The Forbidden Wish (10 page)

A
NOTHER WEEK PASSES.
The moon is nearly full. I have yet to find any sign of Zhian.

I am growing desperate.

Aladdin is passed around the court like an exotic pet, from this clique to that, invited to games of cards and camel races. I trail after him, feeding him bits of etiquette when I can, but soon find he doesn't need it. He told me he was adaptable, but I underestimated him. He blends in perfectly, his manners charming, his conversation fascinating.

“Shall I tell you the story of how I and my two brothers stole a roc's egg?” he tells a group of young noblewomen one night over a game of dice and tiles. They giggle eagerly, and he launches into a ridiculous story. I stand behind Aladdin, as usual, ready to fetch him wine or whatever else he fancies. As his tale grows wilder and wilder, I watch the faces of his listeners as they move from wonder to shock to horror.

“Higher and higher we climbed, with the Great Falls of Oznar thundering around us, and the rocs screaming as they dove at us.” Aladdin leans in, and his wide-eyed audience holds its breath. “But don't forget! We carried with us arrows made of ivory, which is of course the only thing known to kill a roc. We fired as we climbed, holding them at bay, until at last we reached the summit, where the mother roc waited on her nest. A nest as vast as this palace!” He spreads his hands.

Gasps rise all around, and I blink, catching myself wrapped up in his story. Aladdin is silver-tongued indeed, and though his stories grow more improbable each night, he never fails to draw a crowd. Where he draws these fantasies from, I cannot say. I may have invented Istarya, but Aladdin brings it to life. There is so much more to this thief than I had imagined, and the nobles are not the only ones who begin to fall under his spell.

Too often I find myself listening raptly to his tales when I should be on the watch for Zhian, a realization that fills me with alarm and confusion. I remind myself why I am here, what I am seeking.

I remind myself of the cost of failure.

“Are you completely shameless?” I ask Aladdin later that evening, after the gaming and drinking and storytelling finally end, somewhere well north of midnight. Vigo walks with us, he and Aladdin both tipsy and leaning on each other. The Tytoshi boy has grown accustomed to Aladdin and me chatting as equals, and asks no questions, but his assumptions are plain in the way he looks at us and smirks.

“What?” asks Aladdin, eyes wide with innocence.

“She was twice your age, and you had her blushing like a virgin.”

He shrugs, throwing an arm around Vigo's shoulders. “I liked her necklace. It was a fine necklace, wasn't it, Vigo?”

“Very fine. So fine,” slurs Vigo.

“See? Vigo liked her necklace too. Why, I liked it so much . . .” With a wink, Aladdin pulls down the sash around his waist just enough to reveal a flash of ruby.

“You
stole
it.” I run a hand over my face.

“You have
got
to teach me how to do that,” says Vigo.

“Here,” says Aladdin. “Let's practice with Zahra. Zahra, put on this necklace.”

“Oh, look!” I cry, stopping and opening a door. “Vigo's room.”

“Mmhm.” Vigo groggily claps Aladdin on the shoulder. “Horse racing tomorrow—you going to come, Rahzad?”

“Definitely.”

I place a hand against the small of Vigo's back and propel him to his door. “Good
night
, Vigo.”

The Tytoshi stumbles inside, and I shut the door, wincing a little when a loud thump sounds inside.

“I'm sure he's fine,” I say. “Come on. Let's get you to bed.”

I slip an arm around Aladdin and support him the rest of the way. He coils a strand of my hair around his finger and murmurs, “Where would I be without you, Zahra?”

He is so close that his breath warms my neck. “You'd be in the desert, a pile of bleached bones, that's where.”

“Mm. Right. Have I ever told you thanks, by the way? I don't thank you enough. Vigo thinks you're my concubine. Did you know that?”

“Here we are!” I say, a bit too loudly, as I shoulder open the door and pull him into our chambers.

He chuckles and drops onto the divan. “Your face is red.”

“It's not!” I turn away, hiding my flushed cheeks, but then he grabs my hand.

“Don't go.”

Startled, I tense and nearly shift into smoke. He watches me, his gaze steady—if a bit glazed—and his grip on my hand warm. Hesitantly I sit beside him, pulling my hand away. He leans back with a sigh.

“Storm's about to break,” says Aladdin.

