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  Thatur’s eyes scanned the sky above and he was quiet for a long time.

  “My mistress used to come to these mountains on her own,” the gryphon said softly. “It was one of the few places she could just be herself. Her mind was beautiful—not a shred of hatred in it.”

  Just his head swiveled to look at Kes. One move, one wrong word, and Kes knew the gryphon would kill him. He could sense how much he wanted to. Yasri. He must tread carefully. His daughter had no one else, no one she could truly depend on.

  “Killing me won’t bring them back,” Kes said. “I don’t even think it will make you feel much better. But . . . I suppose it would be a kind of justice.”

  It wasn’t until a year after the coup that Kes had bothered to think of the Aisouri as anything but the monsters he’d always known them to be. Now he knew differently. Thatur raised his eyebrows, watching him for a long moment with his bright, intelligent eyes.

  “Justice,” the gryphon repeated, as if to himself. His eyes fastened on Kes’s. “If I train you, boy, you must promise me one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That you will kill her. It will hurt her far more than any other death possibly could.”

  Anything less than death is unacceptable.

  The gryphon did not say the words out loud and yet they were as clear as if he’d whispered them in Kes’s ear.

  “You’ve been reading my mind this whole time,” Kes said, an edge slipping into his voice.

  “Of course.” Thatur seemed to snicker, his tone self-satisfied. “Who,” he asked quietly, “is Yasri?”

  Kes swallowed. “My daughter.”

  “Calar’s daughter.”

  “Yes.” Kes tried not to think about her, about the magic that had been required to protect her.

  But Thatur sucked in his breath. “Tell me it’s true,” he demanded. “Tell me what I just saw is true.”

  Here, then, was the biggest risk Kes had ever taken in his life. A sharp pain gripped his heart. It was too late—he could no longer hide her. And maybe, just maybe, her existence would convince the gryphon to train Kes without the promise of Calar’s death.

  Kes nodded. “Yes,” he said, soft. “My daughter is a Ghan Aisouri.”

  Thatur sank to his haunches, disbelief and joy warring in his eyes. “Does Calar know?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll hurt the child,” he growled. “How can you—”

  “Calar is many things,” Kes interrupted. “But she loves our daughter. Yasri is the only . . . the only happiness she has.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Two summers.”

  “You will bring her to me in one year’s time, if not before,” Thatur answered. “By three summers old, a Ghan Aisouri’s power begins to reveal itself. No matter how you’ve disguised her, you won’t be able to hide that. She belongs with me. As far from the palace as possible. She must train, learn to control her powers—”

  “I will not have my child taken from me,” Kes snarled, chest heaving, crimson chiaan spilling through his fingers. “The Ghan Aisouri no longer lay claim to every child born with purple eyes. I am her father. Nobody gets to tell me how to raise my child. Nobody.”

  Thatur’s feathers ruffled in agitation and he prowled the length of the cliff for many long moments, deep in thought. Finally he stopped before Kes.

  “Be here every morning at dawn. The first time you don’t show up is the last time I will.”

  Kesmir nodded and Thatur took a step back, sitting on his haunches.

  Now, he said in Kesmir’s head, we begin.

  4

  THE GHOULS HAD BEEN UNBELIEVABLY FAST, THEIR sense of smell allowing them to navigate the darkness with chilling efficiency. The jinn had been outnumbered three to one, and by the time it was all over, nearly every soldier had depleted their chiaan. Zanari—their only guide—had been wounded, perhaps mortally, and nearly every lantern had broken, casting them into a dark abyss they would never be able to see their way out of. There had been losses on both sides, including Anso, one of the Dhoma jinn who’d accompanied Nalia in the cave beneath the Sahara. The Brass Army had won the battle in the end, if this could be called winning. The air stank of rotting flesh, drying blood, and the bitter odor of magic.

  Taz crouched over Zanari, feeding her yet another tonic. There was no Phara to care for her: the Dhoma healer was back in the Sahara, tending to the jinn who’d been too traumatized by the brass bottle to consider traveling through the Eye. It wouldn’t have mattered. Taz didn’t need to be a healer to know that if Zanari didn’t replenish her chiaan soon, she would die.

