I still have Nessa’s book in my pocket, and I pull it out and lay it on my lap, open to the first page, where an ink drawing depicts a sorrowful maiden looking down on a city being swallowed by waves.
I’ve seen him destroy cities with fire, with water, with the shaking of the earth. He destroyed Neruby with sand and wind. He destroyed Ghedda, the city in the drawing, by causing the mountain it was built on to erupt. He might have already destroyed Parthenia, if it wouldn’t risk Zhian’s life. It’s a wonder the Shaitan has kept his notorious temper in check even this long. If I fail, he’ll likely let Parthenia and all its people sink into the sea, then send his maarids to search the ruins for Zhian’s bottle.
And Aladdin will die.
That thought hits me hardest. Lifting my eyes, I watch him laughing with the young lords, their faces turned to him like flowers to the sun. I have felt that same draw, that mysterious pull he has on me. I’ve been feeling it for weeks now, and it’s getting harder and harder to resist. I think of him in the garden, lying on the grass, his hand brushing mine, and shudder at the pleasure this memory brings.
I slam the book shut and set it beside me. Enough sitting around, waiting for Zhian to show himself. Looking around, I spot Prince Darian lurking nearby, swirling a bottle of wine and watching Aladdin and Caspida stroll.
A plan unfurls in my mind, and I rise and walk to him.
“All alone on Fahradan? That’s a shame.”
He starts, spilling wine on his coat. He brushes at it with a look of annoyance. “Is that how you address your master? If I had a servant half so impertinent, I’d have her whipped and then cast out of the city for the ghuls to enjoy.”
“You’re drunk.”
He shrugs as if that’s to be taken for granted. “I’ve been thinking of ways to teach your master his place in my court.”
“Your court? Forgive me, Majesty. I wasn’t aware I was in the presence of a king.” I eye Darian calculatingly as he glares at me, then gesture at a nearby bench in invitation. He sits beside me, a bit too close, his breath reeking of wine.
“Why is he really here?” asks Darian.
Grabbing his bottle, I take a deep swallow of wine before answering. “To gain the pleasure of your scintillating company.”
With a curse, the prince suddenly grabs my wrist, his eyes fevered. “Tell me the truth, girl, or I’ll have you both thrown out of this city.”
Pulling my hand away with a scowl, I reply sharply, “You have no power over us. We are guests of the king.”
“The king is an idiot and an invalid. Everyone knows my father is the real ruler of Parthenia.”
I bite back a reply, forcing myself to focus on the real goal here, not petty sniping. Taking a moment to alter the course of my tongue, I smile coyly and reply in warmer tones, “Yes, the great Vizier Sulifer, commander of the Parthenian military. He is a great warrior, from what I hear.”
Darian’s chest swells. “He is. And everyone says I am very like him.”
“I see.” I slide closer to him and run one finger down his sleeve, my eyes lowered. “You must have killed many jinn.”
“More than a few,” he grunts, leaning in dangerously near. I lean back, out of reach of his questing lips.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What?” His face darkens.
Turning away, I shrug and run my fingers through my hair. “Anyone can say he has defeated many jinn, but a real warrior would prove it. Did you know in the mountains of Ursha, the tribesmen cut thumbs from their slain enemies and wear them on their belts as trophies?”
“That’s barbaric.”
“The men were allowed to take one wife for every thumb. Some of them had twenty or thirty thumbs.” I glance at him sidelong. “How many jinn have you killed?”
Darian runs a lock of my hair through his fingers, and I resist the urge to pull away from his touch. His eyes burn intently as he stands. “I will show you.”
My chest tightens with excitement, but I hesitate.
“Is it far?” I cast a worried look at Aladdin. I can’t afford to get too far from him and be forced to shift in front of Darian.
The prince shrugs. “You won’t miss anything here, believe me. This festival’s more boring than a tortoise race. It’s just around the corner, anyway.”
We slip out of the courtyard unseen, through a small door leading into the palace. Darian doesn’t let go of my hand. His grip is sweaty and too tight, but I say nothing that will distract him. I want to see what he has to show me, and hope against hope I have gambled well and am not wasting more precious hours. Time is falling sand, and it streams through my fingers.
“This way,” says Darian, leading me down a narrow, winding stair. I worry that “just around the corner” was an exaggeration, or that Aladdin might wander off and unwittingly summon me back to the lamp. But this chance at finding Zhian is too good to pass up. As we walk, I count my steps carefully.
. . . 64 . . . 65 . . .
The sandstone walls echo with our passage as we descend, the darkness closing in and swallowing us up. The glimmer and light of Fahradan fade quickly, until the prince and I are alone in a dark subterranean world of black passages and dusty chambers. My sixth sense probes the emptiness of the palace’s underbelly, but my reach is blunted, the clarity of my Ambadyan sight blurred. The walls here are lined with strips of iron, the metal interfering with my thoughts, and my sixth sense is repelled back at me. I blink furiously, hoping Darian doesn’t notice my mental reeling.
One, two, three levels—the architects of Parthenia dug deep into the earth for these foundations. The farther we go, the farther we are from my lamp, and I feel the distance stretching like a tightening rope. I haven’t explored this area before; we are far from Aladdin’s rooms and well outside the perimeter that has held me captive every night till now. I thrum with excitement and nervousness. This is the closest I’ve come yet to finding Zhian and finally securing my freedom—now my every thought turns toward not ruining this chance.
. . . 101 . . . 102 . . .
My stomach tightens. Any moment, Aladdin could take a few steps one way while I take a few steps the other, and my leash will snap and I will turn to smoke. I wonder if Darian notices how tense I am. He still holds my hand, too tightly for me to pull away.
The walls are stone slabs, their faces etched with fading glyphs and symbols. Brass hooks hold burnt-out torches on the walls, but Darian manages to find one with a little oil left in it, and he lights it with a strike of the decorative knife on his belt against a bar of flint tied to the torch.
“The old crypt,” says Darian, holding up the light. His hand tightens more around mine, and I stare at him curiously. Darian is afraid, of the dark, the deep, or the dead. As if sensing my glimpse of this vulnerability, he scowls and pulls me onward.