The force of the blades shook my arm. I pushed forward, swinging to the left, jabbing to the right, faster than was safe. But Azim was a master swordsman and he would not hurt—
“Sons!” I shouted when his sword smacked my arm. Instantly there was pain and blood and panic, but it was gone just as quickly when remembering we used only training swords.
Azim smirked, and said, “Up. Again.”
I rose.
“Slower, Saalim. This is a lecture, not war.”
And so we went, Azim critiquing how I held my shoulders, placed my feet, rotated my wrist.
“Let us break,” he said. “You’ve other things on your mind. Tell me.”
It was Azim’s rule: no conversation during lesson. “If you are talking, then you aren’t paying attention.”
“No,” I told the head of my army. “There is nothing. We should continue.” Should the Darkafa attack, I wanted to be ready. This time, I would fight in the streets beside my people.
“Saalim, sit.” Azim pointed to one of the few chairs in the empty room. We were in a dirt-floored space beside the horse stalls, meant for working the horses should the weather forbid use of the arena outside. It was the best place to practice the sword.
My sparring sword grew heavy in my arm, and I let the dulled tip of it drag through the dirt as I walked to a creaking wooden chair.
Azim sat across from me, on an equally decrepit chair that sagged under his weight. He leaned back. The soft leather protecting his back and legs told of a man who lived a good life, and the lines on his face and the scars on his hands told of a man who had earned it.
He was like a second father to me, not in kindness nor understanding, but in his intolerance for weakness, for his relentless instruction, and his enduring patience. He had been there for Almulihi when I had not. He had been ready, when I had been arrogant and foolish.
“The Darkafa are being followed,” Azim assured me. “None have been seen carrying weapons. Veiled threats are not enough of a reason to capture them. If we captured every person who challenged the throne—”
“I know.”
“Questioning hasn’t gotten us any further.”
It was not as if these Darkafa were keeping secrets. They were open about their cause: Long ago, their ancestors had been tasked by the goddess with the protection of a treasure: a latched box. None were to open it except the goddess, and she would return only when the king crossed the desert.
Once she returned, they said, the second-born Son would destroy the first.
None knew how it would happen, and none admitted to having attacked Madinat Almulihi before. Nassar said most seemed appalled by the thought of killing. They were simply fever-crazed for the goddess.
But I did not trust them.
“They do not carry weapons,” Azim said. “They are watched. The palace is watched. You are not left alone.”
And perhaps that was part of the problem. “There is much we don’t know about them. The role Masira and the Sons play in their plot confuses me even more.”
Azim nodded. “They are not the first group of zealots to walk these sands.”
“We can’t let down our guard.”
Azim shook his head. “I never do.” He put his hand on the sword’s hilt. “Now, is that all that worried you, or is there more we should discuss?” He said it as if talking to a little girl.
I laughed, standing, and raised my sword until I saw it shining before me.
My shoulders ached, and my brow was slick with sweat as I sought out Farasa at the stalls. I pressed my hand to her neck before promising I would take her out again soon. Once it is safe for me to leave, I thought.
Crossing the plaza back to the palace, I saw Altasa leaving in a rush.
“Where are you heading? Should I fetch a servant to help you?” Even if she had the strength to make the journey, the pickpockets and thieves worried me.
“No. I am only going to the market.”
“It’s nearly night.” The marketplace would be closed by the time she got there.
“I know that.” She rested her hand on her brow, shading her eyes. “It’s always open for me.”
I nodded to her, and she was gone.
Nassar was expecting me for dinner, but it was not yet sundown, so I had some time. I considered returning to my tower—addressing correspondences that had piled up. There was some dispute concerning the Hayali—when wasn’t there?—and another trader was angered because he had not been paid his full price for his wares, saying the sandstorms had cost them more time. This was not an unusual request these days. There had been many storms lately. I had waited too long to address these things already, but knowing that Emel might be at Altasa’s—alone—made my decision.
Like those who waited for my responses concerning business, my apology to Emel was long overdue.
I had not seen her since the camel race, and that had been days ago.
Never had I felt like such a fool as that day. To have completely forgotten where she came from, what the race was . . . I closed my eyes, my fists clenching again. I had simply wanted to show her a tradition of Almulihi. I had not been thinking at all. My mother would have made me sleep out with the goats.
The servants in the gardens flew into a busy flurry when I passed. The need to trim the leaves just-so seemed suddenly pressing. Nadia loved the gardens. I would tease her for doing a servant’s job, but now I understood that her trimming flowers was the same as my swinging the sword. Everyone needed something else.