  “Has he found her yet?” Zanari whispered.

  Nalia had gone missing and Raif was combing the surrounding area, his terror for his rohifsa so palpable, Taz could feel it from their makeshift camp.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  It was impossible to believe that she’d been killed. Taz had seen her on the battlefield; Nalia fought like a righteous, damning goddess. An empress intent on taking her rightful place on the Arjinnan throne.

  “She’ll turn up,” Zanari said. “She always pulls through.”

  But even Taz could hear the doubt that had begun to creep into Zanari’s voice. It’d been a full day since the battle with the ghouls. The Brass Army was still fighting the occasional monster, but many of the soldiers were already beginning to rave from too much time in the darkness. It was too close to what they’d experienced in the bottles Solomon had trapped them inside. Taz feared if they didn’t leave the Eye soon, they never would.

  “How are you feeling?” Taz asked.

  Zanari grimaced. “The truth?”

  He nodded.

  “I can’t hold on much longer, Taz. If we wait too long . . . I won’t be able to get us out of here. I can already feel things getting . . . muddled . . . inside me.” Her voice broke. “But Nalia . . .”

  Taz patted Zanari’s hand absently as he stood. “I know.”

  They’d all accepted that going into the Eye was a risk, that getting out wasn’t guaranteed. He’d been prepared for losing soldiers to the ghouls, but Taz hadn’t let himself imagine losing Nalia. It was impossible, after she’d told him her story. She seemed . . . immortal, almost. How could they leave the empress of Arjinna in this godsforsaken place?

  Zanari moaned, and Taz once more held the bottle to her lips, parting them so that he could get the tonic into her mouth. When he was finished, she gripped his hand.

  “Get my brother, Taz. We have to leave.”

  “He’ll never forgive you.”

  Her eyes were full of misery. “I know.”

  They would have to make the impossible choice for Raif because he’d never be able to make it himself. Taz had only known the tavrai commander for this past month in the Eye, but it was the one thing he was certain of: Raif Djan’Urbi would rather die than live without his rohifsa. Taz knew because he’d once had that same look in his eye, when his own rohifsa had slipped into the godlands without him.

  Taz scanned the darkness. In the distance, he could see the lights of the search parties, chiaan that flickered like sputtering candles. Long ropes had been tied to a jinni in each team that left in search of Nalia, the other end held by a jinni in the temporary encampment. It was too easy to lose soldiers when there was no light to see by. He could hear their cries to one another as they searched, faint shouts that were swallowed up in the thick black canvas of the Eye.

  “Bring them in,” Taz said to the jinn who stood with the ropes.

  “But, sir, they haven’t found her yet,” one of the rope handlers said, looking back at Taz, confused.

  “Bring them in,” Taz repeated. “Before our guide dies.”

  There was no way out of the Eye without Zanari. It would be like trying to find a specific grain of sand in the bottom of the Arjinnan Sea. Only her psychic powers—her voiqhif—could see the invisible road that ended at Arjinna’s Gate of the Silent Seers.

  S
udden understanding dawned on the soldier’s face. “Yes, sir.”

  It wasn’t the first time Taz had been forced to make such a choice. He’d led soldiers in the Ifrit border wars and then, later, commanded Solomon’s jinn in the Master King’s battles against his human enemies. No matter how important Nalia was to Arjinna, they couldn’t sacrifice the lives of every jinni in the Eye for her.

  There was a caw above and then a burst of Marid blue evanescence, feathers turning to skin: Samar, chief of the Dhoma, reverting back to his human form. The shapeshifting fawzel came to stand beside Taz.

  “Anything?” Taz asked.

  Samar held up a jade dagger. Taz had seen it in Nalia’s hand during the battle, and he knew it to be a Ghan Aisouri weapon. His own sister had been an Aisouri, taken from his family at birth, and she’d had one just like it.

  “I fear the worst,” Samar said. “I can’t believe that she . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  Samar didn’t need to explain to Taz. The ghouls were cannibals: likely, what was left of the last Ghan Aisouri was in the belly of a monster. Taz ran a hand over his eyes, surprised by the tears that threatened to leak out.

