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Authors: Jessica Khoury

BOOK: The Forbidden Wish
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Chapter Fifteen

I
T IS
A CUSTOM
of Fahradan that for the evening, the lines between the classes are temporarily erased, and a servant may dance with a prince, and a cook may break bread with a king. And so when Aladdin enters the great throne room of King Malek, I am standing at his side, equal for this night. I wear my conjured gown of red and gold silk, a ruby perched on my brow.

I still feel Aladdin's touch burning on my cheek, the weight of him leaning toward me. My skin courses with rippling heat, and never have I felt so out of control of my own form. I cannot shift away the tingles in my stomach or the image of his eyes locking on mine as we spun around one another.

It was a fluke, an accident, I tell myself. It won't happen again. Still, I feel every inch of space between us as we walk, and I wonder if he feels it too. I don't dare glance at him to find out, because I fear meeting his eyes and seeing the truth in them—that what happened
wasn't
an accident.

That it might be real.

And worse, that I might want it to happen again.

This isn't what I came here for, I remind myself. I need to focus, need to find Zhian, need to do it
fast
. I have two more days before I lose my chance at freedom and Nardukha unleashes his fury on Parthenia. This isn't just about me anymore. This is about the people dancing around me, unwitting of the destruction waiting to fall on them. This is about saving Aladdin. And what I felt in our rooms minutes ago—that cannot happen again.

There is far too much to lose.

Our entrance is not grand—we slip in with the crowd, and with everyone dressed in red and gold, it's easy to blend in. But Aladdin begins to gather looks of appreciation and of envy, of desire and of open hostility—this last from the various men whose female companions cast admiring looks my master's way. And Aladdin does cut a breathtaking figure, moving through the crowd with the grace and carriage of a born prince. Where did he learn that? Where did he learn to hold his head so high, to carry his shoulders so squarely, to look every person he passes in the eye and to give them a small, knowing smile as if they are old friends? He has a bearing to him that no degree of my magic could impart, some deep inner strength that is entirely of his own making. Watching him makes me ache inside.

“They're staring at me,” he whispers. “Gods, Zahra, is this thing on backward or something?” He tugs at his coat.

“Stop it,” I hiss, swatting his hand. “You look fine. You look . . . damn princely.”

He smiles brightly, and the pleasure in his eyes is too bright to bear. I look away, scanning the room for familiar faces. Though the custom is that servants may mingle freely with their lords, it is easy to see that most of the people here are nobility. The servants must
be having their own Fahradan in some other part of the palace. But not all—a few unlucky ones wind through the crowd, bearing flagons of wine or trays of pastries.

The empty throne is cordoned off with silk rope, awaiting the king. A temporary dais has been set up against one wall, and on it a group of musicians play a lilting, fast-paced tune to which a few couples are already dancing wrist to wrist, as I taught Aladdin. Braziers twice as high as a man and propped up by massive tripods cast light that reaches even the tops of the mighty domes overhead. I don't see the pigeons that had populated the ceiling the day we met the king, and I wonder what poor fool's job it was to clear them out. Here and there, the crowd opens to give space for fire-breathers, acrobats, snake charmers, and sword swallowers.

“I don't see her,” says Aladdin. “Is she coming? What if she—”

“Sh. Look.”

At the far end of the throne room, atop a high double stair carved with winged men and horses, is a tall door of rich teak. It opens slowly, drawn by four servants, to reveal Caspida and her girls, who float into the hall. The princess wears a gown of pure, pale gold lined with crimson. Her hair, bound up in an elaborate swirl, is encased in a fine net of delicate gold chains, each dripping with tiny diamonds. Her hair is the night speckled with stars, but none brighter than her eyes, which sweep across the room. Across the backs of her hands, delicate red patterns worked in henna swirl and curl like smoke.

The court lets out an appreciative sigh, pausing to bow toward her. She descends the stair smoothly, her girls flanking her. Above them, Darian appears in the doorway, dressed in a tight red coat, topped with a gold turban. He waves regally before descending, his head high and his lips peeled back in a smile.