I look out to the courtyard, where a strip of the dark sky is visible. Swelling clouds obscure the stars, and wind bends the fig trees before rushing into the chamber. The flames in the lanterns flicker out, leaving us in darkness. A moment later, lightning pulses in the belly of a cloud, illuminating Aladdin's face for a heartbeat. His eyes are on me.

As thunder breaks, low and angry, I open my hand and conjure a flame over my palm. Yellow light flickers over Aladdin's features as his gaze lowers, and his lips part slightly.

“I'll get some candles,” he says.

“Don't.” I pass the flame back and forth between my hands. “It wouldn't work. The fire isn't real. It's just a part of me—shape-shifting magic. It won't set anything ablaze.”

The flame reflects in his eyes, while outside, the storm rolls in from the sea, filling the air with the smell of salt. The sheer curtains hanging in the arches billow and snap. Lightning flashes in rapid succession, white-hot sparks thrown from the anvil of the gods.

Aladdin lifts a hand and passes it slowly over my palm, through the slender flame playing across my skin. The fire dances at his touch, and a shiver runs through me, making the hair on my neck stand on end, as if he'd run his fingers through my hair.

I meet his eyes, feeling the vibrations of the thunder outside echoing in my chest.

The way he looks at me—steady and silent, bold and
bright—makes me feel as if the storm outside were trapped inside me, thunder and rain and light, rolling and crashing.

“You're beautiful,” he murmurs. “How could anyone believe you were just a servant?”

I close my hand, the flame vanishing, and wrench my gaze from his.

“You're drunk,” I say.

He laughs low in his throat, then nods. Leaning back, he rubs his face wearily. “It must be nearly dawn.”

Already the storm begins to dissipate, its fury spent. Light rain falls on the courtyard, soft and pattering, darkening the stones. I rise and search for flint to light the lanterns, but before I find it, Aladdin falls asleep on the divan, still sitting upright, his head dropping toward his chest.

Gently I ease him onto his side, pushing away pillows and drawing a cashmere blanket over him. He sighs, shifting slightly, and I wait until he falls still again before sitting across from him. For several long minutes I watch him sleep, my chest aching strangely. I should go and search for Zhian in the few hours before dawn, but I can't pull myself away.

I reach out and brush Aladdin's hair back, my fingers lingering in his black curls. I can feel his life force crackling like sparks on my skin. So bright, so brilliant this mortal boy, here and gone so quickly, a strike of lightning.

“What am I doing?” I whisper. I know where this road leads, for I have traveled it before. I don't dare follow it again, no matter how tempting it is. If only it were as easy to smother the fire leaping inside me as the one in my palm.

Finally, my stomach twisting, I rise and go to the door, face flushed and hands trembling. I gather myself and shift into smoke.

I spend the rest of the night prowling the halls, and once, briefly, I almost think I can feel the faintest wisp of . . .
something
. A force, writhing below. Not human. But then it is gone, and when I try to pursue it, I nearly go too far from the lamp. I stop, frozen at the edge of my unseen leash, and stand for several long minutes, unable to go forward, afraid to go back.

•   •   •

The next morning, I am lounging in the courtyard in the form of a tiger, swatting lazily at flies, when a knock sounds on the door. Instantly I re-form into a girl and run to open it.

It is Khavar, her snake coiled like a living necklace across her collarbone.

“My mistress Princess Caspida requests your presence in her chambers,” says the girl in a bored tone. “Immediately. If convenient.”

“I'll have to wake him,” I reply. “He's—”

“Not him.
You
.”

I stare at her for a moment, then slam the door. As an afterthought, I open it again and say, “Just a minute,” before shutting it again in her face.

I go into Aladdin's room, where he dragged himself into bed at some point during the night, and whip aside the heavy damask curtain, letting the sunlight pour in. Aladdin, throwing a hand over his eyes, cries out and falls off the bed.

“What are you—why—!?”

“I've been summoned to see Caspida.”

He groans and massages his head. “It hurts. Everything hurts. Light. Sounds. Ugh . . .”

“Next time,” I say cheerfully, “maybe you'll think before letting the jackals get you stinking drunk. If you're going to throw up, do it outside. I'm not cleaning up after you.”

“Gunhhh . . .”