  “One of us will hold Raif down while the other sedates him,” Taz said. “It’s the only way we’ll get him out of here.”

  “It’ll take more than two of us, brother. And Touma will fight just as hard,” Samar replied.

  Touma had become Nalia’s shadow, the very first jinni who had been released from his brass bottle. When he’d learned that it was only through Nalia’s power that the discovery of Solomon’s bottles had been possible, he’d pledged his life and sword to her. Touma had already demonstrated his fierce loyalty to the empress on more than one occasion.

  “Well, that’s two of the most stubborn jinn in this army. We’ll be ready,” Taz said.

  Samar signaled for Noqril, one of the other fawzel. He’d been in the cave with Nalia and the others when they’d gone in search of Solomon’s sigil. Not only was he a shapeshifter, he also possessed the power of invisibility.

  “We’re going to need your assistance, Noqril,” Samar said.

  The other jinni nodded, for once solemn. Gone were his usual off-color remarks and swaggering. The absence of both underscored the chilling task at hand.

  A cloud of Djan green evanescence hurtled toward them from where the search parties had been combing the land, a plume of Ifrit red just behind it.

  “Here we go,” Taz murmured.

  The evanescence had hardly dissipated before Raif was stalking toward them, barely more than an outline in the darkness.

  “Why are you calling the search parties in?” he growled, jabbing a finger in Taz’s chest. His eyes were wild with fury and terror.

  Taz held his ground, sick with dread. He didn’t want to see the look on Raif’s face when he realized he was losing Nalia forever. None of them did.

  “Raif,” Taz said, gentle. “It’s Zanari.”

  He’d already determined this was the best way to start: catch Raif off guard, play to his love for his sister.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Raif asked. The panic in his voice showed just how on the edge he was. Perhaps already over it.

  “She’s very ill,” Taz said. “We need to get her to a proper healer in Arjinna. And . . . if we don’t leave soon, she won’t be able to lead us there.”

  “Of course,” Raif said.

  Taz’s eyes widened. That was easy.

  “Choose who will accompany her to Arjinna,” Raif said. “As soon as she’s healed, she can lead soldiers back here to pick the rest of us up.”

  Or not.

  Touma arrived then, eyes bright as he looked over Taz’s shoulder. “We found her?”

  “No,” Raif said. He turned to Samar. “I’ll need one of the fawzel to stay. And Touma, you can be my second.”

  The Ifrit’s devotion to Nalia had once seemed to wear on Raif, but the loss of her had created an unlikely bond between them.

  Samar shook his head. “Brother, how would Zanari ever find you again once she’s healed? Her power works in images—there is nothing here to see.”

  Raif stared at them. “Are you suggesting we leave here without Nalia? Have you lost your fucking minds?”

  His voice rose and the jinn nearby gathered closer, watching the terrible drama unfold.

  “Raif.”

  Taz turned at the sound of Zanari’s voice. Two jinn were on either side of her, holding her up. Already, a patch of blood was blooming through the bandages around her middle.

  “Zan . . . there’s a way, right?” Raif said. “We can figure it out.”

  The plea in Raif’s voice was unmistakable. He and his sister looked at each other for an endless moment. Raif suddenly seemed a child then, completely unmoored.

  Zanari’s eyes filled and a sob escaped her throat. “I’m so sorry, little brother,” she whispered.

  “No.” Raif’s eyes went from her to Taz to Samar to Noqril, his face filled with a growing horror. “Please. She’s alive, I know it. I can feel her out there, she’s my . . . my . . . I just need more time. Zan, please, please don’t do this.”

  Raif trembled as he backed away. Touma’s hand went to his scimitar and he moved to Raif’s side. Noqril caught Taz’s eye and Taz nodded, once. The jinni disappeared. Seconds later Raif was struggling against Noqril’s invisible arms. A stream of curses shot out of his mouth, and Noqril cried out as Raif reared his head back and bashed the invisible jinni behind him just as Touma aimed a kick at where Noqril’s back would be. Noqril became visible as he fell to the ground, a sizable bump already forming on his forehead. Two other jinn pounced on Touma, holding him to the ground. Raif bolted into the never-ending night, but Samar was ready. He sent a stream of electric-blue chiaan to Raif’s feet and Raif hit the ground, hard.

