“Almost there,” we whispered to ourselves with cracked voices and sagging shoulders. The oasis was just past the dune ahead, and we stared at the dune like it was a pile of treasure. Its surface appeared so smooth, I imagined it a pile of salt in my father’s throne room. The largest pile in the world, stolen from a jinni. Stolen by magic.
As if by the same magic, the oasis was not there when we passed the dune. There were no trees, no bushes, no water, nor a smudge of a shadow anywhere that signaled respite lay waiting for us.
It must be too dark to see it; the sun not yet risen. Once it grew lighter, we would see it.
So this was the life of a nomad, to chase wealth regardless of the consequences. Though that was too simple, too superficial. It was not wealth we chased today, not salt. We were seeking water, refuge. We were chasing life, because if we stopped, death would catch us.
As we ventured closer, the travelers began murmuring—a sweep of whispers that rose into loud confusion—all seeing the same thing as I: There really was nothing.
Death would catch us.
Saalim had taken a foolish risk, and he had failed. My shoulders sagged, suspecting what he was feeling, remembering the guilt he’d spoke of when he failed his city.
“A mistake. It is just a little farther,” Tavi said hoarsely. Her water was nearly gone. She had conserved what she could, as had I, and that left us both thirsty and weak.
“I am sure,” I said. There was not enough water left in the barrels to get us to the next oasis.
As the sun crested the horizon, an irregularity against the sand drew my attention—the oasis! Hope flooded me and I took stumbling steps toward it.
But no. It was only to be a piece of dry wood. My fingers knocked against it: hard and hollow. There were others like it, and the gladness slipped away like water through rocks. Thin cracks spliced the ground, and the sand here was hard as stone. Was this where water had once been? Where Wahir had once stepped? If so, Eiqab’s sun had destroyed it.
Silently, the caravan stopped moving. People stared at the desiccated wood, the dry earth. Few spoke. A sob broke through the silence behind me. Wasteful tears. A woman dropped to her knees, face pressing into the sand. She mumbled a sad prayer, but the sand was too cool for skin to sear. Eiqab would not listen, so her prayer would blow away in the wind.
“Do you have any water?” Firoz said coming up beside me. Shame hushed his words.
I held my breath, wrapping my fingers around the vessel at my hip. I shook my head, careful that the water did not slosh against the sides to reveal my lie. I was too thirsty to share what I had left with anyone. Even Firoz.
Firoz glanced to Tavi, to her goatskin, but he said nothing. Rashid was beside him, staring at the ground. Their eyes sunken, lips dry.
Ahead, Saalim was huddled with his soldiers, a map held open between them. He was standing still, arms tightly crossed over his chest. The men around him were equally still, all watching the king as he peered at the map. I did not need to stand amongst them to know they were as scared as we were.
They spoke for a long time. No villagers approached the men, no one moved from where we had stopped.
My mouth was sticky, my lips cracked and sore. I wanted to take a sip of my water, but I could not now that I’d lied to Firoz who still stood nearby. The world was spinning like I had drunk two goblets of arak. I shivered against the breeze and closed my eyes.
“—two days away. We have nearly two barrels of water that we will divide amongst us. Ration.”
Slowly, I opened my eyes, my head aching and body hot beneath the rising sun. I blinked away my sleep, and the man who spoke to us became less of a dark smudge. It was Parvaz.
“Will it be enough?” Rashid asked, hoarsely.
But Parvaz had already moved to the next group. His steps were slow and measured, and every moment the sun pulled more moisture from his body. Soon even he would be dry as the trees.
Death caught us.
Two villagers died that day. They would be left behind for Masira’s birds. The travelers talked to comfort themselves, explain why it would not happen to them—the dead had been old, irresponsible with their water. A wife and a brother mourned them, crying without tears. How many more would be unable to rise come the night?
The water was divided amongst us. My goatskin was full. It was to last until the next oasis, two nights away. Before, I was allowed to drink three each day.
I took a long drink and still felt thirsty.
Yes, more would die.
When the night came and the journey was to resume, I rose slowly. My head pounded as the world tipped and turned. My heart raced. With little strength, I helped Tavi up. Standing, we were like the wooden puppets our mothers used to make dance for us—movements jerky, threatening to collapse. I could barely look at her, for each time, guilt ripped away at me. If I had not fed Tavi fantasies of a city by the sea . . .
