“I don’t care,” Aisha said, but her voice was thick with tears. She cursed as she stood and paced. She glanced over her shoulder at the tents they had set up for the night. She knew that Qadir was awake. She’d felt his eyes on her when she left the encampment.
The ifrit chuckled in her mind. Did you know that back then, I was known as Naji? I made a deal with that human girl, same as I made a deal with you. We were one, Naji and I.
Aisha shuddered. It was hard to dismiss the reality of the ifrit sinking into her own mind when, so often, she was unable to distinguish between their thoughts. True to her word, the Resurrectionist had not forced her to do anything against her will—but what did that matter if her presence continued to erode Aisha’s autonomy regardless?
“That’s not what the stories say. They say you tricked her and stole her body.”
And? Your human stories are born of fear. Easier to believe a jinn would possess a human rather than work with her. That a human would kill her, not fall in love with her.
Aisha said nothing. She glared into the dark, quiet night and thought about how full of shit the ifrit was. Jinn did not help humans, and humans did not help jinn. Her deal with the Resurrectionist had been made purely out of necessity.
But the memories—those were real. Aisha could feel it. Even the memories that sometimes surfaced of Qadir screamed of truth. They were rare, those memories, but they edged into her mind when she let her guard down. In them, Qadir wore brilliant robes and a less than brilliant frown. His eyes were clouded over with smoke, filled with a sadness so profound it shattered her heart.
“Enough.” She pressed a fist to her forehead and breathed slowly in and out until her mind was clear and she could focus on her problems. She grasped at the memory of her conversation with Tawil. The more she remembered, the more her skin prickled. She did not realize she was breathing so hard until the ifrit spoke gently in her mind: You are distressed.
“No shit.” Aisha resumed her pacing. It kept her centered.
But every time she remembered that conversation, she faltered. Tawil had told her that Omar’s plan would soon reach its conclusion. The suspicious wali was taken care of, and even the mistrustful qaid had not come close to uncovering his plot.
Aisha didn’t care. She had never truly cared about Omar’s plans when they were secondary to her own goals. But that was not the case with Mazen. I envy you, Aisha, Tawil had said. You have an easy job! All you have to do is lead a sheep to slaughter.
Aisha groaned into her hands. Gods, she was going to be sick.
Always, she had done what Omar commanded. She owed him that. He’d seen potential in her when no one else had. Back when she’d been an unmoored thief in Madinne—parentless, villageless—he had put himself in her path, and when she tried to steal a locket from his pocket, he’d grabbed her wrist and said, How would you like to be a king’s thief?
Omar had given her the power to enact revenge on the jinn who had stolen her life.
She had never questioned him. But now…
Prince Mazen saved your life, the Resurrectionist said softly.
Aisha’s legs were so weak she had to sit on a nearby boulder.
I would think deeply about—
“Leave me alone!” Her voice was so shrill it made her flinch. She cast a look over her shoulder, searching for movement at the campsite, but there was nothing. Qadir, probably, could hear her. She would have to warn Omar about him. They would need to alter their plan to account for his magic. Perhaps Tawil, cocky bastard, would have some ideas.
She paused, remembering the heat that had burned her fingers when he touched her. She shook the memory from her mind. It wasn’t important.
The ifrit scoffed. Willful ignorance will get you nowhere.
For the first time, Aisha wondered if maybe it would have been easier to die. But dying was akin to failure, and she had never failed, had refused to fail since losing her family.
She had not come this far just to break for some softhearted prince.
So Aisha took a deep breath, pieced together her faltering resolve, and returned to her and the prince’s shared tent. Prince Mazen lay in his bedroll, curled on his side with an arm draped across his forehead. In the beginning, she remembered he had tried to comb the dust out of his hair before he retired every night. Now he lay unperturbed in a very dusty bedroll, lightly snoring. Even though he still only knew how to make a fire and didn’t know a single thing about wielding a sword, he had become more competent, she thought. Braver.
Aisha turned away with a grimace. She wrung the dust from her cloak, wrapped it around herself like a second skin, then stretched out on her bedroll. She squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to stop thinking. But though the ifrit had mercifully gone quiet in her head, the desert still whispered. It took all she had to quiet its voice and keep her mind blank. The dead do not speak, she thought desperately.
The desert wind’s responding cackle sounded like laughter.
59
MAZEN
The future weighed on Mazen’s arms and legs like shackles. His body was heavy as they crested the dune overlooking the last outpost. Beyond the oasis, the Western Sandsea was a glittering ocean of sparkling, shifting sand. According to the map they had lost, there were pathways—both above-and underground—that would allow them to navigate it.
If the paths existed, they were well hidden. From their vantage point, the Sandsea seemed impenetrable, infinite. And yet this was their final destination. Mazen ought to have been relieved. Instead, he was filled with dread.
He tried to settle his nerves by speaking into the silence. He addressed Aisha, who rode beside him. She seemed especially sullen today, too distracted to even roll her eyes at him.
“So about the ifrit in your mind…”
Her gaze snapped to him. Mazen smiled nervously. “I’ve been wondering if you had a name. ‘The Resurrectionist’ is a bit of a mouthful.”
Aisha raised a brow. “You already know who I am. I am Aisha bint Louas.” When Mazen simply stared at her, the thief sighed and said, “I need a body to act in this world, Prince. And while I can force my mind on others through possession, that is not how a deal works. No, your thief and I are one and the same.” She paused, a wry smile on her lips. “Even if she has yet to accept this.”
“Her name used to be Amina,” Qadir said, casting a glance at her over his shoulder.
Aisha scowled. “Used to be.”
Loulie, who was riding beside Qadir, snorted. “You jinn are all so melodramatic.”
Aisha’s cheeks colored at this, but she said nothing until they arrived at the outpost, at which point she excused herself to search for supplies. After promising to meet them by the tents, she rode off, leaving Mazen to follow Qadir and Loulie.
He was shocked by the number of travelers. Whereas the rest of the oases had been small and quiet, this one was teeming with people. Mazen saw immediately that there were two areas: a miniature souk made up of small clay buildings and scattered stalls, and a larger camping area by the water that had a corral for horses and camels. In the market, travelers dressed in foreign garb bartered and gossiped and exchanged goods and currencies from all over the continent. Mazen saw artists and mapmakers, poets and storytellers, soldiers and smiths.
He did not realize until they’d reached the tent area that it was because this place was a tourist destination, a way for travelers to see the Sandsea up close. He was bewildered. But while the merchant and her bodyguard were obviously disgruntled by the crowds, Mazen was relieved. Crowds had always made him feel safe.
That was why, after helping Loulie tie their horses down in the corral, he returned to the souk. Mazen breathed in the smells of spices and food and musk and smiled. Quite unintentionally, he flashed that smile at a young tribeswoman who was out shopping with her mother. She smiled back before turning away with a blush. Her stern-looking mother saw him and frowned. There was some intense scrutiny in her gaze he didn’t understand.