“I don’t know.” He picks up one of the stone gryphons and tosses it from hand to hand. “I didn’t really think at all, I guess. And don’t forget, this was all your idea.” He looks down at me, his eyes troubled. “It’s killing me, Zahra. Seeing the vizier every day, passing him in the hall, pretending to bow and grovel. I hate it.”
I glance over at Jalil, who is lost in his work, then back at Aladdin. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Let’s get out of here. There’s too much dust. Too much . . . history.” I take the scroll of jinn lore from his hand and set it on a shelf. “I want to sit in the sun and feel the sea breeze on my face.”
“All right,” he says, a bit amused. “And you can tell me more about the jinn.”
• • •
We climb the tallest tower in the palace and find ourselves at last standing upon the rooftop, beneath a striped canvas awning, looking down on the city. From this height, it looks flawless, like a city in a story, stained with the golden light of midmorning. White rooftops bake in the sun, colorful awnings stretching between them, the crowns of the palms and other trees casting spiky patches of shade on the streets. And beyond the south wall, the cliffs overlook the turquoise sea. Not a cloud is to be seen, and the sun blazes like the eye of a beneficent god. Seabirds ride the warm air, drifting in the sky and turning lazy circles around the glittering minarets of the palace.
“Look at it,” breathes Aladdin, leaning over the parapet. His elbows brush the leaves of a potted lemon tree, its branches budding with tiny fruits. “Not a bad view. I could get used to this.”
“So. Becoming a prince isn’t entirely about revenge, is it?”
He grins at me. “There are definitely other attractions.”
“Can you really see this through? Marrying the princess, banishing or imprisoning the vizier, and then ruling this city? Guiding its people? Watching your children navigate the treacherous waters of court?”
With a shrug, he lifts his face to the sun, shutting his eyes and basking in its heat. “With a view like this? I could get used to anything. Of course, it all depends on winning the princess. She might hate me.”
“She might.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not helping, Smoky.”
“My name isn’t . . .” But I sigh and let it go. The nickname doesn’t rankle me like it did a few weeks ago. I’m growing too used to it. Too used to him.
He lowers his face. “Is it true all jinn were once human?”
Caught off guard, I look up at him sharply. “Why do you want to know about that?”
“The scroll I was reading talked about it. I wondered if it was true.” He turns around, leaning against the parapet, his arms folded.
I sigh and sit on the warm stone floor, my back against the potted lemon tree. I pull a fruit that dangles at my elbow and turn it over in my hands.
“Not all of them. The oldest ones were born jinn, but most of us were . . . adopted. Long ago, there were only two realms: that of the gods—the godlands, as you call them—and that of the jinn: Ambadya. The jinn were the gods’ first creation, and they made them powerful and proud and magnificent.”
A yellow butterfly lands on my knee, and I pause a moment, watching it as it rubs its legs over its face before flitting off again.
“And?” Aladdin prods.
“For many ages the jinn lived in peace. There were the maarids, of the water, small, lovely, petty things. There were the ifreets, creatures of fire, who were few in number but great in power. There were the ghuls, creatures of earth, who even in those days were the most despised of the jinn. They lived in caves and holes, like rats, but were mostly harmless as they could never work together. There were the sila, jinn of the air, rarely seen by the others because they spent most of their lives drifting in the sky, invisible and secretive. And most powerful of all, there were the shaitan, masters of all elements, lords of all the jinn. In those days, Ambadya was much like your world: rich with color and life, beautiful and vast and wild.”
Aladdin sits beside me, his shoulder against mine. “Everything I’ve heard describes the jinn world as dark and wretched.”
“It is now. They ruined their world when they began warring with each other. They burned it, twisted it into a ruin. That is why the gods created men. They wanted to start over. And it is why the jinn and the humans have never got along since. The jinn were jealous, their place of privilege usurped. Many times they have tried to take over this world, and every time, the gods interceded.”
He is sitting very close. My throat goes dry, and I stop to swallow, overly conscious of his warmth and the minty smell of the soap he used to wash his face this morning.
“Finally, the gods struck them with infertility—no new jinn could be born. But Havok, the god of rebirth, took pity on the jinn and allowed them to replenish their ranks only with humans who were given over to them. These sacrifices were meant to appease the jinn, and they were taken and turned into ifreets and sila, maarids and ghuls. A few were even made shaitan.”
“Human sacrifices?” Aladdin’s voice is thick with disgust. “I’d heard that in other parts of the world, they still leave children and girls and warriors for the jinn, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“You should. It is the easiest way to ensure that the jinn won’t burn your crops or sicken your livestock. After the gods abandoned the world, temples called alombs became shrines to the jinn, places where people could leave their sacrifices and buy another year of protection.”
“Zahra . . . were you sacrificed?”
I haven’t thought about that day in a long, long time. It was a thousand and one lifetimes ago. Ignoring the question, I point to the north, to the mountain sitting in the distance behind a screen of haze. “There is one such alomb on the summit of that mountain.”
He watches me, fully aware of my evasion, but he doesn’t press me further. His gaze turns north. “We don’t use it. It’s forbidden. That’s why our city is starving. Few cities will trade with us, because they think we should make offerings to the jinn as they do.”
I nod. “Roshana was the first Amulen queen to outlaw sacrifices. It was a bold move, but it infuriated the jinn.”
He leans into me, nudging me softly with his shoulder. “So? What about you? What’s it like being a shaitan?”
I stare at him. “What makes you think I am a shaitan?”
“I’ve seen you grant wishes, and the way you change your form . . . Well? You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit. I am part of a dying breed, one of only three left in existence. Of the other two, one resides in Ambadya, ruling the jinn, and the second is likely somewhere beneath my feet, trapped in a bottle.