Excerpt: THE ASHFIRE KING by Chelsea Abdullah
A merchant and a prince trapped in the crumbling realm of jinn must figure out how to save one world to return to their own in The Ashfire King, the second book in the Sandsea Trilogy, perfect for fans of The City of Brass and The Bone Shard Daughter.
Read an excerpt from The Ashfire King (US | UK), on sale April 15, below!
1
LOULIE
There were two reasons Loulie al‑Nazari was in a foul mood.
The first was that she was trapped in a foreign land with a temperamental being made of fire and a starry-eyed storyteller who was recounting their journey in painstaking detail. The second was that they were physically stuck between a large rock and an ever-shifting, ever-sinking ocean of sand.
In the distance, on an island in the middle of the Sandsea, lay their destination: the legendary jinn city of Dhahab. Even from here, Loulie could see the domes and towers glowing gold beneath the sunlight. Beacons of hope, the temperamental being of fire—Rijah—had called them. But standing at the edge of the sea, Loulie was not hopeful at all.
“I hate this place already,” she said.
Rijah, shapeshifter and self-proclaimed mightiest of jinn, glowered at her from beneath the shade of the date tree they were reclining under. “It hates you too.”
Mazen, who looked significantly less starry-eyed as he concluded his story, cut an irritated glance at Rijah. “Were you listening to anything I just said?”
Rijah lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Why would I when I do not care?”
Loulie sighed as the two of them bickered. She turned her gaze to the sky. Or at least, it was a sky in theory. But it was hard to think of it as such when the clouds had been replaced with swarms of fish and the sun wavered, faint and fractured like light on water. Since their arrival, the expanse had shifted multiple times, one hour filled with marine life, the next speckled with strange birds. According to Rijah, it was a jinn-made illusion, an unreliable fabrication of reality.
Looking at the strange sky, Loulie had the odd impression she was sinking. That feeling only intensified when she looked at the shifting sand around them. On the surface, the Sandsea was rumored to be all that was left of the fallen land where the jinn cities had once stood. But if that was the case, why did the Sandsea also exist here, in this realm under the sand?
Earlier, when she had asked Rijah, they had not had an answer for her. The ifrit had been just as unsettled by the sight of the Sandsea and the islands scattered across it.
A pointed cough pulled Loulie from her musings. She looked up to see Mazen standing on the shoreline, gazing out at Dhahab. “We could fly there,” he said.
The prince-turned-criminal looked as if he’d trudged through a particularly vicious sandstorm. His wavy hair was wild and unkempt, his tunic and trousers rumpled and torn. But the injury he had sustained during their last battle was healed, and despite the ordeal they had faced, his golden eyes were bright. Though Mazen’s title had been stolen from him, he was still the softhearted prince Loulie had been conned into traveling with. He was still Mazen bin Malik, the youngest son of a now-dead sultan.
Rijah scowled. “You mean I could fly, and you could ride on my back.”
Mazen looked at them uncertainly. “Yes?”
“No,” Rijah said flatly.
Loulie bit her tongue. Rijah had been tasked with watching over them, but so far all the ifrit had done was begrudgingly stomp after them and complain about it.
Though it was impossible to measure time in this world, with its odd sky, Loulie suspected they had been traveling a long time, meandering through terrain both rough and tortuous. And now here they were, marooned on a beach with a small cliff behind them and the Sandsea before them. To begin with, the land they’d traversed had been splintered with cracks and scars but whole. It was only here at the edge of the Sandsea that Loulie realized they were on an isle.
Rijah, who had surveyed the area from on high as a bird, claimed the Sandsea had eroded not just the immediate area but the entire landscape. Cities that had once been on the same plain had now become displaced and distant, accessible only over stretches of the Sandsea. According to them, there was no way around it, but Loulie did not believe that.
She planted herself in front of the ifrit. “Don’t you want to go back to your home?”
Rijah crossed their arms. A dent appeared briefly between their brows but smoothed away just as quickly. Loulie recognized a tell, fleeting as it was.
