It was a novel concept of identity, and Mazen was thoughtful as they lapsed into peaceful silence. The quiet remained as they traveled through gorges and into flat desert plains, where the sun finally made its reappearance. Mazen would have lain down in the sand and basked in its warmth if the others hadn’t been so set on making good time to their destination. He wished he shared their eagerness, but no, all he had to look forward to was some unknowable punishment.
He sat back in his saddle and tried to ingrain the details of this moment into his mind: the clear and endless sky, the shadows of distant tents on the hazy horizon, the hiss and sigh of the ground beneath his horse’s hooves. He even relished the weight of the sand on his clothing and in his boots, knowing it was a testament to his travels.
This is not a story, he told himself. This is reality, and I am living it right now.
Even if his future was dismal, he was determined to make this final reprieve last as long as he could. And so he focused on his surroundings and the awe they inspired in him. He watched as the landscape became awash in the red-gold shades of sunset, and when the sky darkened, he marveled at the shadows, which spread across the desert like ink stains.
There were stars glimmering in the sky by the time they came to an oasis. The merchant and her bodyguard sped ahead, bantering as they raced toward their destination. Mazen held back a sigh as he watched them go. He wished he had that easygoing repartee with Loulie.
“Your jealousy is showing, sayyidi.” Aisha pulled up beside him. She took a swig from her waterskin before handing it to him. He drank to avoid answering.
Afterward, he swiped a hand across his mouth and said, “What do you make of the news from Madinne? Weren’t you all supposed to stop jinn from breaking into the city?”
“That was the plan. Obviously, something’s gone amiss.”
There was another short silence before Mazen said, “I know you and Tawil were discussing something you didn’t want me to overhear. You were talking about a plan—”
“A plan to lead you through the desert in one piece.”
“That’s not what it sounded like. It sounded like Omar was searching for ifrit relics.”
Aisha sighed. “And? Collecting relics for him is one of my responsibilities.”
“Not ifrit relics.” Mazen frowned. “You’re hiding something from me. There has to be a reason my brother is so wary of Ahmed bin Walid. A reason he’s sneaking out as me.”
Aisha mirrored his frown. “It doesn’t matter what you think. I’m not obligated to tell you anything.” She looked down her nose at him, unimpressed, before riding ahead.
Later, after they set up camp, Mazen sat at the edge of the oasis, beneath the shadow of a date tree, and stared at the stars reflected on the water. He thought about how the first time he’d come to such a place, he’d been his brother. Now he’d regressed into Mazen-sometimes-Yousef, a prince so spineless he couldn’t even demand secrets from his own subjects.
“Can’t sleep, Prince?”
He was startled out of his reverie by the merchant, who suddenly stood beside him, gaze trained on the star-speckled water. She didn’t look at him as she said, “Does this remind you of home? Of the lakes in your palace courtyard made from jinn blood?”
“That’s not fair,” he said quietly. “I haven’t killed any jinn. Why do you assume I share my brother’s morals?”
“Why shouldn’t I assume? You’re both liars who share the same father.”
The accusation made his heart sink. He had been hopeful Loulie was beginning to see him as himself, without any masks. But though it was dispiriting, he supposed it was natural that her animosity toward his family colored her opinion of him.
But Loulie surprised him by continuing, “At least, that’s what I would have said before I heard you in the souk.” Her eyes finally settled on him. “My parents used to say a story could reveal the heart of the teller. I see that truth in you. When you shared your mother’s history, I heard her optimism reflected in your words. You are not like Omar.”
Mazen swallowed. Why did it suddenly feel like his heart was in his throat? “I hope not.” His gaze sank to the water. “In any case, I have more in common with Hakim than Omar, and we don’t share any blood at all.”
“Have the two of you always been close?”
“Always. Ever since he came to the palace.” Mazen deflated with his sigh. It had been a long time since he remembered the moments he spent with his whole family. He remembered the meals they’d shared in the courtyard, the nightly stories his mother had told. He remembered the way his father had smiled, with unbridled joy in his eyes. The way Hakim had wandered the gardens, bright-eyed and free, pointing at different flowers and describing them to Mazen.
“When my mother was alive, the palace was a sanctuary for us, not a prison.” His voice cracked, and he had to pause to take a deep breath. “My father was a different person then too. He was kinder, more patient. My mother taught him to trust again after… well, you know.”
“The wife killings,” the merchant murmured. “He really never explained why he did it?”
Mazen shook his head, mute. The rumors always said it was Hakim’s mother who had inspired his distrust, but that had never seemed like the full truth. The sultan himself never spoke of those murders. Mazen suspected he never would.
“Well, Shafia was a marvel for being able to change him,” Loulie said.
“She was.” He pulled his knees to his chest, rested his chin on them. “Back then, my father was too. He didn’t care about jinn and relics. He talked about redemption.”
Once, I wanted to be like him.
He could see the merchant watching him out of the corner of his eye. She surprised him by saying, “Well, if there’s anyone who can show him the meaning of redemption, it’s you.”
Mazen looked up at her. “Me?”
The merchant shrugged. “The way I see it, you could have left me behind in the ruins, but you came back. And when I asked you about Imad, you answered me honestly.” Her lips quirked. “I can tell; you’re easy to read.”
“You saved me before too. Twice.” He sighed. “My father was the one to send you on this quest. The least I can do is try to see you safely through it.”
The merchant turned away with a snort. “Your honesty is a foible, Prince.” She paused. “But also a treasure. Don’t underestimate your ability to influence others.”
She left him alone to puzzle over the words.
58
AISHA
Some nights, when Aisha was alone, the desert spoke to her of death. She heard the distant cry of souls buried beneath the sand and the murmurs of relics lost to time. And some nights, when she let her mind wander, she heard a voice from memories that did not belong to her. It was soft and lilted and full of laughter.
When she closed her eyes, she could see its owner: a tall, handsome man with a bright smile. And though she did not know him, her heart would nonetheless soar. My queen. He grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles. I love you, habibti. Forever and always.
But then that memory would collapse, replaced with an image of her beloved bleeding crimson into the sand and screaming as his tribesmen tortured him. Traitor, they said. Infidel. And then he was dead, her precious Munaqid, lying broken in a pool of his own blood as they came for her, and she couldn’t breathe; there was only rage, and a sorrow so deep it was endless.
“Stop,” Aisha gasped. Her breathing was ragged, her eyesight hazy with tears. “Stop.”
She came out of the memory with a cry, body trembling as she fought to put a lid on emotions that were not her own. She scowled, hating that even now, a vision of the ifrit’s human lover was trapped behind her eyelids. She recognized that name—Munaqid. It was the name of the human who had saved the world from the Queen of Dunes in the legend.
The ifrit scoffed in her mind. The only one Munaqid saved was me. She paused. But our time together could only last so long. His tribe killed us in the end.
The first time the queen had shown Aisha this vision, in Dhyme, she hadn’t been able to decipher it. Now that the answers were before her, she wanted nothing more than to forget them.