He nodded. And I knew he understood without really understanding. The same way I understood he had to stay here even if I’d never really understand why he wanted to. So we just stood in silence on the mountain. Waiting until the moment our paths would take us far apart. Probably forever. It was early morning, and it was colder up here. A small shiver went through me. To my surprise, Tamid reached out and put his arms around me awkwardly. My one-time friend. If I was going to die in Izman, it was nice to know that we’d forgiven each other at least.
We all said our goodbyes. Some eyes filled with tears as families bid farewell to the men and women who had joined us. There were about three dozen of them in the end, adding to the hundred or so we’d rescued from the mines. A few of the people who had come out of Eremot had decided not to go any further with the Rebellion. They were too broken by the prison to fight any more fights.
‘Amani.’ Aunt Farrah stopped me as we turned to head down the mountain. I tensed. Whatever she had to say to me, she’d waited until the absolute last minute. Which couldn’t mean anything good. Shazad noticed and stopped next to me, like she was standing guard at my back. I was grateful for her. But Aunt Farrah’s face wasn’t full of venom this time. ‘Shira –’ I heard the pain it took her to say her dead daughter’s name – ‘she had a son?’
‘She did.’ I nervously adjusted the strap on the pack of supplies I was carrying. Aunt Farrah was more family to Fadi than the Rebellion was; she was his grandmother. She had more right to raise him than we did. But he was a Demdji, too. I couldn’t just hand him over to be raised here like I had been, ignorant of what I was. Like Noorsham had been, a bomb of sheer power waiting to explode. If she asked me for her only daughter’s child and I had to refuse her … well, then I might just be leaving her on even worse terms than I did last time. But still, I couldn’t stop myself from adding, ‘She named him Fadi. After her – our grandfather. Your father.’
‘If you—’ Aunt Farrah started, and then she bit off her own words, like she was struggling to get them out. ‘I’d like to meet my grandson someday, Amani … if that’s possible.’
I waited, but there was no threat, no demand, no belittling of me to get what she wanted. I hesitated before replying. ‘I don’t know—’ if I trust you with him. ‘I don’t know how things are going to turn out here. We’re at war.’ Chances are I’m not going to be alive to bring him to meet you.
Aunt Farrah nodded stiffly. ‘I know. But will you try?’
That I could give her. That was a promise I could keep. ‘I’ll try.’ I turned away quickly before I could see the hope spark on my aunt’s face, when I knew trying might not be good enough.
*
We headed down from the mountain and towards the railway tunnel that cut from western Miraji into the east, through the middle mountains. Haytham Al-Fawzi was anxious to reclaim his city. All of us were anxious to finish this war.
On the way, we passed through both Juniper City and Massil, the place where Jin and I had joined a caravan back when I was barely the Blue-Eyed Bandit and he was just a foreigner. Not a Demdji and a prince. I hadn’t known then that the Djinni they told the story of here, who’d flooded the sea with sand, was my father.
There, standing in the same pit in the middle of town where Jin had once fought to prove his prowess to the Camel’s Knees, Delila told the story of Prince Ahmed again, like she had in Sazi, images that matched her words spilling from her fingers. By the time she finished, we had another half dozen recruits. Most of them were young men and women who belonged to the crumbling city, but a few split off from their caravans to fall into step with us. Leaving their travelling clan wouldn’t be looked on well, but they were taking a chance and handing their lives over.
A day after Massil, we crossed through the railway tunnel that led from the desert into eastern Miraji. We started at dawn, moving as quickly as we could. We all knew that it wasn’t a good idea to wind up under the mountain in the dark. And we made it to the other side before night.
Barely. The sun was setting as we stepped out.
It had been months since we’d lost the rebel camp in the attack, but for a moment as we emerged on the other side of the mountain, I thought I wasn’t stepping out of a tunnel but through the secret door.
Instead of desert sands, the valley that stretched out below us was emerald with rolling fields of grass. This was another Miraji, a thousand miles away from the one I’d grown up in, it seemed. Trees hanging with the last of the summer fruits dotted the landscape between field after field, and the air smelled of rain. Abruptly, the twins were off, bursting into the shapes of two hawks and plunging down the valley, racing, their loud screeches filling the air.
South-eastern Miraji was dotted with farming villages, and we stopped in every single one we passed. In each village Delila told Ahmed’s story, and in each one new people joined us, packing up their supplies to fall in line behind the hero of Miraji, the Rebel Prince brought back to life. Before we’d made it far, the story had spread ahead of us, shape-shifting as it went.
They said Ahmed was chosen by the Djinn to save Miraji. He had been brought back from the dead and remade by the very hands of the creatures who had made us. He wasn’t wholly human in some eyes. As we passed through towns, people came out of their houses to pray to him, to call out to him, just to see him. And always, some joined up with us.
Those who could fight or who were able-bodied enough to be trained, Shazad allowed to come with us. The too old or too young, Ahmed asked to stay behind, not to give their lives for him, promising to fight for them.
And then there were the stories that Ahmed was invincible. That he had been resurrected by the hands of the Djinn and could not be defeated. I felt my hand drift to Zaahir’s knife without meaning to as I started to hear this repeated.
By the time we reached Tiamat, we were three times as many as we’d been when we’d left the mountains. We weren’t just a rabble. We were an army.
At midday, we stood on the slope that overlooked the bay of Tiamat. Shazad’s arms were crossed over her chest, surveying the city like she could take it apart brick by brick. Tiamat had walls, but we could walk through those easily. We had Delila, if we needed to hide. And we had the twins if we needed a way over the walls.
‘There’s not a chance the emir hasn’t heard we’re coming,’ Shazad thought out loud, her hair dancing backwards in the warm air off the sea as she considered our target. She almost looked like her old self after weeks of walking and fresh air and sun. ‘There’s not a chance they think they can hold against us either. He hasn’t even tried to bar the gates.’
‘No,’ I agreed, squinting down at the city below. We were almost there, and I felt a sudden burst of impatience as I saw our target. The ships we needed docked just beyond those walls. Ready to carry us to north. ‘So how about we just walk in?’
I suppose I expected Shazad to disagree with me. She didn’t.