Sand begins to rise from the ground. It coils and swirls, making Aladdin’s robes flutter. I summon the wind and charm it, sending it spiraling around my astounded master. Into the air I weave the ancient songs of the people of Ghedda, who lie buried now beneath the cold ash of the Mountain of Tongues.
The force of the spiraling wind throws the prince’s men wide, and they go sprawling on the ground. Darian falls to his knees and struggles to stay upright, a hand in front of his face as he snarls in rage.
I slip inside the whirlwind and stand facing Aladdin, who stares at me with eyes like twin moons. He is half dazed, the lamp clutched tightly in his hands. Blood runs down his neck and from the corner of his mouth.
Wishes are born in the will of men and women, and it is the true and pure source of power all humans hold. Few realize it is there at all. I remember your will, Habiba: You shone like the moon, a sly gleam in a dark sky, secret and intemperate. Aladdin burns like the sun, driving away every shadow and warming the sands. I draw on his will, holding it up like a torch in the dark, lighting the way. I close my eyes and follow the thread of his thoughts with my mind’s eye.
I glimpse a dark street, puddles of moonlight on the cobblestones. The smell of salt and smoke, canvas awnings fluttering softly in the midnight wind. Less a point on a map and more a region of the soul, but it is a path I can follow.
I open my eyes and clap my hands once.
The desert bends away and the horizon draws near, and in a heartbeat, Darian and his soldiers vanish, left behind as Aladdin and I cross through impossible space. I draw the land up like fabric pinched between my fingers, and thread Aladdin and myself through like a sharp needle. Aladdin’s eyes stay locked on mine, as his hair and cloak whip in the wind. Tiny grains of sand bead his lashes. He holds his breath, his body rigid, his hands clamped tightly around the lamp.
Without moving, we pass through desert and sky, through sand and stone, through a mountain rising spectrally in the dark. Mount Tissia. When last I saw it, half a millennium ago, it was bathed in the bloodlight of dawn. You and I stood on its summit, Habiba, and faced the vast armies of the jinn as they rushed to destroy us.
Then the mountain shrinks behind us and a city appears ahead, a twinkle of soft light on the edge of the vast Maridion Sea. Aladdin’s Parthenia. The city is roughly egg-shaped, divided into districts by high walls and cut through the center by a river running from the northwest, toward the great River Qo and the mountain kingdoms beyond.
With a soft exhalation, I release what little magic is left in me, and the world slows to a halt. The wind and sand fall away, leaving Aladdin and me standing as if we had never moved at all. We have made a journey of weeks in a matter of seconds.
I have brought us to a small rocky slope beside the river, north of the city. From here, we can look down toward Parthenia. The city glitters in the night, and I can make out the bobbing torches carried by the watchmen atop the wall. To the east, across the sea, dawn is beginning to break, the horizon a rose-gold line.
Aladdin starts, sucking in a sharp breath, as if he’s just surfaced after being immersed in water.
“That was . . .” he begins, then his voice trails off. He looks down at the lamp, and I see that he has truly realized just how immense its power is.
I point at his wounded shoulder and the cut on his neck. “Wish for it, and I can heal you.”
“This scratch?” he scoffs. “It just needs a little cleaning. Now what? Isn’t there some kind of price I have to pay?”
“Just wait for it,” I say, folding my arms and watching him.
He frowns and starts to reply, only to retch instead, his skin turning ashen.
“And there it is,” I sigh. “Moving instantly from one place to another almost always results in losing one’s dinner. Not a bad price, compared to most I’ve seen. It’ll pass soon.”
“I haven’t had any dinner to lose,” he groans.
He takes a step toward the river but staggers, and I move quickly to his side and slip an arm around him. He stiffens at my touch, nearly pulling away, but he is too weak. I help him to the water’s edge, and with a wince he eases himself down beside it and leans in to drink from his cupped hand. He is shaking too much, and the water spills.
“Damn it,” he mutters, then laughs huskily. “This is so embarrassing . . .”
He faints, his hand falling into the water, his cheek planted on the wet sand. His skin is ashen and hot to the touch.
With a sigh, I look around at the empty landscape. The dunes of the Mahali are far behind us; here the land is rocky and stubbled with wild olive trees and twisting cedars. Somewhere in the underbrush, a jackal barks twice. Moonlight filtering through the trees turns the river into flowing silver.