The Forbidden Wish (19 page)

“You
animal
,” says Aladdin, dropping all pretense of amicability. “You speak as if she were your property. As if she were a horse or a dog to be trained.”

Darian shrugs one shoulder. “Horses. Dogs. Women. They all have their place, and when they try to upset the order, things fall into chaos. If we let queens rule the world, we'd all stay holed up in our palaces embroidering and gossiping.”

Aladdin raises a brow. “And . . . running around beheading people is somehow more civilized?”

“If Parthenia is going to become the power it once was, we need a strong leader. Someone the people look up to. Someone they've admired and respected for years. Not some weak prince from some far-off kingdom nobody has even heard of. These people will never follow you.”

“I don't need anyone to follow me. They will follow
her
.”

“You don't get it!” Darian snarls. He moves forward, until only an arm's length separates him and Aladdin. “She belongs to
me
! She is my birthright!”

“The only birthright you have is your bloated arrogance,” says Aladdin. “At least
that
your father could rightfully give you.”

“Don't you
dare
insult my father.”

“Your father,” says Aladdin, smiling and swimming closer, “is a self-important, conniving bag of pus.”

Darian turns red. “My father is the bravest man in Parthenia. While the king wasted away over a simmon pipe, my father has held the jinn at bay.”

“Your
father
,” Aladdin continues, “murders the innocent. He
beheads anyone who disagrees with him. Tell me, Prince, how did the king really die? I wonder if he wasn't pushed into the godlands.”

With a snarl, Darian lunges forward, tackling Aladdin and thrusting him under the water. Aladdin thrashes, plunging upward again and gasping in air, but the other boys join in, grabbing his shoulders and head and pushing him under. He struggles, legs kicking, making the bath froth and overspill. Darian's face is grim, his lips curled in a tight smile, and he doesn't flinch.

I shift into wind and gust across the room, forcefully blowing open the door behind which the still-loyal guards are stationed. They look in, see the struggle, and shout out. Darian looks up, his face twisting with rage, and he and his cohorts scramble out and grab their clothes. They run from the room, pursued by the guards.

In the corridor outside, I shift to a girl and run into the baths, jumping into the pool and grabbing Aladdin, who has sunk to the bottom. I drag him up and onto the tile, the lamp clanging on the floor.

“He's not breathing!” I cry, but there is no one to hear. The guards have chased Darian and the others and are too far away. I begin pumping Aladdin's chest with my palms.

“Come on, come on,” I say. I should have done something sooner. I was too worried they would find the lamp. I should have changed into a lion and devoured them all.

Aladdin coughs, water spilling from his mouth. I lift him up and turn him on his side so he can empty his lungs.

His eyes, wide and panicked, find me, and he tries to speak.

“Shush,” I say. “You're fine. You're fine. Just breathe.”

He gasps in and out, a raspy, watery sound, and coughs up more water. His hand pushes the lamp beneath him, hiding it from view.
The guards return now, looking stricken. I toss Aladdin's shirt over the lamp.

“Did you catch him?” I ask.

They shake their heads.

I turn back to Aladdin, who is beginning to breathe more evenly. He covers the lamp further with his arm, hiding it from the guards' view.

“I could have taken them,” he says hoarsely. “I was getting around to it.”

I long to hold his head to my chest, so relieved am I that he is alive. But I can't, not with the guards looking on. So I let him go and stand up, then hand him his clothes. He refuses help from the guards and rises to his feet, taking care to cover the lamp, but doesn't argue when they insist on returning to his rooms. Two of the guards want to tell Captain Pasha and Caspida what happened, but Aladdin convinces them to let it lie.

“We can deal with him later,” he says. “He isn't worth hunting down.”

When we are alone again, Aladdin is quiet, and I can tell he's holding back his anger at being attacked.

I, however, let mine run freely, and I rage around the room in the form of a tiger, snarling and clawing at the floor, my hackles raised.

“Would you stop that?” he says sharply. “You're setting me on edge.”

“You're not already on edge?” I growl. “He tried to
kill
you!”

“He's done it before,” says Aladdin. “And I have a way of staying alive.”

“Because I'm there to save your skin!”

“Exactly!” He grins sunnily. “Which is why I can't lose you. Who else will watch my back?”

With a snarl I shift into human, my gown patterned with tiger stripes. “Aladdin, you
promised.
”

His smile drops. “I know, I know.”

“You
promised.”

“What do you want me to do? Swear on my mother's soul? Cut my hand open and sign my name in blood?”

“It wouldn't hurt,” I mutter.

Aladdin sighs and starts to reply, but a knock at the door interrupts. I open it to find a tailor and his two apprentices standing there with bolts of cloth and sewing boxes.

