Traitor to the Throne (Rebel of the Sands 2)

‘Ranaa,’ Samira hissed reproachfully. I guessed I wasn’t the only one who’d tried to teach the little Demdji manners. Samira had steadied herself against the door of the cell. I reached down a hand for her, helping her to her feet from where she was kneeling. Ranaa still clung to the edge of her dirty khalat, making it that much harder for Samira to move, weak as she was. ‘Forgive her,’ Samira said to me. She had a finely cut accent that reminded me of Shazad’s, though it was a whole lot gentler. ‘She doesn’t often have cause to speak to strangers.’ The last was followed with a pointed look at the little girl.

‘Your sister?’ I asked.

‘After a sort.’ Samira rested one hand on the younger girl’s head. ‘My father is’ – she hesitated – ‘was the Emir of Saramotai. He’s dead now.’ Her voice was flat and matter of fact, hiding the hurt underneath. I knew what it was like to watch a parent die. ‘Her mother was a servant in my father’s household. When Ranaa was born looking … different, her mother begged my father to hide her from the Gallan.’ Samira searched my face. Usually I could pass for human, even with my blue eyes. But there were a few people who were more than a little familiar with Demdji who could spot me, like Jin had. ‘You would understand why, I expect.’

I’d been lucky. I’d survived the Gallan for sixteen years without being recognised for what I was because I could pass for human. Ranaa would never be able to. And to the Gallan anything that wasn’t human was a monster. A Demdji was no different from a Skinwalker or a Nightmare to them. Ranaa with her red eyes would be dead as soon as they caught sight of her.

Samira ran her fingers gently through the little girl’s hair, a soothing motion that spoke of too many nights coaxing a scared little girl to sleep. ‘We took her in and hid her. After she started doing … this’ – Samira’s fingers danced over the light in Ranaa’s hands – ‘my father said she must be Princess Hawa resurrected.’

The story of Princess Hawa was one of my favorites growing up. It was from the very early days of humanity, back when the Destroyer of Worlds was still walking the earth. Hawa was the daughter of the first Sultan of Izman. Princess Hawa’s voice was so beautiful that it brought anyone who heard it to their knees. It was her singing that brought a Skinwalker to her, disguised in the shape of one of her servants. He stole her eyes straight from her head. Princess Hawa screamed and the hero Attallah came to save her before the Skinwalker could take her tongue, too. He tricked the ghoul and won her eyes back for her. And when Hawa’s sight was restored to her and she saw Attallah for the first time her heart stopped in her breast. What Hawa felt was so new and strange that she thought she was dying. Hawa sent Attallah away because of how much it pained her to look upon him. But after he was gone, her heart only hurt more. They were the first mortals to ever fall in love, the stories said.

One day, news reached Hawa in Izman that a great city across the desert was besieged by ghouls and that Attallah was fighting there. The city tried to build new defences each day, but every night the ghouls came along and tore them down, forcing the city to start again at dawn, when the ghouls retreated. On hearing that Attallah was almost certainly doomed, Hawa walked out into the desert beyond Izman and cried such agonised tears that a Buraqi, the immortal horses made of sand and wind, took pity on her and came to her aid. She rode the Buraqi across the sand, singing so brightly that the sun came into the sky as she rushed to Attallah’s side. When she reached Saramotai she held the sun in the sky, and the ghouls at bay, for a hundred days, long enough for the people of Saramotai to build their great, impenetrable walls, working day and night until they were safe. When the work was finally done, she released the sun and, safe behind the walls of the great city, she married her love, Attallah.

Hawa stood watch on those walls as Attallah rode back out into battle each night and returned to her at dawn. For a hundred more nights Attallah went beyond the gates to defend the city. He was untouchable in battle. No ghoul’s claw could so much as scratch him. She stood vigil every night until, on the hundred and first night of her watch, a stray arrow from the battle reached the walls and struck Princess Hawa down.

When Attallah saw her fall from the walls, his heart stopped from grief. The defences that had guarded him so well for a hundred nights fell away and the ghouls overwhelmed him, tearing his heart from his chest. But in the moment that they both died, the sun bloomed in the dead of night one last time. The ghouls could not fight in the sun. Instead they burned, and the city was saved with Hawa’s and Attallah’s last breath. The people of the city named it in her honour: Saramotai. It meant ‘the princess’s death’ in the first language.

I wondered if it was a Djinni’s idea of a joke to give his daughter, born in Hawa’s city, the same gift that she had.

But Hawa was human. Or at least that was what the story said. I’d never wondered about it before. Folks in old stories sometimes just had powers that came from nowhere. Or maybe Hawa was one of us, and centuries of retellings had buried the fact that Hawa was a Demdji and not a true princess. After all, retellings of the Sultim trials made gentle, pretty Delila out to be a hideous beast with horns growing out of her head. And some stories of the Blue-Eyed Bandit left out the small matter that I was a girl.

