The Forbidden Wish(36)

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.

“Tell me about your master.”

I nod. “He is eighth in line to the throne, the son of—”

“No, no,” Caspida interrupts irritably. “Tell me what he is like.”

“He is a gambler,” I say. There is no point in lying about these things. “He is bold, but reckless. Brave, but impetuous. A man who . . . holds grudges.” Pausing, I finish in a whisper, “He would risk his life to save someone else, without even thinking twice.”

Caspida turns her head a bit, interest growing in her eyes. “And he sets out on a mad voyage and sails straight into a nest of jinn.”

“My master is noble,” I say with a smile, “but I made no suggestions as to his intelligence.”

“I have never heard of Istarya, so I did some research. You know, none of the scrolls or histories in our library mention it?”

“We’re a small nation, Your Highness, and we keep to ourselves.”

She stares at me with shrewd eyes, but doesn’t reply.

The elephant calf has discovered it can suck up water and spray it on the girls, and seems to find this vastly amusing. The girls shriek and try to hide, but the calf merrily lumbers after them, shooting water in glittering sprays. Caspida watches it, but does not smile.

“The calf’s name is Shasi. Her mother died giving birth to her, and my uncle was going to have her killed because she was born small and sickly. But we took her and made her well again, and she would rather play with my maidens than with her own kind.” She absently runs her thumb and forefinger up the chain on her cheek, making it tinkle softly. “My great-grandmother Fahruaz was part Tytoshi. It was she who imported the first of our war elephants. She was a great strategist and commanded our army for more than thirty years. It is said that her enemies laid many traps for her but that she was too cunning for them, for she always saw the truth behind their lies. Some believe that I am very much like my grandmother.”

Caspida turns to me. “You are no servant, Zahra. You hide it well from the others, but your eyes are too proud, your glances too defiant. But if you are not a servant, what are you? Royal? Noble? A soldier in disguise, sworn to protect your master?”

Now I am the one who stares. “You do have a keen eye.”

“I grew up in court,” she replies. “Everyone I’ve ever known is an expert liar. I learned long ago to see the intent behind the masks. So tell me, Zahra, what are you to this Rahzad? Are you his lover?”

“No!”

She gives me a sly look. “Do you wish that you were?”

“No.” Perhaps I say the word with too much emphasis, because she smiles a little.

“It was an honest question. He is handsome, and you speak highly of him.”

“We are friends.” My thoughts are treasonous, insensibly conjuring up the image of Aladdin on the rooftop, his eyes deep with concern as he watches me wake after the wards knocked me out.

Caspida’s full attention is now trained on me, and her eyes cut deep. “I will have to be careful with you, I think. Your lies are smooth, your tongue quick. I brought you here to learn more about your prince, but perhaps I should be paying more attention to you.”

Time to steer this conversation into safer waters. As much as I would love to tell her the truth—after all, she is your own blood, Habiba, and your spirit is strong in her—I know I can’t trust her, not when she has a jinn charmer at her side. The thought refocuses me on my mission.

I stand up and walk to the statue of the winged woman and place a hand reverently on her foot. The pedestal she stands on is tall, and her knees are on a level with the top of my head.

“This is remarkable,” I comment. Caspida is watching me with interest as I circle the statue, inspecting it from all sides. “How old is it?”

“It was made for my mother, when she married my father.”

I turn to Caspida and ask in a tone deceptively neutral, “Is she an ancestress of yours?”