“We're here to fit the prince for his wedding clothes,” says the tailor. He's a small, clean-shaven man with a turban wound high to make up for his height.

I tell him to return in five minutes, which gives Aladdin time to hide the lamp in his room. I reluctantly return to it, loath to leave him unguarded for even an hour. I reach out with my sixth sense throughout the fitting, wary as a caged cat, but all goes smoothly, and once the tailor and his assistants are gone, Aladdin quickly releases me again. There follows an endless procession of servants knocking at the door, bearing food, wine, gifts from Caspida—all the traditional items that should have been parceled out over a series of days, now crammed into the few hours left.

It is well after midnight when Aladdin, exhausted, tumbles into bed. I sit in the midst of his gifts: daggers and gold, clothing and carved chests, mirrors and candlesticks. It reminds me of your first betrothed, Habiba: handsome and bold Elikum of Miniivos, and of the elaborate preparations we made for your wedding. Of course, your wedding week ended with the groom being poisoned by a traitor on the eve of the ceremony. We held a funeral instead,
and you did not weep until three weeks later. You always claimed you did not love him, but I never believed you.

I can only hope this wedding will end on a better note. To be sure, I stay on watch all night, guarding Aladdin's door as if the whole host of Ambadya might try to storm in.

•   •   •

Two hours before dawn, I wake him with a soft knock. He stumbles out, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

“Already?” he groans.

“You should go change,” I say. “You're to be wed in less than an hour, and you can't meet your bride looking like you just rolled out of bed.”

He draws a breath as if about to speak, but then sighs wearily and returns to his chamber.

I change my garments, swirling and rearranging them into festive blue and gold silk, my hair loose and long. I watch as artful brown curlicues and flowers coil down my arms and over the backs of my hands. The henna is meant for a bride, not a jinni, and with a sigh I let it fade away.

Aladdin emerges minutes later. He wears the rich set of clothes the tailor made for him the night before: a close-fitting coat of muted gold and beige that opens in a split in the front and back, over loose red leggings, and a red cape that hangs over his right shoulder and brushes the floor in front and behind.

“Wait,” I say. I motion for him to sit, then rake my fingers through his hair, conjuring a comb of jade with a tiger handle that I use to part his hair and sweep it into a neat wave high over his forehead. So rich and dark, that hair; I long to bury my fingers in it and kiss his forehead.

“There,” I say. “Let's have a look at you.”

He cuts a striking figure and will make a handsome groom. I ignore the pang in my stomach the sight of him causes.
Let him go
, I tell myself. At any moment my bond with the lamp could break, and my feelings for him must break with it. But my heart is a treacherous star, refusing to dim when the sun rises.

“How do I look?” he asks, and he strikes a ridiculous pose, watching to see if he can elicit a laugh.

“Like a fool.” I shake my head. “But a princely one.”

He takes a step toward me, a hand reaching out. “Zahra, I . . .”

“Don't speak.” I look down, fussing with my gown. “We should go.”

“Of course. You're right.” His reply is so soft I nearly don't catch it.

“Just one more thing . . .” I look around the room, spot a gold spoon on the tray of tea Khavar and Nessa brought, and pick it up. I hold it in the coals of the brazier, which are still hot from the night before. In minutes, the gold is cool enough to shape. With a few quick movements, I peel away most of the gold and use the rest to form a ring. As the metal cools, the outside is impressed with the prints of your fingers, Habiba, which I wear like gloves. It seems fitting, given that the bride is of your blood. Before the metal cools completely, I use my nail to impress Eskarr glyphs into the inside of the band, representing undying love. The ancient symbols, which carry a magic of their own, glow white before fading into the ring.

“Here,” I say. “It's all right, the metal has cooled.”

Aladdin takes the ring and turns it over. “Zahra, you're a wonder.”

“It's not much, but it's better than nothing.”

He swallows and nods, then hands it back. “You must carry it for me.”

“I can't.” I back away, lifting my hands in refusal. The ring bearer must be the groom's closest friend, one who symbolically carries his deepest trust and affection. Usually that person is his brother or oldest friend.

“I want you to,” he says. “After all, this was all your idea. Please, Zahra?”

His gaze is earnest, and my eyes fall to the ring on his palm. Mouth dry, I nod and take it, closing my fingers over it protectively, feeling small and unworthy.

“We should go,” I say gruffly. “You've got a wedding to catch.”

T
HE NOBLES FLOW IN
WAVES
toward the palace temple, watching and whispering like a flock of doves, and they part for Aladdin, who walks ringed by his guards. The crowd wears a strange blend of dark funeral clothes, in keeping with the traditional twenty days of morning for a king, and bright festive colors for the wedding.