“I'm going to see Caspida. Don't go out if you can help it. Don't do anything stupid. And
don't
let go of my lamp. Your ill manners we can explain away. My evaporating in front of Caspida's eyes we can't.
Aladdin
.” I pull his hands from his face to be sure he understands. He squints and moans pathetically. “Do you hear me or not?”

“Right. Now go away. Leave me 'lone.” He pulls the blanket off the bed and covers himself, curling up on the floor.

Leaving him, I open the door and smile at Khavar. “I'm ready.”

Caspida will want to interrogate me about Aladdin, I am certain. It is easier to invite me, his only female household member, unless she wants to ignite scandalous gossip. Good. I had been hoping for this. Perhaps I can finally get a clue to finding Zhian.

Khavar leads me through the palace, through arches and doorways and stone courtyards. We pass many servants but few nobles; I suspect Aladdin is not the only one waking to a headache this morning. The palace is built to allow as much light and fresh air as possible inside, with many open arches and windows. The cool morning air is filled with birdsong and the sound of running water from the many fountains in the courtyards, and we pass the flock of peacocks I'd taken up with at dinner a week ago. Several run up to me and peck curiously at my shoes. Khavar hisses at them, and they scatter.

“In here,” sighs Khavar, swinging open a narrow cedar door. The rooms inside are wide and open, connected by arched doorways hung with sheer silk curtains. Similarly to Aladdin's chambers, they open to a courtyard, as well as a wide, shallow pool. The room Khavar leads me into is lush with carpets and cushions, silk and embroidery.

Caspida's handmaidens are all here, and there is one other
presence: An elephant calf stands in the center of the room. The girls are idly painting designs onto its skin, and they give me curious looks before turning back to their work. Raz is halfheartedly firing arrows at a pillow across the room, her shots flying dangerously close to Nessa's head but finding their target every time. Nessa seems hardly to notice.

Caspida lounges on a long cushion in front of the elephant and offers up handfuls of apple slices, which the calf picks up with its trunk and tucks into its mouth. She giggles when it tugs her hair, asking for more, and for a moment I see her for the girl she is and not the queen-to-be she presents to her court.

The princess glances up when I enter, her hand pausing above the bowl of apples. The calf nudges her with its trunk.

Caspida wears only a white kurta and skirt, her feet bare, but the fabric is encrusted with delicate embroidered flowers that must have taken a very skilled seamstress several months to create. A simple gold stud is pressed into her nostril, and a delicate chain hangs from it to her earlobe, brushing her smooth cheek.

“You must be Zahra.”

I bow low. “Your Highness.”

“Hungry?” She lifts the bowl of apples and pushes aside the elephant's trunk when it tries to grab the fruit.

I look at the bowl, then at Caspida, reading the unspoken words in her eyes. This is an ancient game that I have seen played, won, and lost many times over. Take the fruit, and I am demonstrating that my loyalties to my master can be tested, perhaps broken. Decline, and she will know that I am his to my last breath.

“You do me honor,” I say, and I take an apple slice.

She smiles slowly, her eyes narrowing with interest. “Walk with me.”

Without lifting her skirt, she steps into the shallow pool outside the arches, leaving the bowl in Khavar's hands. I follow, wading into the water. It comes only to my ankles, but it is cool and refreshing, the black and white tiles at the bottom free of slime or sand. Lotus blossoms float placidly on the surface and swirl aside when we walk through them.

Caspida steps onto a grassy space beyond the reflecting pool. The palace encloses us on all sides, and the shadow of a tall minaret darkens the water, yet this small garden is framed with trellises and trees so that it feels as if we are the center of a distant oasis. Set in the middle of the grassy plot is a weathered statue of a winged woman holding a lamp in one hand, a sword in the other. I cannot help but catch my breath when I behold her.

The elephant plods after us, and the girls cry out in dismay as their paintings are smudged. The calf prances in the water and sprays itself happily while the girls, giving up on their artwork, begin splashing each other.

The princess sits on the grass and folds her legs beneath her, her skirt spreading around her in a pool of silk. I kneel beside her and wait for her to speak first. Her silence is filled with birdsong, splashing, and the girls' soft laughter. She watches the elephant and her handmaidens for a few moments before beginning, eschewing pleasantries and cutting straight to the point.