Smoke rose from Altasa’s home. If Emel was not inside, I would have Mariam once again talk to Altasa about leaving the fire unattended. Zahar had indulged in the same problem, and my mother had almost thrown her out for all the worrying she did about the palace catching fire. The door to Altasa’s was open when I approached. Rustling came from inside.
Emel’s back was to me; she was bent over the counter, working steadily at something.
My knuckles rapped against the open door.
Emel did not startle as Nadia would have, should I have crept up on her. When she saw it was me, though, she quickly put down her knife, wiped her hands, and bowed her head.
“I am sorry to disturb you.”
“What do you need?” She hastily collected everything from the table, shuffling it to the counter where she worked and pulled out a chair.
She was dressed as any laborer in Almulihi would be. Those damn clothes were the reason I’d forgotten where she had come from.
Before I could answer, she gestured to the empty chair. “Can I get you some tea?” She seemed almost as nervous as I was, her hands fidgeting with her clothing.
My mother had taught me people wanted to provide, so when the offer was small, it was courtesy to accept.
“Tea would be welcome.” I sat at the table and waited.
She pulled a kettle from the fire. I could not stop watching her move. She did not once look at me.
I took a drink of the tea. It was unexpectedly sweet.
“Do you dislike it?”
I shook my head. “I like it very much.”
“What do you need?” Emel asked again, sitting down with a piece of flat wood and a charcoal stick. “I can start today; I am almost done with other orders.”
I sat forward and pushed the wood aside, remnants of charcoal dust gritty against my fingertips. “Nothing. I have come to apologize.”
My hand was near hers. Her fingers were dark where the charcoal stick had touched them. She pulled her hands to her lap.
“I had forgotten what the race was. What it would be to you.”
Emel asked, “And what was it to me?”
“Cheap entertainment at the expense of you and your family, your neighbors, and friends. I am sorry that I invited you. But I am even more sorry that it is a custom in Almulihi to behave that way.”
“People like me are not welcome here,” she said, not sadly but as a matter of fact. “I did not expect a city who receives so many travelers to be so cruel.” There was no question of where Emel was from. Her dark skin and face looked ancient and unyielding. She would not be able to hide in this city, even with a veil.
“There is little excuse.” I knew where the prejudices originated—salt chasers took jobs and homes. They worshipped the angry brother. And if a salt chaser stole or was violent? Sons, it was a mark against the whole people. It was not fair, but it was the reality. They were watched more closely, especially after the attack.
“I want you to see a different part of Almulihi,” I said finally, immediately feeling silly. Why was I continuing to foster this . . . whatever this was between us? My fingers, clasped together, clenched. Here I was, begging that she give me another chance.
“What do you want to show me?”
“The Falsa Mawk. The parade will pass in front of the palace. Watch it with us. It will be a better, truer show of Almulihi than the race. There are enormous feasts and parties—we host one, of course. And at night . . .” I smiled. The night was spectacular, and I did not want to spoil the surprise.
The corner of her mouth lifted. I tried not to stare too long.
I continued. “It is hard to describe. You will see regardless, but if you join us for the day, you will have the best view.”
“I imagine you will have much to celebrate with the impending wedding.”
My smile fell. “Indeed.”
“I would be honored to celebrate with you,” she said. Other than to bring the tea to her lips and back down again, she did not move in her chair. It seemed as if we danced with our stares—she looked at me, looked away, and I did the same. “We had a winter and summer festival, too.”
“The Haf Shata and Haf Alsaf.” The words came out almost before I could think of what I was saying. Why did I know that?
Emel stared at me as if she had just seen magic. “You remember?” she whispered. She sounded surprised, and . . . hopeful? I did not understand. Why did she say remember, as if it was something I had known? We must have talked about it on the journey from Alfaar’s.
When I remained silent, Emel described the parties—the way the ground was covered with carpets, how fabric was spun from the frames to look like a cold winter wind or summer sunset, and how the guests wore robes of all colors and drank and ate the limitless drink and food supplied by Alfaar.
“And you,” I said after a lull in her descriptions. “You and your sisters were the center of it all, weren’t you?” I could feel a flickering of disgust, of fury. “Collecting coin from the wealthy to give to Alfaar?”
Her knee touched mine, and she pulled it away. I shifted, so that we touched again. I felt the heat of her skin through the layers of our clothes. Her hands, pressed firmly against the table, were a mere turn of my wrist away. I moved to turn my hand, but as if she suddenly remembered something, she stood and went to the shelves. There seemed to be no order to the jars and vials scattered there. And few had any indication of what they were inside.
Why had she left so suddenly? I sank back in my chair. She must think me no different than a man like Omar.