‘After Fahali we thought it would be safe for her.’ Samira pulled Ranaa closer to her. ‘Turns out even if they don’t want to destroy her, some folk want her for other things.’ It was stupid superstition that a piece of a Demdji could cure all ills. Hala, our golden-skinned Demdji, Imin’s sister, carried a reminder of that every day: two of her fingers had been cut off and sold. Probably to cure some rich man’s troubled stomach. ‘The rumour is even the Sultan is after a Demdji.’ o;Ranaa,’ Samira hissed reproachfully. I guessed I wasn’t the only one who’d tried to teach the little Demdji manners. Samira had steadied herself against the door of the cell. I reached down a hand for her, helping her to her feet from where she was kneeling. Ranaa still clung to the edge of her dirty khalat, making it that much harder for Samira to move, weak as she was. ‘Forgive her,’ Samira said to me. She had a finely cut accent that reminded me of Shazad’s, though it was a whole lot gentler. ‘She doesn’t often have cause to speak to strangers.’ The last was followed with a pointed look at the little girl.

‘Your sister?’ I asked.

‘After a sort.’ Samira rested one hand on the younger girl’s head. ‘My father is’ – she hesitated – ‘was the Emir of Saramotai. He’s dead now.’ Her voice was flat and matter of fact, hiding the hurt underneath. I knew what it was like to watch a parent die. ‘Her mother was a servant in my father’s household. When Ranaa was born looking … different, her mother begged my father to hide her from the Gallan.’ Samira searched my face. Usually I could pass for human, even with my blue eyes. But there were a few people who were more than a little familiar with Demdji who could spot me, like Jin had. ‘You would understand why, I expect.’

I’d been lucky. I’d survived the Gallan for sixteen years without being recognised for what I was because I could pass for human. Ranaa would never be able to. And to the Gallan anything that wasn’t human was a monster. A Demdji was no different from a Skinwalker or a Nightmare to them. Ranaa with her red eyes would be dead as soon as they caught sight of her.

Samira ran her fingers gently through the little girl’s hair, a soothing motion that spoke of too many nights coaxing a scared little girl to sleep. ‘We took her in and hid her. After she started doing … this’ – Samira’s fingers danced over the light in Ranaa’s hands – ‘my father said she must be Princess Hawa resurrected.’

The story of Princess Hawa was one of my favorites growing up. It was from the very early days of humanity, back when the Destroyer of Worlds was still walking the earth. Hawa was the daughter of the first Sultan of Izman. Princess Hawa’s voice was so beautiful that it brought anyone who heard it to their knees. It was her singing that brought a Skinwalker to her, disguised in the shape of one of her servants. He stole her eyes straight from her head. Princess Hawa screamed and the hero Attallah came to save her before the Skinwalker could take her tongue, too. He tricked the ghoul and won her eyes back for her. And when Hawa’s sight was restored to her and she saw Attallah for the first time her heart stopped in her breast. What Hawa felt was so new and strange that she thought she was dying. Hawa sent Attallah away because of how much it pained her to look upon him. But after he was gone, her heart only hurt more. They were the first mortals to ever fall in love, the stories said.

One day, news reached Hawa in Izman that a great city across the desert was besieged by ghouls and that Attallah was fighting there. The city tried to build new defences each day, but every night the ghouls came along and tore them down, forcing the city to start again at dawn, when the ghouls retreated. On hearing that Attallah was almost certainly doomed, Hawa walked out into the desert beyond Izman and cried such agonised tears that a Buraqi, the immortal horses made of sand and wind, took pity on her and came to her aid. She rode the Buraqi across the sand, singing so brightly that the sun came into the sky as she rushed to Attallah’s side. When she reached Saramotai she held the sun in the sky, and the ghouls at bay, for a hundred days, long enough for the people of Saramotai to build their great, impenetrable walls, working day and night until they were safe. When the work was finally done, she released the sun and, safe behind the walls of the great city, she married her love, Attallah.

Hawa stood watch on those walls as Attallah rode back out into battle each night and returned to her at dawn. For a hundred more nights Attallah went beyond the gates to defend the city. He was untouchable in battle. No ghoul’s claw could so much as scratch him. She stood vigil every night until, on the hundred and first night of her watch, a stray arrow from the battle reached the walls and struck Princess Hawa down.

When Attallah saw her fall from the walls, his heart stopped from grief. The defences that had guarded him so well for a hundred nights fell away and the ghouls overwhelmed him, tearing his heart from his chest. But in the moment that they both died, the sun bloomed in the dead of night one last time. The ghouls could not fight in the sun. Instead they burned, and the city was saved with Hawa’s and Attallah’s last breath. The people of the city named it in her honour: Saramotai. It meant ‘the princess’s death’ in the first language.

I wondered if it was a Djinni’s idea of a joke to give his daughter, born in Hawa’s city, the same gift that she had.

But Hawa was human. Or at least that was what the story said. I’d never wondered about it before. Folks in old stories sometimes just had powers that came from nowhere. Or maybe Hawa was one of us, and centuries of retellings had buried the fact that Hawa was a Demdji and not a true princess. After all, retellings of the Sultim trials made gentle, pretty Delila out to be a hideous beast with horns growing out of her head. And some stories of the Blue-Eyed Bandit left out the small matter that I was a girl.

‘After Fahali we thought it would be safe for her.’ Samira pulled Ranaa closer to her. ‘Turns out even if they don’t want to destroy her, some folk want her for other things.’ It was stupid superstition that a piece of a Demdji could cure all ills. Hala, our golden-skinned Demdji, Imin’s sister, carried a reminder of that every day: two of her fingers had been cut off and sold. Probably to cure some rich man’s troubled stomach. ‘The rumour is even the Sultan is after a Demdji.’