We reach the temple to find it overflowing with people. We are barely able to squeeze in, and the looks that follow us are malevolent. There is little love for Aladdin among this court, which until an hour ago had been expecting their own beloved prince to be the one standing at the princess's side today. But I do spy a few smiling faces among those nobles Aladdin managed to charm in his short time at the palace, and I doubt it will take him long to win over the rest—so long as his true identity goes undiscovered.

Six drummers stand in front of the temple, beating a wedding tattoo that echoes throughout the palace, announcing the arrival of the bride and groom. Around the edges of the room, acolytes swing
incense on chains, filling the air with the sweet scent of jasmine and moonflower. Each door is guarded by a priest bearing a prayer staff in one hand and a scroll of holy verse in the other, to ward off evil spirits and discourage jinn from entering. Their efforts are more symbolic than anything, and I pass by without incident.

We are met by Captain Pasha, who escorts Aladdin to a dais in front of the temple, beneath a four-story statue of Amystra, the goddess of warriors and judges. Her stone wings curve around the dais, enclosing it on three sides, while her arms stretch high above her upturned face, holding aloft a sword.

Aladdin stands at the foot of the stair leading up to the dais. He tugs at his collar, his eyes roaming the crowd. Those officials loyal to Caspida stand behind him, while scribes record everything at small wooden desks set to one side of the dais. Little girls strew rose and jasmine blossoms around the temple while singing a soft, sweet melody.

With Aladdin in place, Caspida enters from the left. The princess wears a long, trailing gown of white, embroidered from neck to hem with tiny white roses, with one arm bare and the other draped with sheer silk. Her hands and wrists are covered with red henna that stands out in contrast to her olive skin. Gathered into braids beneath a simple silver band, her hair is studded with the same tiny white blossoms that are also sprinkled on the dais and down the stairs. Caspida's handmaidens follow her, dressed in shades of green, like the leaves of a rosebush with Caspida as the flower.

Two priests step forward to officiate. One carries a pot of burning embers, and the other a sprig of an olive branch. He taps Aladdin's shoulders and forehead with the branch, symbolically purifying him, and then casts it into the bowl, where it burns in seconds. Then the priests scatter rice around Aladdin and Caspida's
feet, a symbol of good luck and fortune to come. At last two acolytes take a length of red silk and hold it over the couple's heads, and the priests begin intoning the words of binding, their sentences interspersed with lines sung by a young acolyte boy with a voice as sweet as honey.

Aladdin is as edgy as a beggar in a guardhouse. He watches Caspida sidelong and tries to mimic her actions. I'm half afraid he'll run. Caspida, on the other hand, is serene as a swan, her face composed and regal. She doesn't meet Aladdin's eyes.

I try to be happy for them, Habiba. Truly I do. And a part of me
is
happy for them—I have grown fond of them both, and to see them joined makes me believe some stories do end happily. Here is one wish I didn't twist. Two lives I didn't ruin.

And yet . . .

Part of me feels shriveled and rejected. I am the weed cast out of the rose garden. I am the crow chased out of the dovecote. I am where I belong, and shouldn't that be enough? Doesn't that merit some sense of happiness or, at the least, fulfillment? Haven't I won the more important prize—freedom?

Then why, Habiba, do I feel as if I have lost something instead?

I force the question out of my mind. There are more important things to focus on, such as the prolonged absence of Darian and Sulifer, which has not gone unnoticed by the gathered nobles. The vizier and the prince leave a hole in the assembly, and it seems I am not the only one this worries. Caspida's handmaidens are also alert and watchful, keeping an eye on the crowd. A clumsy murder attempt in the baths cannot be their only plan, so what are they waiting for? My eyes sweep the rooftops, looking for a hidden archer, but I see nothing suspicious. Still, something pulls at me, something that isn't quite right.

Aladdin and Caspida repeat the words given to them by the priests, speaking vows of troth, fidelity, and love that neither truly feels. A few more minutes, and they will be wed in truth. Instead of feeling relief, I feel as if I'm about to be hanged, waiting for the floor to drop and my neck to break. My unease grows like a swelling wave, rushing inexorably to shore.

Maybe it won't come. Maybe after his failed attempt to drown Aladdin, Darian cut his losses and ran. Maybe Sulifer decided he'd much rather spend the rest of his life fishing on the coast of Qopta than scheming of ways to manipulate this court.

Tense with unease, I turn back to the ceremony, which is moving to a close. An acolyte brings out a beautiful jade tea set. Once Aladdin and Caspida exchange rings and serve each other a cup, they will be officially wed in the sight of gods and men.

“In the presence of Imohel and these witnesses,” says one of the priests, “this man and this woman have come forth to bind their fates together. What token do you bring as a seal of this union?”

Aladdin turns to me, and I open my fingers to reveal the ring. He stares at it, his hand hovering over mine.

