The Forbidden Wish(84)

Sulifer is watching him.

“I give you an army of shadows, O Master,” I say to the vizier. Exhausted from the effort, I lean on the balcony rail. “And here is how you will call them. Once to summon, twice to dismiss.”

I hold out a hand, and on it forms a black ram’s horn hung on a strap of leather. Sulifer takes it, almost reverently. He runs his hands along its curling length, then puts the smaller end to his lips and blows. A deep, rich note sounds across the palace grounds, and the guards on the wall look around in confusion. At the call, all the shadow men turn and stare up at Sulifer, waiting.

“Give them a command,” I say.

He licks his lips, then starts when a shadow man appears at his elbow. The vizier looks the soldier up and down and cannot help but smile.

“Kill that guard,” he says, pointing at the man on the wall.

The shadow vanishes, and in less than a moment, a scream goes up below. The guard howls as a black spear cores him, then disappears, and he drops to his knees. His scream cuts off then, and he falls heavily.

Sulifer laughs.

“This is perfect!” he says. “This is—this is even better than the jinn!”

He turns to me, triumph bright in his eyes. “This is a force to conquer the world.”

“Yes, O Master,” I reply.

He turns back to the waiting shadows and blows his horn twice, and the shadow men vanish, sinking back into the darkness from which they were born. Twice more Sulifer summons and dismisses the shadow army, until he is satisfied no trickery is afoot.

“Well done, jinni,” he says at last. I can see he is more pleased with himself than with me. He spent hours thinking of that wish, checking it for any cracks or loopholes.

I’ll admit, it’s a fairly solid wish, as wishes go.

Sulifer turns to go inside, and I linger, looking around at the shadows that wait to spring to the vizier’s bidding.

When he commands me back to my lamp, I go with a bitter smile.

• • •

It is one hour before dawn and Aladdin’s execution.

Sulifer is fast asleep, the lamp resting beside his pillow. I drift smokily inside it, indistinct, unhappy fog, until I suddenly hear footsteps in the room. Four guards stand at the entrance to his chambers, but these steps come from the direction of the window, below which is a three-story drop.

Curious, I stir and slide against the walls of the lamp, feeling for the intruder. The footsteps draw closer, soft and slow, and a thrill runs through me when I recognize Caspida. Perhaps all is not lost.

I let my sixth sense wash over her. Her hands are still decorated with her wedding henna, but she looks far from bridal. Her black waistcoat and leggings hug her athletic form, and there are blades of every size and shape tucked into her belt, shoes, and even her tight braid.

Moving carefully, she lifts the lamp. When the bond forms between us, I am stunned at how remarkably familiar it feels—so much like being bonded to you, Habiba. Caspida hovers a moment longer over her sleeping uncle, her free hand straying to a knife at her belt.

But then there is a knock at the door, and she freezes.

“Lord Vizier?” calls a voice. “It is nearly dawn, my lord.”

She ghosts across the room, tucking herself behind the door as it slowly swings open. A guard pokes his head inside, and Caspida springs on him. She hooks an arm around his neck, plunging his head down to meet her rising knee. He drops, unconscious, and she drags him into the room. Sulifer stirs but does not wake.

Two more guards stand watch, and before they can shout out, Caspida drops one with a kick to his groin and a blow to his head, and the other with a blade across his throat. He sinks, blood running down his chest, and she steps over him, wiping scarlet specks from her cheek with a shaking hand.

Breathing a little harder, Caspida wraps the lamp in her cloak, ties the ends together, and slings it across her shoulders before heading out into the hall. She sets off, drawing her knife from her belt.

Faster and faster she moves, until she’s running through the halls, making for the nearest exit. But then the creak of an opening door stops her short, and she sucks in a breath when Darian steps into the hall. He stiffens at the sight of the princess, and he looks around, his hand moving to his sheathed sword.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Darian.”

“What are you doing here? I’ve orders to throw you in the dungeon. Cas, they’re going to execute you!”

Caspida’s forehead wrinkles. “Cousin, surely you don’t believe these ridiculous accusations. I was fooled by Aladdin as much as anyone. More so, in fact. I agreed to marry the bastard. You think I don’t want his head as much as you?”

He bites his lip as he studies her, his gaze conflicted. “Ever since we were kids, Cas, it was supposed to be you and me.”