I lean over and nudge a poleaxed Aladdin, whose eyes are trained on the princess. “Hurry. Go ask her to dance before anyone else does!”

He nods dazedly and steps forward. I release a short breath, forcing myself to let him go alone. He is on his own now, and I can only hope he won't make an utter fool of himself. Now if I can make my way to an exit, I can get back to searching for Zhian. The seconds slip away faster than ever, and my stomach twists with worry.

I turn around and nearly smack into a skinny noble with a thin mustache and bad breath.

“Will you dance with me, lady?” he asks. Then, leaning in, he whispers, “You can't say no! Not tonight.”

I am trapped between him and one of the tall pillars, and I wince as his breath assaults me. He grabs my wrist tightly and tries to pull me toward the dance floor, when suddenly a hand closes on his arm and wrenches it away.

“The lady already promised me the next round,” says a voice.

I turn to see who has come thinking to rescue me—and freeze.

Darian's smile is small and tight. He bows, but the gesture is mocking, his eyes brazenly studying my form through the gown.

“We haven't met,” he says. “I am Prince Darian.”

The skinny man mumbles an apology and disappears. I start to turn away, but Darian smoothly steps in front of me, putting his wrist to mine and turning me into the dance. The crowd around us parts, giving us space to turn. I flush with annoyance. The gods are conspiring against me tonight.

“Your Highness, I am—”

“I know who you are,” says Darian. “You're Zahra, Rahzad's
girl.” He turns sharply, and I mirror him, watching him from the corner of my eye.

“You're very bold for a prince,” I tell him, whirling and meeting his wrist.

“You're very pretty for a serving girl.”

I spot Aladdin then, not far away, settling into a dance with Caspida. He's babbling at her, smiling too widely, and she's more interested in watching Darian and me. Our gazes cross, and in her eyes is burning curiosity, but then we both turn away.

“What's your master's game, then?” Darian asks in a low tone.

We circle one another, wrists pressed together, his pulse racing with anger. He has seen Aladdin and Caspida dancing, and rage burns beneath his cool exterior.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my lord. I am just a servant.”

“Liar. You're more than that. Caspida's taken an interest in you, and you meet my eye without looking down. Frankly I don't care who or what you really are—what I want to know is where your master gets off thinking he can cross me.”

I suppress a wince. I always was bad at passing myself off as a servant.
Too impressed with yourself for your own good
is what you often said, Habiba.

“How could he possibly threaten you?” I ask Darian.

“He doesn't. He annoys me.”

“It's a particular habit of his.” The music quickens and our steps match it, until we are whirling and turning at a dizzying speed.

Darian ceases talking to concentrate on the dance, but when the music slows again he says, “Caspida and I have been betrothed since birth. She loves me.”

“How could she not?” I drift closer to him, my skirts brushing his legs as we circle one another, then switch wrists. “You're handsome and powerful. You're what every little princess dreams of.”

His hand traces my waist and hip, hovering but not touching. “And what do little serving girls dream of?” he whispers.

With a smile I spin away from him, arms held in front of me, giving my skirts room to flare as I twirl. Then, before he can catch me, I slip into the crowd and leave him standing alone.

Caspida and Aladdin are still dancing, their steps stiff and formal, and Aladdin's attempts to get her to laugh seem to be in vain. When he spies me watching, his eyebrows raise in a plea for help. I shrug and smile.
Wish for it, thief, and I could make her beg for your love.

The diamonds in her hair reflect tiny pinpoints of light across his face, making him look bewitched. They are a beautiful pair, like lovers out of a story, brought together by destiny. I sigh and start to move away, but a voice stops me.

“You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

I turn to see Nessa at my side. She's dressed in a two-piece gown of crimson that exposes her muscular stomach and the small gold ring piercing her navel. Her dreadlocks are worked into a braided knot on top of her head, their silver tips fanning out like a crown. I prickle with wariness at the sight of her, but she doesn't seem to have brought her flute. A book of bound parchment is tucked under her arm.