“Take it,” I whisper.

He swallows and picks up the ring, turning it over slowly, light flashing off the symbols carved into the metal. Then his eyes lift and meet mine.

“Zahra . . .” He closes his hand over the ring. “I can't do it.”

My mind freezes. I open my mouth but cannot even form a thought to speak.

Aladdin turns around and draws a deep breath, lifting his chin. “I'm sorry, Princess. But this has to stop.”

The crowd breaks out into whispers, while Aladdin and the
princess stare at one another with equal regret and relief. The priests exchange baffled looks.

“Your Highness, what is the meaning of this?” one asks.

Aladdin draws himself up bracingly. “Princess Caspida, I have nothing but respect and admiration for you. Truly you will be the queen this city needs. But I can't marry you.”

The princess stands still as stone, her face unreadable. “Why not, Prince Rahzad?”

“I am sorry,” he replies. “The truth is, I am in love, but not with you.”

He turns to me, and my spirit takes flight like a flock of doves, startled and erratic. I cannot move, cannot speak, as he takes my hands in his and looks me earnestly in the eye. He presses the ring into my palm, and the gold feels as if it burns my skin.

“This belongs to you, and you alone. I've been so blind, Zahra. So caught up in the past that I've failed to see what's happening in front of me. I've been such an idiot, I don't know how I can expect anything from you. But I have to try. I have to tell the truth, and the truth is . . . I love
you
.”

“No,” I whisper. “You
can't
.”

“I don't care if you're a . . .”—he pauses to clear his throat—“a servant. You're beautiful and wild and kind, and I can't stop thinking about you.” A sunny, foolish smile breaks across his face. “It's wrong and stupid and wonderful, Zahra. I didn't mean for it to happen, but here I am. I love you.”

Silence settles like a chill across the room, and we are surrounded by a sea of astonished faces. A few priests whisper to each other, looking panicked. Someone slips out the back door, perhaps to find Sulifer and tell him what has happened. Captain Pasha and
his men grip their weapons and look from the princess to my master as if unsure whether they should arrest him or not.

Aladdin seems to notice none of this. He stares at me deeply, imploringly, waiting for me to speak. But I can't. I am rigid with shock and fear and . . . if I am entirely honest, a tiny flicker of hope. My hand closes over the ring.

“Far be it from me,” says Caspida in a frosty tone, breaking the silence at last, “to stand in the way of such love. This wedding is over.” She turns to the crowd. “There will still be a feast later and dancing through the night. Priests, thank you for your service, but I believe we're done here.”

She seems indifferent as the moon. But I can see deeper than the skin and sense she is bewildered and embarrassed, eager to get away. Her Watchmaidens flock to her, pulling her aside with murmurs of concern.

Aladdin watches only me. “I know you must think I'm an idiot,” he whispers, “but will you give me a chance? Will you let me start over?”

I back away, pulling my hands from his.

“Zahra, what's wrong?”

“I am
poison
.”

His brow creases. “I don't believe that.”

I back up until I'm on the edge of the dais, feeling like a cornered animal. He doesn't understand, just like you didn't understand, Habiba. Why do you humans insist upon courting destruction? Aladdin's eyes are hurt, waiting for me to respond, but my voice sticks in my throat.

“Zahra,” he says softly, “do you love me?”

“I—” I shouldn't. It's wrong, it's dangerous, it's forbidden.

He stares pleadingly, waiting. “Zahra?”

“What of your vengeance?” I whisper, my words unheard in the noise rising from the crowd. “What of your parents? All your life you have lived for this moment.”

He shakes his head. “I'm tired of living for the dead. I want to live for
you.
”

“Aladdin, we
can't
. You must not say such things!” I look around wildly, wondering who can hear us. If Nardukha heard these forbidden words, the price would be catastrophic. “The risk—”

“You are worth
every
risk. I know what I want, Zahra. Do you?”

“I—”

Suddenly a loud, brassy trumpet sounds across the temple. My skin turns to ice, and I almost expect the Shaitan himself to come roaring in. But it is Sulifer who appears, dressed in a black military coat with a sweeping cape, his dark turban adding to his already considerable height. His beard has been trimmed short, enhancing the streaks of gray that run down his chin. Behind him march two dozen soldiers, all wearing armor and helmets, bearing lances and swords. Darian slips in beside them, his face unreadable.

The vizier pauses a moment, taking in Caspida's icy expression and my and Aladdin's clasped hands. Then, with a grunt of dismissal, he strides down the length of the temple yard, and the ring of his and the soldiers' boots is the only sound to be heard. He doesn't speak or change his expression until he reaches the foot of the dais.

There he stops, his eyes fixed on Aladdin.

“Guards,” he says. “Seize this man. He is not who he claims to be.”