Mazen seemed to pick up on it as well. “You’re nervous to return?”
Loulie balked. She had been so busy worrying about her own safety in this realm that she had not stopped to ponder Rijah’s history within it. She had forgotten they’d been named an ifrit because it was a title for the powerful jinn kings who had sunk these cities.
Rijah scowled. “Would you be eager to return to the city that has a price on your head?”
“But you’re ancient,” Mazen said. “Surely no one will remember—”
A sharp, mocking laugh burst from Rijah’s lips. “Jinn hold their grudges for centuries. Human resentment is evanescent by comparison.”
Looking at the fierce glower on their face, Loulie could not help but wonder if they were referring to their own grudge. Before she and Mazen had met them, Rijah had been trapped for hundreds of years beneath the Sandsea in what was rumored to be the most powerful relic in the desert—a small, unremarkable oil lamp. And now Mazen, a descendant of the man who had trapped Rijah and forced them to do his bidding, was carrying that lamp in a satchel at his belt.
Though Mazen had promised never to abuse the lamp’s power, Rijah was clearly cynical. Loulie did not imagine the ifrit’s demeanor toward them would warm anytime soon.
She returned to searching for a land crossing they could use to traverse the small stretch of Sandsea between them and the city and was surprised when she spotted a silhouette on the shifting sand that had most certainly not been there before. She squinted until the shadow resolved into a shape. Until she realized she was looking at…
“A ship?”
Mazen came to stand beside her. He shielded his eyes with a hand. “It’s… a boum?”
It was indeed a boum, moderately sized, with three sails. It was very likely there were jinn on the vessel. The realization made Loulie’s stomach knot. How did one conduct themselves in a world where humans were an anomaly?
Mazen made a “hmm” sound under his breath. “You think they’re explorers? Travelers?”
Loulie shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever their purpose, they’re headed to the city. The better question is how to grab their attention.”
There was a thoughtful pause. And then, in unison, they looked at Rijah.
Unsurprisingly, the ifrit was displeased. “Imagine, for a moment, that I draw this ship here. What will you do when the sailors find out you are humans? Will you spin your long-winded tales and pray their curiosity outweighs their animosity?” Rijah scoffed. “And what if they capture you? Will you wave your pathetic dagger at them?”
Impulsively, Loulie pulled her pathetic dagger from a hidden pocket in her robe and pointed it at Rijah. “I know how to lie.” She angled the knife at Mazen, who cringed. “He knows how to lie. What was it you told us when we first came here? That you would not baby us?”
Rijah opened their mouth to level a retort at her but then paused, suddenly captivated by her blade. Loulie knew immediately what they were looking at: the golden qaf on the obsidian hilt, the first letter of Qadir’s name.
Qadir. Bodyguard to her, King of Jinn to Rijah.
She tamped down the surge of emotion that swept through her when she thought of her partner in crime. Qadir, who had told them to flee. Qadir, who had stayed behind to cover their escape. Qadir, who had still not caught up with them, despite his promise. Had Rijah been able to take them back through the Sandsea, Loulie would have already returned for him.
The ire vanished from Rijah’s expression when they beheld the engraving. “Fine. I will bring the ship here, but you must deal with the consequences.” With that cryptic declaration, they faced the vessel, cracked their knuckles—and sighed loudly. The sharp exhalation strengthened into a gust of wind, rippling through the air with enough force to tear at their clothing.
Loulie watched in amazement as the squall arced over the Sandsea. Between one breath and the next, it had overwhelmed the boum and was steering it toward their little island.
Mazen was visibly gaping. “Incredible,” he whispered.
Rijah smirked. “This is nothing.” They turned toward him, and midmotion their body quivered and blurred. When Loulie blinked, Rijah was no longer standing before them in a human shape but flying above their heads as a bird, a hawk with startling turquoise-blue eyes.
Mazen made a sound of distress as Rijah alighted on his shoulder.
