When she looked up, they were in a chamber similar to the one they’d first entered, only it was not so much a room as an endless stalagmite-filled landscape with no apparent end. Blue-white sand trickled down the spires, pooling on the ground like water. A flicker of motion caught her eye, and she looked down to see her own reflection gaping at her from the ground.
“What in nine hells is this place?” She tucked the coin away and pulled out Qadir’s dagger, eyeing the space cautiously as they advanced. She did not like this place with the strange, reflective sand that mirrored her fear at her from various angles. Even more alarming: when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the entrance—and exit—to the room had vanished.
Panic hummed through her veins. What kind of magic is this?
Qadir stopped. Loulie nearly ran into his back. She paused, heart thundering in her chest as she moved to stand in front of him. “Qadir?”
“Khalilah.” His voice broke on the name. She blinked, followed his gaze to a hill of sand about a mile away. At first, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just endlessly falling sand and their own reflections staring at them from a distance. But then she realized one of the reflections was a solid person: a brown-skinned woman with a nest of braids trailing down her back. Khalilah. Loulie recognized the name. It was the name of the jinn in the compass.
Qadir brushed past her, eyes trained on the jinn with a desperation that made panic bubble in her chest. This was an illusion—it had to be.
Or a distraction. But from what?
That was when she heard the whistle and saw a flash of red in the air.
And then pain in her cheek. Blood dribbling down her chin.
“Qadir!” She shoved him out of the way as another arrow whizzed past his face. Qadir stumbled, turned, and blinked. His gaze sharpened.
The invisible archer gave them no time to think. Another arrow came, and then another and another, until the air was full of them. Qadir moved sluggishly, raising his hand and conjuring a wall of fire to burn the incoming projectiles.
Only—the arrows burst through the flames, undeterred. One caught Loulie’s sleeve; another grazed her leg. Qadir caught one arrow in the shoulder, another in the stomach, and the last in his chest. Loulie cried out as he collapsed to his knees, ash dripping down his face. She crouched beside him as his fire burned low and disappeared, and stared in horror at the silver blood running from his wounds.
The arrows were crafted from iron.
She heard laughter, slow and mocking. “Well, that was disappointing.” She turned to see a man with a wide, shiny smile approaching. He walked with his bow strung, arrow nocked and pointed at Qadir. “Don’t move, merchant.”
The archer paused feet away and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Another figure approached. A heartbeat later, Aisha bint Louas stood behind Qadir, her sword at his neck. “Immortal you may be, ifrit, but even you need time to heal.”
Rage, dark and twisting, burned through Loulie’s heart. Aisha’s expression was utterly impassive. She raised her brows. “Salaam, al-Nazari.”
“Traitor,” Loulie spat.
The man laughed. “Traitor? Who did you think she was working for? We are the forty thieves; we serve one man, and one man alone.”
Loulie stared at the stranger, the thief with the iron arrows clearly meant to disable jinn, and then she glanced at Aisha, who stood patiently behind Qadir.
Waiting. They were both waiting.
Omar, she thought, heart sinking. Omar bin Malik is here.
66
MAZEN
Mazen threw the lamp to the ground and pressed his palms to his eyes. We came all this way for nothing. The realization pulled him back down into his despair. No matter what happened, he would still come out of this a criminal. There was nothing waiting for him outside. His father was dead, his home overtaken, his brother vanished, his title gone.
He sat there shaking for a long time, lungs tight, body tense. Though the minutes were immeasurable, he had the impression that a significant amount of time passed before he finally raised his head. It occurred to him Loulie had not returned.
After some hesitation, he picked up the useless oil lamp, rose to his feet, and headed for the entrance. He’d made it only a few steps when he noticed the man sitting on a nearby heap of sand, silently watching him.
Omar.
Mazen forgot how to breathe.
One of Omar’s brows inched up far enough to wrinkle his forehead. “Salaam, Mazen.” He rose and dusted off his clothing. “You’re as pale as a wraith.”
Run, said a voice in his head. But another voice, one that did not speak in words, urged him to stay. This voice was black and fuzzy, and so loud it blocked out reason.
“How was your adventure?” Omar said.
The static spilled into Mazen’s vision. He saw Hakim fleeing from rioting soldiers. His father lying on bloody bedsheets. Omar wearing his face, drenched in the sultan’s blood.
“How droll. You’re normally more talkative.” Omar paused feet away, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders lifted high like a general’s. Like a sultan’s.
“Let me tell you what happens next, Mazen. First, you will hand over the lamp. Second, we will return to Madinne, where you will be tried for your crimes. If you do not obey, I will kill the merchant.” He smiled after delivering the instructions—the same charismatic smile he wore in court. It made Mazen see red.
“How dare you.” The words came through the dark static buzzing in his mind.
Omar blinked at him, smiled. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
And it was that smile, that godsdamned grin, that broke Mazen. Reason fell away. There was only that black, humming voice and the urge to destroy. He moved without thinking, lunging toward Omar with a scream. The world collapsed into darkness. Rage. Desperation. And a sorrow so deep it painted everything a soulless gray.
And then: sharp pain in his gut. He registered Omar had punched him in the stomach. He staggered backward, wheezing.
“All this time, and you still don’t know how to fight, akhi?” Omar punched him again, this time in the face. Mazen tasted blood in his mouth as he fell.
When Omar reached for him again, Mazen grabbed his arm and dug his nails into his skin. “You lying snake.” He dug deep enough to draw blood.
He relented only when Omar twisted his arm, when something cracked. Pain shot through his shoulder, so terrible it made him scream. There were tears in Mazen’s eyes when Omar stepped away, holding the stolen lamp in one hand and concealing his injury with the other.
“You killed our father. And for what? You gained nothing!”
“Do you truly think that, Mazen?” Omar laughed. A soft, hollow sound. “Unlike you, I have never done anything without reason. I have simply taken what was rightfully mine.” He leveled his blank gaze on Mazen. “The old fool was going to name you sultan.”
Mazen’s heart plummeted to the soles of his feet. The static cleared, replaced with a memory of his father seated before him in the diwan. Who has ever heard of a prince who doesn’t know how to use a blade? You hold the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders, Mazen. You cannot protect it with just good intentions.
“No,” he said weakly.
“Yes.” Omar scoffed. “As always, you are too blind to see what is right in front of you. You do not deserve Madinne.”
“And you do? You’re a coward.” Something flashed in Omar’s eyes, but Mazen pressed on: “You killed our father and blamed it on me.”
Omar did not respond. He approached slowly, with all the foreboding of an encroaching storm. He pulled his hand away from his wound, revealing the smear of blood on his arm.
It was black.
Mazen’s breathing hitched. He’d forgotten about the black blood, the same blood that had run through his veins when he was in Omar’s body. That had run through Imad’s. Aisha had called it a side effect of the bangle. He’d believed her.
“You have it all wrong, Mazen. It is because you are a coward that I could pin this crime on you.” Mazen was barely listening. He was still staring at the blood.
Human blood was red. Jinn blood was silver. Black blood…