  Zanari screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”

  Samar pounced on top of Raif and they struggled in the thick gray dust of the Eye. Raif had managed to get on top of Samar, his fist drawn back, but Taz leaped at him, his own arms wrapping around Raif’s torso and pulling him off the Dhoma leader. Noqril appeared in front of Raif.

  “I’m sorry, brother. And I truly mean that.” He pulled back his fist and hit Raif so hard in the face that the sound echoed.

  Raif’s body went slack in Taz’s arms as he slid into unconsciousness.

  “He’s gonna be one angry jinni when he wakes up,” Noqril said.

  “Yes, but he’ll wake up alive, in Arjinna, with an army,” Taz said.

  “But without Solomon’s sigil,” Zanari said quietly.

  Taz whirled around. “What?”

  “He asked Nalia to carry it. Thought . . .” She took in a shuddering breath, closing her eyes as a wave of pain washed over her face. “Thought it would be safest with her.”

  Taz didn’t want Raif or any jinni to ever put that ring on. It was an evil thing, and though it had freed him and the rest of the Brass Army from their bottles, it would have been best if Nalia and Raif had left it buried beneath the desert. But Raif was right about one thing: it was collateral. Once this Calar who Taz had heard so much about knew Raif possessed the ring, she would have had no choice but to surrender. Only a few people knew Raif had no intention of ever using it, Taz included. But now . . .

  Taz looked down at where Raif lay slumped on the ground, unconscious. With Nalia gone, this was the leader of Arjinna. Taz could either focus on his own army and the Dhoma who were even now rotting in Ithkar’s prison or try to be to Raif what Taz had intended to be to Nalia—an adviser, protector, friend.

  There was one thing Taz was certain of. Now, more than ever, Raif would need to be surrounded by people he could trust.

  Taz grunted as he grabbed Raif and threw him over his shoulder. He spared one last glance at the darkness, sending a quick prayer to the gods that they’d accept Nalia’s body without the ritual burning, even though he knew they wouldn’t. Then he joined the other jinn as they followed Zanari out of the E
ye.

  5

  THE LATE-MORNING SUN FILTERED PAST THE HAZE OF smoke from cooking fires and burning rubbish that clogged the narrow lanes and alleyways of the Ghaz—Arjinna’s hub of commerce halfway between the palace and the Forest of Sighs. Shirin pulled the hood of her cloak over her long braid and kept her head down as she navigated the familiar streets. She couldn’t afford a run-in with an Ifrit patrol, not when she was carrying a bag of contraband weapons she’d stolen from their stores the night before. Not when they knew she was Raif Djan’Urbi’s second, his most trusted warrior. With the portal between the realms closed, it was likely Shirin was now first in line on Calar’s list of jinn to murder. It would have been far easier to evanesce to the Vein, her destination for the morning, but with the increase in Ifrit surveillance, the risk of being ambushed was too high. Shirin’s palms were sweaty, her empty stomach a mess of knots. Being outside the safety of the forest was a death wish.

  Grandmothers in layers of frayed clothing sat on low stools against the wall, hawking their wares. This was what freedom looked like in Arjinna: old women, cold and hungry, forced to earn a few nibas selling the luxury goods of their former masters, stolen after the Shaitan were carted off to the palace or the prison in Ithkar. No one knew for sure what had happened to the overlords. Some said they were executed immediately. Others said they were wasting away in the palace dungeons. A few lucky ones were in Calar’s employ; Shirin knew that for a fact—mages forced to do her bidding. Despite Calar’s dark powers, there was no one in the realm more knowledgeable in alchemy than the Shaitan mages. Shirin wouldn’t trade places with them for anything in the worlds. She shuddered, remembering the stories she’d heard of Calar’s policy of torturing those in her employ when things didn’t go her way. Or throwing them in the great cauldron of fire that burned in front of the palace, an Ifrit addition to the former home of the Ghan Aisouri.