“Let me guess.” Loulie crossed her arms. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to other jinn?”
When Rijah did not deign to respond, Loulie returned her attention to the ship with a grumble. With the tempest clearing, they had mere moments to catch the sailors’ attention before they resumed their course. She straightened, donning her false bravado like a cloak as she wound her scarves around her face. Mazen mimicked the motion, concealing everything but his eyes. She was surprised when he took the initiative to call out to the ship, waving his arms for added effect. He stopped only when it turned toward them.
“I hope this does not end badly,” he mumbled as he lowered his hands.
Loulie forced herself to shrug. “Don’t think too hard on it. What will be will be.”
Mazen glanced at her over his shoulder. There was a spark of recognition in his eyes—a memory, hovering between them, of Qadir sharing that advice before they’d all plunged into the Sandsea to find the lamp. But Loulie had heard it from him countless times before and had parroted it without thinking.
She turned away from Mazen’s pitying look. She did not want to remember Qadir. Not now, when thinking of him and the people she had left behind made her feel helpless. Loulie did not know Dahlia’s fate, but Ahmed’s…
Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the ever-smiling wali of Dhyme: Ahmed bin Walid, the jinn hunter who had always welcomed her to the city with cheer. The man who had asked for her heart and then died in Omar’s raid before she could give him an answer.
Loulie swallowed a knot in her throat as she focused again on the ship, which was near enough she could make out a figure standing on the edge. The figure gestured toward a rope ladder hanging off the hull.
“After you,” Mazen said softly beside her.
Loulie hesitated for one heartbeat. Two. And then she ran at the ship, leaping over the small gap between the sea and the hull. She began to ascend the ladder, Mazen following less gracefully behind her, with Rijah still perched on his shoulder.
It was a short climb. The first thing Loulie noted when she regained her footing was that the wood beneath her was surprisingly stable. And then she realized—this ship did not bob on the sea so much as slide across it.
Magic?
Her curiosity was quickly snuffed out, replaced with alarm as she took in the man before her. No, not a man. A jinn. For though he was human shaped, his eyes were a solid, edge‑to‑edge ink black, and his skin glittered oddly with what looked like swaths of scales. The hems of his clothing wavered like smoke, blurring even the golden trinkets pinned to his flowing velvet coat.
Loulie’s stomach dropped. Covering her features wouldn’t fool anyone; she clearly did not belong here. But the jinn was looking at them expectantly, and she had to say something—
Abruptly, Rijah let out an earsplitting cry that made them all cringe. It was a strangely judgmental sound, made worse by the ifrit’s bird-eyed glare.
The sailor looked at the hawk, perplexed. “You have… a very vocal bird.”
Relief crashed through Loulie at the sound of his voice. His accent was more clipped, the syllables more pronounced, but—he spoke her language. She laughed, soft and breathless. “Yes, I apologize for the creature.” She ducked into a bow. “You have our deepest gratitude for saving us. Me and my”—she hesitated as she glanced at Mazen—“companion.”
Mazen immediately swept in to offer his own gratitude and to enlighten the sailor about their fictional history. It was a simple story, one that painted them as explorers who had lost their way. They’d apparently been searching for a mysterious treasure and consequently found themselves in rigorous territory. This, Mazen claimed, was a most serendipitous rescue.
There was a thoughtful pause after the story. The sailor considered them quietly, his dark eyes unreadable. And then, remarkably, he thanked them for their explanation. Loulie was nonplussed when he asked them only one question: “The area you came from—is it still afloat?”
She scrutinized the sailor’s expression, taking in the skepticism of his furrowed brow and the downturn of his lips. She had spent years studying customers—the way their eyes wandered over merchandise, the way they fidgeted when indecisive. Though she never knew what brought them to her stall, the success of her business depended on her being able to read their tells.
She did not know what the sailor was referring to, but she knew the answer he was expecting. So she let sorrow seep into her voice when she said, “I’m afraid not.”