“What is the Falsa Mawk like?” She pulled a jar from up high, smelled it, then set it before her. She did this with a few more before she began taking pinches out and putting them on the work surface.
“Like the Haf Shata, it seems. Though the entire city is a part of it. The parade calls the largest crowd. Some have been working on their exhibitions since last year’s Falsa Mawk, as you’ll see. It’s a celebration of the city, of the trade, and of the people here.”
“Only locals may participate?”
I heard the accusation. “Not necessarily,” I said. “Nassar chose the participants this year.”
“And the years before?”
“My mother did.”
“Oh.”
“No,” I said, “It is all right. My mother loved Falsa Mawk. I didn’t know if we would continue the tradition this summer after . . . everything. But we decided it is what she would want. And, too, it is what the people want. So much has changed for them—a new king, more guards, stricter trade—it seems like the right thing to do to let them have this familiar joy.”
Emel was at the table again, watching me with soft eyes and wiping her hands on her tunic. She had brought with her a small jar filled with a muddy liquid.
“You said you know about the Darkafa,” she said finally.
“Yes.”
“I heard mention of a jinni.”
Once, I would have laughed. Instead, I remembered water that came as if from the wind. “A jinni,” I repeated. Something in the way the word vibrated through my chest was familiar. And terrifying. “The Darkafa claim to have one?”
She clutched the edge of the table tightly. “Or had one? Protected one? I don’t know.”
The way her face bent under her words told me she carried more concern about this than she needed to. “We are diligent,” I said by way of consolation. But then I remembered what the cloaked men in the temple said.
The child has it still.
“Soldiers can’t stop a jinni,” she pressed.
Rising from the chair, I said, “No, but if it was true that the Darkafa were using a jinni to remove me from the throne, wouldn’t they have done it by now?” I rubbed my hands together and nudged my cup away from the edge. “Thank you for the tea. You will have to tell Thali how you get it just so.”
Emel frowned, following me out. Then, “Oh! I nearly forgot.” She took the small jar from the table. Handing it to me, she said, “It’s a tonic. Like the salve. Altasa said it will serve you better, but that you never want it. Perhaps you should try it?”
The jar was cool in my palm. Emel was right, I would not take it from Altasa. I did not make it a habit to drink things others made for me. My father told me to be wary of gifts that might leave me poisoned or dead. But Emel, inexplicably, I trusted.
“I will. Thank you.”
The hallway was empty as I returned to my tower, the scratch of my boots against the floor loud in the emptiness. Where were the guards? Probably off to the kitchens—or the pots—but they knew better than to leave so many posts empty.
The stairs all but disappeared under my feet as I ran up them.
When I was seated at my worktable, a shuffling sounded from behind me, rapidly moving closer.
I reached for the knife I kept on the tabletop, but the space was empty. I kicked the chair behind me in hopes of stalling whoever approached, and I spun around. A man ran toward me with my knife held clumsily in his fingers.
“He is here!” His shout echoed around us. The man stepped back from me with the knife in front of him, as if to protect himself.
There was no time to plan. Since I was unarmed, I, too, staggered back in the direction of my sword. Besides the shorn hair and the gloves on his fingers, the scars on the man’s head identified him as one of the Darkafa.
He surged toward the stairs when he saw me retreat. Against a table holding a basin of water lay my sword, waiting for me. Easing toward the table, without looking away from the man, my fingers curled around the hilt, and I swung the blade out in front of me.
The man faltered, then skirted around, trying to retreat.
I leapt forward, sword gleaming.
Behind the man, there was another flash of black. I turned to defend against an ambush, but this person—holding his hood over his head—sped past my attacker and fled down the stairs.
The man and I circled around my desk until his back was to the stairs. I edged forward, hoping that he might slip and fall backward. But he arced his arm out to the side, grabbed hold of the basin sitting atop the table, and in one swift movement, swept it onto the ground. Water and ceramic exploded onto the floor, the wooden table toppling after it. The man turned and fled down the stairs.
Leaping over the wet debris, I sped after him down the hallway. “Stop!”
Where were the damn guards?
I chased him until he disappeared into the gardens and was gone.
I found guards stationed at the entrance, leaning against tiled walls with swords limp at their sides.
“Trespassers!” I screamed at them. “Darkafa! In the palace!”
They heard the hoarseness of my voice, the urgency, the call of their king, and their eyes widened with alarm. They rushed past me into the palace without a word, dispersing at once to secure the rooms.
I was standing alone—my chest heaving as I tried to understand what had just happened—for only a moment before two guards ran out of the palace to join me.
“King Saalim,” Tamam called, chagrin clouding his typically stoic face. “We are searching. Stay out here.” I could tell by the way his eyes flitted back to the palace he would rather be inside looking for the Darkafa himself.
