The vision shifted so that Mazen was in front of his father’s bed. His father, pale and sickly, looked at him with wide, glassy eyes. Mazen had seen his father angry before, heartbroken, even. But never fearful.
“You warned me never to trust anyone, yuba,” he said. The words were Omar’s, but the voice—he was horrified to realize he was in his own body, and that there was a black knife in his hands. “You ought to have heeded your own advice.” He cut a ribbon of blood into the sultan’s neck with his knife. No! Yuba. This isn’t me. This isn’t me! He wanted to reach out and shake him. Yuba, please. Please wake—
“Up!”
The vision shuddered.
“Get up, Prince.” Mazen felt a hand on his cheek. And then—a slap. The world slanted. One moment he was in his father’s chambers; the next, he was collapsed on his knees in the sand, breathing hard and clutching the lamp. Someone tilted his face up.
Even though the world was hazy, he could make out every scar on Aisha bint Louas’s arms. Her black eyes were opaque as coal, and the collar at her neck was so bright it was nearly blinding. Mazen squinted, blinked. There were tears in his eyes.
“My father—”
“Dead. But you are still alive. Unless you plan on succumbing to ifrit magic?”
Mazen could still feel that magic pressing on his mind, digging into his senses. Every time he blinked, the memories threatened to pull him under. Perhaps a nightmare was better than this. In a nightmare, he could lose himself in self-loathing. He could… run.
The word sharpened his mind. We all start as cowards, Aisha had once told him. The only difference between a hero and a coward is that one forgets their fear and fights, while the other succumbs to it and flees.
He slapped himself. The world came into horrifying clarity. He saw fire and smoke, swords and blood. The mysterious reinforcements were here in full force.
“The most powerful illusions are crafted from memories.” Aisha stood. Mazen saw that she had two swords now. No doubt she had pilfered the second from a corpse. There looked to be many now. While Mazen had been trapped in the past, the world had gone to hell.
“Is this whole place a mirage, then?” His throat was dry. “We were in a souk before, and then a palace, and now…?”
“Aliyah can paint the world in shades of memory, including her own. I assume she threaded these illusions together to confuse you.”
Mazen thought of Qadir’s forlorn smile in the souk. His sudden anger on the golden bridge. Perhaps Aliyah meant to ensnare as much as confuse them.
“And the lamp? Why was it in a room that looked like a treasury?”
Aisha sighed. “Perhaps it was coincidence it ended up in that particular illusion. Perhaps Aliyah’s magic reacted to Rijah’s. How would I know? Our magics are similar, but not the same.” She shook her head. “Aliyah is strong—some of her illusions are so real, one can touch and taste them. But they are just that: elaborate, mind-altering illusions.”
She began to walk away, back to the fighting, when Mazen called after her. “You betrayed my brother. Why?”
“Because I am not a tool,” Aisha snapped. She rushed off without another word. Mazen eyed the battle from a distance. He saw a creature of fire darting in and out of the battle—Rijah—and what might have been the merchant weaving through the smoke. It was pure chaos. Mazen knew he would be easily defeated. The moment they saw him…
He eyed his shadow on the ground, forgotten in all this chaos.
Then I just won’t let them see me.
He stuffed the lamp into his satchel, threw his shadow over his head, and went searching for his brother.
69
LOULIE
At first, she and Qadir fought back-to-back. But it soon became apparent that though Tawil had been easy to dispatch, the rest of the thieves were not so easily defeated. They had fire in their eyes and magic in their blood. Loulie was out of her element, and she was out of ideas.
And worse, Qadir was almost out of energy. Though his wounds had healed, there were bruises where the arrows had punctured his skin, and ash beaded his skin.
She had to find Omar. She had to kill him. She turned to tell Qadir her plan and faltered when she saw he wasn’t there. He was at the bottom of the dune, pushing two thieves back with torrents of wind—a magic affinity she had never seen before today. One of the jinn managed to plant his feet against the gust. The sand rippled oddly beneath his feet. Then, with a gesture, he caused the sand to rear up in a wave beneath Qadir’s feet.
Qadir fell back, the wind died, and the jinn sprinted forward with his blade. Qadir sidestepped, stumbled. And then he did a shocking thing. Perhaps it was because he had lost his concentration. Perhaps it was a desperate reflex. In one swift motion, he slid the shamshir out of its scabbard and stabbed it through his attacker’s chest. There was a moment of stillness. And then Qadir pulled the weapon from the jinn’s body. Shock briefly rippled across his features, then hardened into resolve.
The jinn growled—not in pain so much as annoyance—as he dissipated into smoke and re-formed feet away. Loulie was running toward the solidifying jinn with her knife when Qadir held out a hand. “Stop.” The authority in his voice made her freeze.
The ground groaned and shuddered. She nearly lost her footing as Qadir burned sand inches from her feet. The landscape collapsed, opening up into a massive hole. The second jinn shapeshifted into a bird and flew away before he fell. The one that had faced Qadir with a sword and ground-shifting magic was not so lucky; his scream faded as he tumbled into darkness.
“Qadir!” She sent him a severe look across the hole. Don’t die.
His brow furrowed. You too. He turned to the next battle, shamshir in hand.
Loulie returned her attention to the fighting hordes. Most of the jinn were battling each other—Aisha bint Louas was reanimating every corpse and forcing it to face its once comrades. Loulie could see Rijah as well, tearing and smashing their way through bodies as if they were walls to be destroyed. She used that chaos to her advantage, skirting the edges of the battle and ducking beneath blades in her search for Omar.
She’d just spotted him fighting a corpse when she crashed into someone. She stepped back, flaming knife raised, and saw—nothing.
But then the air in front of her shimmered and parted, and Loulie inexplicably saw golden eyes peering at her through some tear in the world.
“Mazen?” She stared at him.
He opened his mouth to respond, but the words pitched into a scream. “Behind you!” She turned to see a bloodied thief holding a sword inches from her face. He was too close to parry. Too close to block. She squeezed her eyes shut.
And eased them open when the strike did not come. She saw the thief on the ground, struggling against an invisible force.
Mazen. He was invisible, but she could hear him praying beneath his breath.
She lunged toward the fallen thief with her dagger. Its fire was useless against the jinn, but the blade still cut. Right into the jinn’s chest. The jinn retaliated by lashing out at her with his knife. Loulie caught the strike in her arm. Pain blossomed beneath her skin.
Then, abruptly, she and the jinn were both whisked off the ground. A heartbeat later, she collapsed back to the dirt, Qadir’s knife beside her. She looked up and saw the thief. And she saw the gigantic bird clutching him in its talons. “AFWAN,” Rijah said in a loud, booming voice that dripped with disdain. Loulie looked away as they tore the jinn to shreds.
“Shukran,” Mazen called up weakly as the Shapeshifter flew away. The prince turned and approached her, half his face unveiled. It was an eerie sight.
She spoke before pride clogged her throat. “Shukran.” For saving me.
Mazen blinked, nodded. “My brother—you promised me revenge.”
She hesitated. It was strange to see her own vengeance reflected back at her in the eyes of a softhearted storyteller. Violence does not suit him, she thought, but she shoved the thought away. It did not suit anyone.