THE PARTHENIAN MONARCHS lie buried in massive stone vaults built into the side of a steep cliff north of the city. Many of the tombs are weathered and chipped, the elaborate friezes carved on them worn away to vague forms. The tomb of Malek is still only partially constructed, and stone chips and unfinished friezes attest to the ongoing work. A great slab is fixed in place over the tomb’s entrance, and Caspida stands before it, looking lonely even in the midst of the crowd. She stands a little apart, dressed in black robes that flutter in the wind.
The day is hot and the air heavy. Clouds roil over the sea, advancing slowly toward us. Seabirds wheel overhead, crying out warning of the oncoming storm. Nobles stand fanning themselves under the shade of cypresses and oaks studding the hillside, and wailers stand in front of the tomb, crying out in ululating tones. They are surrounded by black-cloaked Eristrati, who watch for jinn, and I spot Vigo and Nessa roaming the perimeter, their flutes trilling softly to enchant any jinn that might try to sneak into the humans’ midst. I have conjured a silk scarf tight around my head and ears to block the music; though they cannot bottle me because of my bond with the lamp, their melodies can nonetheless put me into a trance, exposing my true nature. The jinn keep their distance; I cannot sense a single one among the trees and rocks. They’re waiting, I’m sure, until tonight, when my time runs out and Nardukha orders them to attack the city.
We stop a short distance from the tomb. Aladdin watches Caspida, his face unreadable. He’s dressed head to toe in black, his head uncovered. His hair, combed neatly this morning, has been tousled by the driving wind. Khavar and Ensi stand by, rigid and alert. Ensi’s eyes water, but she blinks her tears away.
I hang back until the crowd is focused on the burial ceremony, then slip into the brush and make my way across the hill. Zhian’s jar rattles under my skirt, his endless stream of demands prying at my thoughts.
Set me free! What are you waiting for, you stupid creature!
“You!” cries a sharp voice. “Where are you going?”
I turn and see a veiled Eristrati glowering at me, his grip tightening on his spear.
“Oh, um . . .” I wince and point at the bushes. “I’ll just be a minute. Please. I can’t hold it any longer.”
The man coughs uncomfortably, then nods and mutters something gruff along the lines of “Make it fast.”
Don’t worry. I intend to.
I find a small grassy clearing, not far from the river where I bathed Aladdin’s wound that first, wild night, exactly 142 steps from the lamp. It’s a pretty spot, overlooking the city and the sea beyond, the trees ripe with olives. I’m out of hearing of the jinn charmers, so I lower the silk from my head and let the wind tangle my hair.
Drawing a deep breath, I pull Zhian’s jar from a satchel conjured beneath my skirt. Letting the satchel disintegrate into smoke, I hold the jar in both hands as excitement pounds through me, almost like a heartbeat.
Do it, Zhian urges. Let me out, Zahra. Let me out.
Listen to me first, I demand. There are jinn charmers out here—did you hear them? They are playing, filling the hills with their charms. You must not go near the humans, or we will both end up right back where we started.
We could take them together, he replies. You and I—working as a team. We would be unstoppable!
To that, I only send him an image of the lamp, and he curses. I quickly relay to him the deal I made with Nardukha. Zhian stews in his jar, his impatience hammering through my thoughts.
When I finish, he spits, So do it! Let me out!
I glance around, making sure we’re alone, then lift the jar high before dashing it against a rock. The pottery shatters, as does the charm that held Zhian captive inside.
A burst of smoke fills the air, red and angry. It swells and thunders.
“Quiet!” I hiss. “They’ll come!”
I do not fear mortals!
“Then you’re an idiot. If it weren’t for me, they’d still have you bottled up in their crypts.”
My father would not allow it! Zhian swirls around me, his wind pulling at my hair and my black cloak. Dragon heads materialize in the smoke, snapping and hissing dangerously close to my face. He would burn their city for my sake! He would sink their ships and wreck their walls!
“Well, he didn’t, did he? He sent me. Settle down, because I have one more thing to say.”
Zhian rages about a bit longer, cracking trees and whipping up whirlwinds of dust. Then, at last, he assembles himself, taking the form of an enormous, human-like figure, nine feet tall with hooves and horns. It’s one of his favorite forms, modeled closely after his father. He wears only a leopard-skin loincloth, and his chest swells with muscle and pride. In his hands is a long chain, from which dangles a spiked morning star.
Curl-of-the-Tiger’s-Tail, he purrs, his black eyes glittering. Smoke-on-the-Wind. Girl-Who-Gives-the-Stars-Away. You have chosen a beautiful form. Subtle, but desirable.
Rolling my eyes, I reach out and grab the chain between his hands, pulling him close. “Your father is waiting, so fly up that mountain and through the alomb. Find Nardukha and tell him I have upheld my end of the bargain. Now it is his turn.”
He stares at me, a dangerous light in his eye, and then his gaze travels beyond me, in the direction of the funeral. My hand moves to his muscled forearm, and I squeeze it hard.
“No.”