“Don’t,” Tavi whispered. She shook her head. “I made this choice, not you.”
Pressing my lips together, I reached for her hand. Thank you, sister. She took it between her fingers and then let go.
We walked forward, listening to people around us trying to rouse their companions from their stupor. When they could not be roused, when there was the strength, the unconscious were slung over camels’ backs. But there was not always the strength, nor the companions. I did not look back. I did not want to see the scattered people that had fallen from our line like the red autumn leaves Saalim once told me of.
The night was a blur. I was hot and then cold, and then hot again. I would wipe my brow, but there was no sweat. Tavi was the same—I’d hear her teeth chatter then see her dropping her cloak from her shoulders.
The journey was taken one step at a time. It felt unending. When I glimpsed Saalim his head was always held high, but his shoulders sagged more and more, his steps smaller and smaller. I tried to wonder about him, what he thought and felt, but I did not have the energy and my eyes would again drop to the sand. The caravan stopped many times, and each time we began again, I felt less of a desire to rise. My gut felt as if it were rolling in on itself, consuming my bones, chewing them to shards.
Sometime in the night, a horse died. Some drank its blood—or did I dream that? Someone had the strength to carve the animal. I sucked at the meat like a piece of fruit Saalim had once conjured from nothing.
Then it was day again. Everyone lay down. Never had so many been so silent.
We were not going to make it to Almulihi. This realization came with a wave of comfort, warm and pleasant. We were going to die. Death would serve me far better than stone buildings with climbing vines, a palace with tapering domes. I rolled to my side, letting my face fall into the sand. I closed my eyes and prayed to Eiqab that the end would come swiftly.
Saalim lay near—just beyond my reach. Behind him, brass lanterns flickered orange against the tent wall. At first, the fires pleased me in their warmth. But then they were hot. They burned my throat. I tried to gather sand so that I might douse the flames but my fingers hit a woven carpet. I looked to Saalim—get rid of the lanterns—but his eyes were closed. His hands were by his head, and on his wrists were golden bands with edges that seemed to melt into his hands, as though they had been forged from his blood.
He was a jinni again.
I moved to wake him, but I was too tired. Staying where I was, I watched him breathe. His face was smooth in his sleep, always so relaxed when he was away from my father.
But the burning in my throat became too great. I needed him to get rid of the fires.
“Please,” I whispered.
Saalim’s eyes opened. “Emel, what is it?” He sat up, his face creasing in concern.
“The lanterns are too hot.”
“They are gone.” And so they were.
“Come closer,” I said. He came, lying beside me, and I draped my arm over his chest. His heart beat fast like mine. Breathing him in was like gulping in relief. My hand fell along his ribs and I closed my eyes. I would never move from here.
“What else do you need?”
“My throat still burns.”
“Water, then?”
Sons, yes. That was what I needed. I nodded.
“Then you will have it.”
I waited. Nothing came.
“What else?” he asked.
“There is no water.”
“There will be. Is there anything more?” Saalim moved to rise.
My father must be waking soon. He would expect Saalim at his side. “Is it time already?”
Saalim nodded. “Hurry, tell me your final wish.”
The untethered longing washed through me. Could he feel it?
“I wish for you.” I tried pulling him close, but I could not, weak as I was. I pressed my hand to his skin, feeling his breaths.
“I am here.”
“I wish for you even when you are not.”
Sadness swirled in his eyes, unsaid words waited on his tongue. He held up his hands, and the golden bands were gone. “It is too late,” he said softly. “I am just a man.”
Suddenly voices clamored outside. I closed my eyes, wishing away the world that threatened our peace. I could not say goodbye to him again.
My eyes opened to blistering sun. The tent was gone. Saalim was gone. Only the voices remained. And the burn of my throat. No.
“Saalim?” I said weakly. I already knew he was not there. I was in the middle of the desert with the caravan scattered around me, waiting for death.
The voices drew my attention—loud in their vigor. People were sitting, the bottom of their vessels turned to the sky as they poured water into their mouths. I sat up as quickly as I could. Why were they being so reckless?
As I moved, I felt my own goatskin heavy at my side. Heavy as though it were . . . full? In my hands I felt the liquid move.
“Water, Emel,” Tavi said from behind me. Her voice was smoother, not so fragile and dry.
“Water?”
