-three of those, too?
‘You are going to summon a Djinni here, Amani,’ the Sultan said.
My head shot up. I’d seen plenty of things that were created before mortals. Buraqi. Nightmares. Skinwalkers. But the Djinn were different. They weren’t just the stuff legends were made of. They were our creators. Nobody saw Djinn any more, though a few folk in Dustwalk claimed to have found one at the bottom of a strong bottle. And, I supposed, my mother had. ‘So desperate for greater counsel in these troubled times, Your Exalted Highness?’ He didn’t take the bait.
‘The stories make it sound easy – you can simply call a First Being so long as you have their true name.’ Like princesses and paupers alike in the stories, calling for help at their hour of need with a true name earned through some virtuous deed at the start of the tale. ‘But you need so much more than that. You also need to be able to call them in the first language.’ The Sultan pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. ‘And you need one more thing. Care to venture a guess?’
I didn’t take the paper. ‘If I were taking a stab in the dark’ – I heard the bile on my own tongue – ‘I’d say it was a Demdji.’
So this was why he was willing to pay a Demdji’s weight in gold. This was why he’d shoved iron under my skin. He didn’t need my powers. He was going to order me to summon a Djinni.
I knew the stories of the wars that the Djinn had fought alongside humanity. Adil the Conqueror who leashed a Djinni in iron and brought cities to their knees before he came face-to-face with the Grey Prince. The Djinni who built the walls of Izman in a single night as a gift to his beloved. A Demdji’s power was nothing compared to what I knew a Djinni could do.
I thought he’d order me to take the paper. But the Sultan just smiled indulgently. ‘A true language.’ A language without lies. ‘A true tongue.’ A Demdji who couldn’t lie. Who could say You will come to me in the first language and make it so. ‘And a true name. In this case, the same one buried under your skin. Part of your true name.’ My eyes shot to the paper without meaning to. ‘Your father’s name.’
My father’s. My real father. The Sultan hadn’t ordered me to take the paper. But still my hand twitched towards it against my judgement. My father was in my reach.
‘Take it,’ the Sultan ordered finally. ‘If you want to.’
My fingers closing around the paper at the order betrayed me. I wanted to let go of the paper. I wanted to fight it. But I wanted to know, too. I raised the paper so I could see it in the light from the well.
And there it was.
Black ink scrawled onto white paper. My father’s name.
Bahadur.
For the first time in my seventeen years I knew my real name. The same one that was etched into bronze and slipped beneath my skin.
I was Amani Al-Bahadur.
‘Read it aloud.’ It was an order. And I couldn’t disobey.
My mouth moved against my will, reciting the ancient language written on the paper. The words almost fell out, so easily for a language I didn’t speak, like they belonged there. Like the Djinni half of me recognised this language better than any other.
I got to the end too quickly, and my father’s name slid across my tongue as easily as fat over a fire. And then I was done. I fell silent.
Nothing happened for a moment.
Then the iron circle burst into flames.
Chapter 15
I staggered back as a huge column of blue fire rose up from the circle in front of me. It was higher than the low-vaulted ceiling, filling the well all the way up to the sky. It burned hot and quick and brighter than any flame I’d ever seen. It fought for a few moments at the edges of the iron circle, at some invisible barrier, before, just as suddenly as it had appeared, pulling itself into the centre of the circle, taking a shape.
I blinked against the light floating in my eyes, like I’d just stared straight at the sun and gone blind for a moment.
Then my vision cleared and I saw my father for the first time.
Bahadur looked like a man who had been made out of fire.
No. That wasn’t right. I might not be so devout as some, but I knew my holy stories. Djinn weren’t humans made out of fire. We were Djinn made out of dirt and water with just a hint of their flame to give us life. A spark from a bonfire. We were a far duller version of them.
Bahadur’s skin shifted and moved with dark blue flames. Flames the same colour as my eyes.
I didn’t feel heat pouring off him. But I could feel something else, something that I couldn’t name but that went past my skin and struck me in the soul. He stood as tall as one of the huge pillars down here in this ancient palace vault. Only he wasn’t just holding up a palace. He was holding up the world. One of God’s First Beings who had made the First Mortal. Who had made all of mankind.
Who’d made me.