Noticing my stare, she laughs and taps the book. “I always get bored at these things. So I brought a friend.” Drawing it out, she flips through the pages. “A history of the greatest queens of the eastern sea kingdoms, going all the way back to the Shepherdess
Queen of Ghedda, who offered herself as sacrifice to save her city from sinking into the sea.”

My skin prickles, and I turn and look at her fully, my eagerness to find Zhian temporarily forgotten. “An ancient story,” I say slowly. “Few people know it.”

“I know a lot of old stories most people forget,” she says, running her finger down the spine. “And the Parthenian library is a marvel. One could spend a lifetime exploring it and never even count all the scrolls and books tucked away in there.”

“May I ask, Highness, how a Tytoshi princess finds herself in an Amulen court?”

“I suppose you may, since it's Fahradan, after all.” She looks across the crowd, her eyes briefly lingering on Aladdin and Caspida. “When a Tytoshi king dies, his successor often cleanses the royal household, murdering his siblings and their children in order to protect his throne—and not without reason. Few Tytoshi rulers die of natural deaths, you know.” She turns back to me, her tone matter-of-fact. “When my grandfather died, my eldest uncle became king. Instead of letting my brother Vigo and me be strangled in our sleep, our mother smuggled us here. We were only babies at the time.”

“And was it your mother who taught you the art of jinn charming?”

The only indication Nessa gives of her alarm at this question is a slight flaring of her nostrils. “I beg your pardon?”

“Forgive me. I noticed your flute the other day. It is carved with Eskarr symbols—not an instrument for idle melodies.”

She studies me for a long moment, her jaw tensing, before replying shortly, “My twin and I earn our keep.” She nods at Aladdin
and Caspida. “Your prince and my princess are stirring up quite the gossip.”

I glance around at the watching nobles, who all have eyes for Caspida and her companion. They whisper behind their spiced wine, and not all their expressions are benevolent.

“I'd tell your master to watch out,” Nessa continues. “Darian's probably in some corner plotting murder.” She looks away, her face impassive, and I sigh. I'm likely to get no help from her in finding Zhian. The crowd presses in on me, until it seems I can hardly breathe. I must get out, must continue searching. I've wasted too much time already.

But before I can make a move, a peal of trumpets and a crier announce the king's arrival. The crowd goes still and silent, watching with bowed heads, and I suppress a groan. Running out now would only draw unwanted attention.

The door atop the stair opens, and Malek leads in a small procession, Sulifer at his right shoulder. The king is hunched and pale, and the bright festival garb he wears looks more comical than regal on his wasted frame. He stumbles down the stairs, nearly toppling altogether before accepting an arm from his brother. Leaning on Sulifer, Malek makes his way to the floor and there pauses to catch his breath. His glazed eyes rove disinterestedly about.

A few snickers bubble out of the crowd, unnoticed by the king. I spot one young nobleman in a far corner—one of Darian's boys—mimicking the king, tottering around and miming holding a simmon pipe to his lips while smiling vacuously. Darian himself is expressionless, but I have lived long enough to learn to read the emotions beneath the surface. He masks disgust and satisfaction when he looks at the king.

Caspida's face is as still as the moon. Without a word to Aladdin, she pushes through the crowd and reaches Malek's side. With a wave she dismisses Sulifer and takes her father's arm. He seems to rouse from his stupor at her touch, and smiles and pats her hand. She leads him to the throne, helping him sit and arranging cushions behind his back. The crowd begins to lose interest and goes back to their dancing and talking.

“How long has he been like this?” I ask Nessa.

She sighs and watches Caspida and the king with sorrowful eyes. “Ever since the queen died, ten years ago. He was once bright and strong and adored Caspida completely.”

“How did the queen die?”

Nessa's gaze darkens. “A jinn attack, long ago. They ambushed the queen and all her Watchmaidens while they were on a journey to seek an alliance with Ursha. Our mothers. All gone in a single day.”

Ah. Small wonder then that the princess hates the jinn so deeply. Uneasily, my thoughts wander down paths I've tried very hard to avoid: What will happen to Aladdin once I've won my freedom? What will Caspida do when she learns he tricked his way into the palace with jinn magic?

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