He sneers, his hand moving quickly to catch mine. He yanks me close, his head bending to look down at me.
“Zahra,” he murmurs, his voice like falling rocks. “Why do you care for these humans? For thousands of years they have enslaved you, forced you to bend and bow to their silly whims. They have mistreated you, abused you, and yet you defend them still?” He drops his morning star to cradle my head in his other hand, and he licks his lips. His fangs flash. “Come with me to Ambadya. Be my bride, as you were always meant to be.”
Revulsion choking my throat, I pull away, slapping him hard across the jaw, but he barely registers the blow. “I’m not anything to you, Zhian. I never will be. You should have abandoned that notion long ago.”
“I did not bargain for your life so that you could play servant to these mortals! My father would have killed you thousands of years ago, like all the other Shaitan, if I hadn’t intervened!”
“I never asked you to.”
He roars, and I clap my hands over my ears at the terrible sound. Somewhere behind me, a horn blasts twice.
“They heard you, you fool!” I snap. “The Eristrati are coming, and their charmers will bottle you up again! Go, go!”
He snarls, his hand grabbing for me, but I shift into a tiger and snarl back at him, my hackles on end.
Get out of here, Zhian! Go find Nardukha and tell him I have set you free! Now he must free me.
The horn blasts again. At last Zhian comes to his senses, and he pulls back, scowling.
I’ll be back for you, he promises. And you and I will be joined at last, the jinn prince and his princess, unstoppable and undisputed!
Shifting back into a girl, I wave at him furiously, and at last he goes, his monstrous form shifting into gray smoke and gliding uphill toward the distant Mount Tissia.
Then I turn and run back the way I came, shifting into a songbird. I flit through the trees, over the heads of the Eristrati running toward the clearing.
I alight on a rock near the funeral and shift back into my human form, taking a moment to compose myself before slipping back through the crowd to Aladdin’s side.
“Zahra!” he hisses. “Where have you been?”
“What do you mean?” I murmur, my eyes on the mountain above.
He frowns, but doesn’t press the issue.
I continue gazing at the mountain, wondering how long it will take Nardukha to fulfill his promise, and how it will happen. What will I feel? Will he come himself to do it? I don’t see any sign of Zhian, so I can only hope he is on his way to the alomb, if not already through it.
After the funeral ends, Caspida leads the procession back to the palace. She walks alone, with Sulifer and Darian a few steps behind. The wind picks up until it’s nearly howling, and everyone must cover their noses and mouths against the dust whipping up. An ominous rumble sounds in the distance, over the choppy gray sea.
Aladdin, anticipating the wards on the city gates, offers me his arm to lean on, and with a mighty effort I keep my pain hidden as the Eskarr symbols glare down at me. We hurry through, Aladdin acting casual while I simply do my best not to pass out. These gates are smaller than the ones through which we first entered the city, and the wards release me sooner, but it is several minutes before my vision clears and I can breathe again.
The court convenes in the throne room, where Caspida stands before her father’s great seat, facing the crowd. Four guards are positioned at each corner of the dais, and a row of scribes sit behind her, poised to record everything that happens on long scrolls of creamy parchment, their sleeves rolled back and ink pots at their elbows.
Sulifer and Darian stand at the foot of the throne, wearing identical expressions of solemnity. Opposite them stand Raz and Nessa, deceptively demure in their funereal black, but their eyes miss nothing.
The crowd whispers and rustles, looking drab and almost indistinguishable from the gray-clad servants who line the walls. High above, through the openings of the domes, the storm clouds roll and rumble, making the hall echo with thunder. Large clay urns have been set directly beneath the holes in the roof, in case rain should begin to fall.
Once everyone has gathered in the hall and the great teak doors are shut with a series of heavy booms, Caspida stands. Everyone falls quiet, and faces turned toward her display a range of expectations: curiosity, hope, pity, and hunger.
In a loud, clear voice that rings across the hall she cries, “My father, Malek son of Anoushan son of Arhab son of Oshur, King of Kings, King of Parthenia, Chosen by Imohel, King of the Amulens, is dead.”
“The king is dead,” murmurs the crowd in response.
“I am Caspida, daughter of Malek and Parisandra, Princess of Parthenia, Chosen by Imohel, Princess of the Amulens. By the right of my birth, I claim this throne.”
“The king is dead,” the crowd says again. “Long live the queen.”