“Glory is yours to—” the Ifrit King began.
“I heard you the first several times,” the old djinn interrupted, waving her cane. “I don’t want glory. I just want to go home. This world you want to create, of war and fire. It doesn’t sound like glory to me. It sounds like hell.”
The Ifrit King’s face drew tight. He looked to the big Ifrit. “Put an end to this insolence! Show them the penance for not obeying their lords!”
The Ifrit on the rooftop turned toward the disobedient elder djinn. Fatma felt Siti tense, readying to fight. She gripped her own sword—what little good it would do against a being of flames five times her size. He stared at the onager-headed djinn for moment, then surprisingly, his broad shoulders sagged.
“I cannot,” he spoke. Then added hastily, “O Great Lords.”
The Ifrit King’s fiery eyes widened. “More insolence? From even you?”
The big Ifrit shook his head. “O Great Lord, you must understand, I did not seek solace without reason. All of we Ifrit, upon coming to this world, sought out places where we could be alone. Together, we found the blood fire coming over us, urging us to burn, to set all about us aflame. But alone, we could live with our thoughts. Dwell on the purpose of our existence.” He looked up, daring to meet the baleful gaze of the hovering giant. “It is called philosophy.”
The Ifrit King frowned. “Phil-o-so-phy?”
The big Ifrit nodded briskly. “A means to interrogate the nature of existence and our place within it. The more I thought, the more I began to understand myself. To know that I was created for more than just drowning my enemies in flames. I began reading many great works by mortals and other djinn. That is how I discovered, I am a pacifist.”
Fatma blinked. The Nine Lords seemed equally puzzled. They murmured among themselves before one asked, “What is this? Pa-ci-fist?”
“One who does not commit violence upon others,” the big Ifrit explained.
“He has sworn not to cause harm,” one of the other lesser Ifrit added, this one with a woman’s voice. “Which is why what this mortal made him do was so terrible.”
The big Ifrit looked down, and for the first time Fatma saw things in his eyes she’d missed before—pain. Perhaps even guilt.
“Are you another spouter of this phil-o-so-phy?” the Ifrit King asked with disgust.
“Oh no,” the female Ifrit answered. “I’m a sculptor.”
“She’s very good!” the big Ifrit put in. “She makes beautiful landscapes of rocks and sand!” The other lesser Ifrit all agreed, causing their companion to look down sheepishly. “We’ve told her she should display her art. But she’s an introvert, and we want to respect that.”
The Ifrit King looked as flummoxed as Fatma. Did the Ministry truly understand these creatures at all?
“I will not bow to you either,” another voice spoke. This one was a cobalt-blue Marid that shared the rooftop. He raised up from where he knelt. “We were not the ones who summoned you here. We have not asked for your return. I only kneel to my creator.”
He was joined by another djinn, this one a water Jann. “We will not be slaves!” Several others rose, all shouting their defiance with the same words. That seemed to break the dam. The whole rooftop stood, chanting, “We will not be slaves! We will not be slaves!” It was picked up on the streets, turning into a mass protest of shouts and raised fists. The Nine Lords stared in disbelief. Fatma didn’t think they were used to the word “no.”
Finally, the Ifrit King held up his fiery mace and bellowed, “Silence!”
Quiet came, but not one djinn returned to their knees. There were clenched fists now and steely glares. Fatma could feel the magic and tension filling the air, thick currents that tickled the hairs on her skin. This was a prelude to battle, between djinn and the lords that once ruled them. The resulting destruction was something she didn’t want to contemplate.
“O Great Lords!” she called, stepping forward again. “The djinn of this world have made their choice! You claim to want to lead them, to better their lives. Would you now go to war with them? Shed their blood? To what end?”
The Ifrit King’s gaze returned to her, and a rumbling emanated from deep in his throat. It wasn’t until the grin broke out across his fiery face that she realized he was laughing.
“To what end, mortal?” His voice rose to a thunder. “Hear me, wretched djinn! Traitors to your blood! You would stand against your lords? Those who would lead you to greatness? If you will not bow willingly, you will be forced to bend—or break!”
Angry cries and growls rose up. Fatma tried again to be heard above the din. But it was no use. The same djinn that had moments ago been cowed, now stood determined not to back down. So, it seemed, did the Nine Lords.
“Insolent children!” the Ifrit King snarled, his crown ablaze. He lifted his great mace to the heavens, and it amazingly grew, so that he could now heft it in two clawed hands. “If it is battle you seek for dominion of this realm, you shall have it. Let there be war!”
With a great swing, he brought down his mace, striking the side of Abdeen Palace a terrific blow. The building shook, the force of the impact rattling Fatma. She was thrown off her feet as the rooftop heaved, a groaning going up as if the palace were screaming its pain. She tried to stand, hoping to run—but the ground suddenly gave way. Then it was gone, and she was falling amid fire and crumbling stone, plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Fatma was falling. Amid stone and fire.
No.
Not falling. Had fallen. Fell.
And now—
She spasmed—arms flailing, remembering what it was to fall. Grabbing at open air. Terrified at finding only emptiness. Or at least she tried. Something held her arms firm. Rough and heavy. Her legs too. So that she could barely