She nodded. Opening the goatskin, I slowly tipped it to my lips. “Bless Wahir,” I said. I allowed myself two long drinks, then held the water at arm’s length, resisting the temptation to drink it all at once. Tavi was doing the same. We knew what came if Eiqab saw us drink Wahir’s gift too quickly: He would take us in his fist and shake us. Sometimes until we died.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Barrels are full. No one knows. No one saw.”
“We were all sleeping.”
Tavi nodded.
A chill swept through me as I remembered my dream. Had it been magic? Saalim was not still a jinni. Was he?
What if he was?
I shook my head and turned to where Saalim’s men were clustered. I could not see him. Did he still wear the golden cuffs that bound him to Masira? My fingers flew to the sack at my side, feeling the hard golden cuffs within. It was impossible.
Suddenly eager, I attempted to stand. But the haze had not yet left my mind, and I wobbled on hands and knees before I sat back on the ground.
As the day progressed, the questions only multiplied. No one understood, and the soldiers were not forthcoming with answers.
“Where did the barrels get filled?” I asked one as I scooped kuskus—finally stewed now that we had water again—from the iron pot. I glanced to the water stores. People were lined up, waiting to get more. There was more than enough to take us to the next oasis.
He shrugged. “King Saalim has not said.”
No, he would not have. Especially if he did not know.
The more the water washed away my confusion, the more unsettled I became. What explanation was there other than magic? Magic did not come freely. What would Masira want in return for the water? Shivering, I pulled my arms across my chest as if to protect myself from the goddess.
I had toyed too much with magic when Saalim was a jinni. Too many wishes that had gone awry, too many threads loosened by what we had done, people who were changed.
Saalim had told me that when he granted a wish, none would remember what had been except the one who wished and the jinni who granted it. But he was wrong, because people did not forget completely. It was why Firoz had been so strange after my wish rescued him from a hanging for his collusion with the secretive Dalmur. It was how my father knew Saalim when he looked into his face, before he was pinned to the ground by Saalim’s sword.
My wish for freedom from the Salt King had freed Saalim from being a jinni and resurrected a city of stone by the sea. That magic spanned the desert. Had something horrid come from my tampering? The fear of it had sworn me away from magic for good. It no longer had a place in my life. Even though it had brought me some of my happiest moments, it too had caused some of my most tragic.
Sabra. No, I could not bear to think of my older sister, of what consequences my wishes had visited upon her. I turned to my younger sister instead: Tavi was wiping the remains of her kuskus with her finger and bringing it to her lips. Already her eyes were brighter. She looked down at her bowl.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Much better. Still, I am not eager for our journey tonight.”
Silently, I watched her.
Her gaze met mine. Did she see my worry? She said, “I will only regret all this if we don’t make it to Almulihi.” The corner of her mouth turned up into an almost smile. “Miss out on all that food, eh?”
I stared at my empty bowl. “If I hadn’t—”
“Stop,” she implored, the levity gone. “We are heading toward a new life. We cannot look behind us.”
Through the length of our journey our roles had reversed. Now, she did not need me like I needed her. Despite her fatiguing body, the farther away we got from our home, the stronger she became. My baby sister was like my mother.
“Think what you will about my being here,” Tavi continued. “But I only feel relief.” She looked around us slowly. Her eyes were soft, her body relaxed, as she leaned back onto her hands. “Every day, I am somewhere I wasn’t before. I’m no longer a prisoner in that tent.” She said tent with such malice. “What would I be doing now that Father’s court has been picked apart? I know nothing other than being an ahira. People would not have accepted us in their lives. I would rather be here.” The words tumbled out of her now. “I had not realized how much I dreaded that life. Hated it. Muhami who cared more for our father’s salt than me, pulling me to bed. You taught me that I deserved more, Emel.”
I remembered when I finally convinced her to sneak from the palace as I did. She saw the village for the first time, saw the horizon.
Tavi sighed. “I am weak and exhausted, but too, I am glad.”
I felt flickers of happiness, listening to Tavi.
“I am grateful,” she said after she took a drink of water. “For this.” She held up her goatskin. “And that our lives as ahiran are gone from us. We never have to face it again, eh?”
But that wasn’t true. Rashid planned to find us lodgings in the baytahira. After nearly perishing beneath Eiqab’s sun, I knew I would do whatever it took to survive in Madinat Almulihi. I was sure that the need for coin would be stronger than our resolve. After all, we were experts at leaving our pride behind.
I shivered beneath the sun.