“Sorry, Princess.” He brings his hands forward, and the ropes they’d bound his wrists with fall to the floor. Khavar starts forward threateningly, but Aladdin throws up a hand. “Easy there, snake eyes. I’m not going to run.”
Turning to Caspida, he asks, “What’s going on here? I’m supposed to believe you’re some kind of rebel, only to find out you’re a royal?” He throws a finger toward the door. “There are people out there who leave offerings at the temples in the name of the Phoenix. They believe you’re a guardian, a savior. They sing your praises, wear your symbol—but they have no idea you’re one of them. One of the same oppressive rulers they think you’re protecting them from!”
“I never claimed to be a savior,” she returns coldly. “And believe me, I wish I could tell them the truth. But not all battles can be fought in the light. Those people out there are my people, thief, and I will fight for them. The Phoenix is the only way I have. The moment I step out of the shadows, my uncle will see to it that I never cross him again. Aladdin, I’m on your side! Why do you think I asked Xaxos to hire you to steal the key? I’d heard you were a great thief, yes, but I thought of all people, you’d understand my cause.”
“Well, I guess you don’t know me well enough,” says Aladdin darkly. “I’m not my father. I’m not some kind of rebel or leader. I took the job from Xaxos for the money, nothing else.”
“Enough,” sighs Caspida, holding up a hand. “Thief, the ring you stole belongs to me. It’s been in my family’s possession for hundreds of years, going all the way back to my ancestress Roshana the Wise.”
The fur on my back prickles, drawing a concerned pat from Ensi. You had no such ring, Habiba. Surely I would have known if you had such a powerful talisman in your possession—especially one meant to lead the wearer to me. My interest in this ring expands tenfold, and I wish sorely it had not been lost.
“This is taking entirely too long,” Khavar says. “Just search him!”
“I’ll do it!” Ensi volunteers, her eyes lighting up.
“All right, fine!” Aladdin twists away from her reaching hands. “I stole the ring!”
Ensi withdraws regretfully, and Caspida’s eyes sharpen. “Go on.”
“I did steal it, and I absolutely meant to give it to your man Xaxos. But . . . I lost it in the desert.”
She frowns. “What were you doing in the desert?”
He pauses and chews his lip, studying her a moment before replying. “Princess, have you ever worn the ring?”
She hesitates. “Once.”
“And what did you feel?”
“Feel? Nothing. Why would you ask that?”
“When I put it on, it . . . sort of spoke to me. Not in words, really, but . . . sort of like a rope pulling at a horse. It led me into the desert, like it wanted to show me something.”
The girls are suitably rapt, leaning closer. Their flickering torches throw dancing shadows over their faces.
“Well?” asks Ensi. “What did you find?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. It just stopped. Like it had reached whatever it was pulling me toward. But there was nothing there except some old ruins. Maybe there never was anything there. Anyway, Darian caught up to me then, and he took it back.”
She wrinkles her brow perplexedly. “You mean the ruins of Neruby, the old Amulen capital. But the place is empty, said to be haunted by the jinn. You’re sure there was nothing?”
“Just sand and broken towers.” He tilts his head, his eyes glittering with torchlight. “What did you think it led to?”
She looks around at each of her girls, then back at Aladdin, her eyes full, as if she is weighing whether or not to tell him.
“I don’t know,” she says at last. She is a good liar, and I nearly miss the elevation in her heartbeat and the slightest pause before she speaks. But I cannot see into her thoughts to tell what she truly does know about the ring and about the lamp. Does she know it leads to me? And does she know who I am, or that she and I are linked through you, Habiba, her mighty ancestress?
Unsettled, I look closer at her and her friends, trying to discern what their goal is. The girls are all Amulen, it seems, except for one—the quiet one who listens and says little. Nessa, with her dark skin and hair, is Tytoshi, judging by her appearance and accent, though by her dress and fluent Amulen, she’s been in Parthenia for a while. Her hair is twisted into dreadlocks, each one tipped in hardened silver that tinkles musically when she moves. Only royalty wear silver in their hair; everyone else’s locks are tipped in bronze or copper. What is a Tytoshi princess doing this far north?
Then I spot something tucked beneath her black cloak, and my hackles rise. To get a closer look, I jump onto Ensi’s shoulder, then leap onto Nessa’s. Surprised, she takes me in her arms and strokes my head. I nose under her cloak and sniff the flute she carries on her hip, then back away hissing.
“You’re hurting her!” says Ensi, snatching me back. It’s all right. I found out what I needed to know.