“Where were the guards? I saw not one when I came through before the attack.” I was shouting now. The other guard took a step away from me.
“Azim has been calling meetings, I know—”
“This can’t happen! Our guards cannot be idle, cannot be elsewhere.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Our home—our liberties and life—is at stake should the throne be taken!” I could not lose the crown.
Bless Wahir Helena had not been here. What if something had happened to her? I thought of my mother falling to invaders’ swords. I could not fail my people again.
It did not take long before the palace was secure. The Darkafa had fled. The only trace of an attack was the fractured basin, spilled water, and turned-over table.
Azim met me in the sitting room. The gauzy curtains that billowed alongside the windows were too gentle, too calm. My heart pounded, my fists were clenched so tightly they hurt. I wanted to rip the curtains from the wall.
“Your mother would be disappointed if you destroyed her home.” He gestured to the curtains.
“My mother wouldn’t care.” I laughed mirthlessly.
Azim shook his head. “Don’t walk down that path of thought, Saalim.”
He was right, I was being immature. But I was furious.
“Where were the guards?”
Azim shook his head and stared at his hands. Remorse, heavy and holding fast, pulled him into the chair. “My oversight. I can’t understand how I made such an error.” He clasped and unclasped his fingers. He did not look at me except to admit fault. Then, back to his hands, his brow furrowed in confusion.
This negligence was not like him at all. “What were you thinking?”
“I . . .” He met my gaze. “Was not.”
The flames of my anger diminished with his confession. Though it was unlike him to be so careless, I could see the same thoughts circling in his mind.
“The palace should be closed completely,” I said finally. The palace was ordinarily open to the citizens of Almulihi who had business here. But now, even that was not safe. None could be trusted.
He nodded. “It will happen immediately.”
I returned to my study once Azim had left, still rubbing his brow in confusion. The table had been restored and the broken basin swept away. My knife rested on my desk. I searched the room but found nothing to be missing. The same in my bedroom. Everything as if none but myself and the servants had been inside.
In the bathing room, my mother’s decanter, filled with water, sat on the shelf where I had left it. On the surface around it lay flakes of dried black paint from the Darkafa’s gloves. What business had he in my bathing room? With the dregs of anger guiding me, I picked up the decanter and threw it against the wall. Another explosion of water and ceramic.
I regretted it as soon as I did it. Especially after I had to explain to the frantic guard that all was well. Another part of my mother now lost irretrievably.
Returning to my study, I scanned my shelves. The toy soldier from my childhood lay on its side behind a vase. The carved, wooden man stood tall with a long, straight sword by his side. Most men carried scimitars, but not the men of the palace. Not my father. Our swords were straight, just like this soldier’s. I picked up the man but saw that only his legs remained. His sword was missing now, as were his torso and head. When had it broken?
Returning to my desk, I looked through the letters.
Salt mines, trading, invitations. Ibrahim requested I visit his court. I had no desire. Nassar would go in my stead. I tossed the letters into a pile for Nassar to address. The Hayali were being unfriendly traders again, as I had predicted. If not for my mother, I’m certain they’d have come for my throat themselves by now. I tossed it into Nassar’s pile, as well. Oh, this one was rich. A woman writing because her husband had been killed at Alfaar’s settlement—now, mine. She was grieving, she was angry, and her people had been left without a leader. It went into the pile for Mariam. She would smooth it over with salt and a gift. I would write to Usman to do better.
Picking up another letter, I exhaled. Sons, I had to return to the desert. There was much there that demanded my attention. I dropped my head into my palms. In truth, I would not be comfortable leaving this city anytime soon.
Finally, I held the last letter. It had no seal nor indication of when it was sent, as if delivered by person. For the briefest moment I thought of Emel, but when I opened the note the handwriting was far too elegant. It was written by someone who had been diligently trained—like my siblings and I had been.
Saalim,
If you have this letter in your hands, then she has done it. I weep with the thought of you returning to us, because I have missed you.
There is so much to tell you, but I fear there is not enough parchment in the world.
Beware of Zahar. She has not died. She seeks to take you from the throne. I did not know this when she mentored me. I wish I had, because I might have stopped it. Be wary of her, Saalim. She may not appear as she once did.
Lastly, she has something at her disposal to help her. Rumors say a jinni, but so many have seen a black-cloaked army. Be careful.
Should you need me, I am in the desert now. It is the only place where I feel, at last, home.
With so much love,
Edala
My hands shook as I stared at the words, trying to believe them to be lies. A cruel joke someone thought to play on me.
Because Edala could not be alive. It was impossible.
My sister, like the rest of my family, was dead.