The Forbidden Wish(40)

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.

“Were you in Ambadya before it was destroyed?” Aladdin asks.

“Of course not. I’ve been a jinni for four thousand years. Ambadya was razed long, long before that.”

“Who were you? Where did you live?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I stand up, dropping the lemon, and turn to look down on the city. “It’s too hot out here. Let’s go inside. I’ll teach you how to properly enter a room based on who is already there, and whether they are sitting, standing, or eating.”

Aladdin groans. “I’m sick of playing prince. Let’s pick pockets.”

“No.”

“Wait a minute, Smoky . . .” He leans in close to study me, mimicking Jalil’s habit of raising one eyebrow ridiculously high when suspicious. I can’t help it—his expression makes me giggle—actually giggle, like a little girl. “Do you even know how to pick pockets?”

“Of course I do,” I lie. “I’ve picked a thousand and one—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve done it all a thousand times, I get it.” He raises a doubtful brow. “So prove it.”

? ? ?

“Him,” Aladdin murmurs. “The one with the feather on his hat. He’s got a pipe in his left pocket.”

We’re in the palace gardens, pretending to admire a massive statue of King Malek. Many nobles are out today, lounging around the pools and fountains, strolling beneath the shade of the trees. Nearly as vast as the palace itself, the gardens spread in a luxurious carpet of green, organized in perfect symmetry. One could walk for hours out here and never find the end of them.

Our target is a man a bit older than Aladdin, walking in our direction. We stand in a more secluded spot. Our back is to him, and when he passes behind us, Aladdin coughs.