The jinn sighed as he gazed past them to the broken land they’d minutes ago been marooned on. “Yet another isle lost to the bindings,” he mumbled. “I expected as much, but that does not make it any less a tragedy. Perhaps it is the gods’ mercy that brought us together.”
Or an ifrit’s magic. Loulie cut a glance at Rijah, but the ifrit was staring at the beach they had come from. Loulie wondered if that word—binding—had any meaning to them.
“Normally I would ask for payment,” the sailor continued. “But I am not so heartless as to demand coin from those in need.” He began to lead them across the deck.
It was then, as they were walking, that Loulie noticed the other jinn on the ship. Though they moved with the same ease and grace as human sailors, they, unlike humans, did not sway with the movements of the boum. Rather, they were shifting the sand upon which it traveled, manipulating it with hand motions that parted the sediment in waves.
Too late, Loulie realized she was staring, her expression mirroring Mazen’s own wide-eyed wonder. She forced herself to turn away, only to notice the sailor in the coat looking at her. “Your story is a mysterious one, ya sayyida. It is unfortunate we have no time for the rest of it.” He inclined his chin toward the city wall, lips curled into an amused smile.
The moment Loulie paused to observe the city, all thoughts of their threadbare story vanished from her mind. She was rendered speechless by the sight of the architecture. From a distance, the buildings had been a haze of gold. This close, she could discern the details that had been invisible to her from the shoreline.
She beheld the diaphanous enclosure rising before them: a barrier surrounding the city that at once seemed immaterial as smoke and solid as ice. Though everything behind it was distorted, the architecture looming above the massive walls inside was radiant. Loulie saw alabaster towers sparkling with shards of gold and domes made up of effervescent stained glass. She saw jade-green terraces dripping with ivy and enormous ebony doorways lined with jewels.
The city was stacked as high as it was stretched wide, the layered tiers so cluttered with buildings it seemed a miracle they had not yet collapsed on each other. Rising above the decadent chaos was a palace, a vision so impressive it warped Loulie’s senses. The towers were so tall their tops were lost to the clouds, and the golden domes were simultaneously vivid and faded, like a relief that lost its depth when viewed in shadow.
She recognized this place. When they had been searching for the lamp in the Sandsea, they had navigated this city’s labyrinthine pathways. It had been a mirage then, an illusion crafted by an ifrit, meant to ensnare them. But this was no illusion.
She glanced at Mazen, who had gone to stand at the bow. He was staring with unabashed marvel at the buildings as they circled the perimeter of the strange wall. Eventually, they came to a gateway made of gold that stood between two deity statues. As far as Loulie could tell, it was the only usable entrance into the city.
No sooner had they arrived than the gate began to open. Loulie swallowed her nerves as the ship pressed forward into the city.
“A word of advice, ya sayyida.”
She looked up at the sound of the jinn’s voice. Her heart crawled into her throat when she saw the disarmingly mischievous smile on his face.
“Yes?” Panic pulsed in her veins as the city walls closed in around them.
“You may want to prepare a better lie before we dock.” He tapped his knuckle and gave her a meaningful look.
Frowning, Loulie glanced down at the back of her hand. She stared as lines, red and dark as her own blood, materialized on her skin and connected to form an oval. And then the shape opened to reveal a slit at its center.
Not an oval. Terror dug claws into her mind. An eye.
The city gate slammed shut behind them.
2
MAZEN
His whole life, Mazen had assumed he knew his fate. All he’d ever yearned for was a break from that destiny, an escape from the mundanity of court life. He had thought himself unimportant. He was, after all, a third son with no political sway or physical prowess.
How wrong he had been.
In his mind he saw his father lying atop bloody sheets, a black blade jutting from his chest. And he saw Omar standing above him, smirking with Mazen’s face. The thought made his heart shudder, his lungs tighten.
With an effort, he pulled himself back into the present, forcing his attention to the city of Dhahab as it unfolded around them. The Sandsea disappeared, replaced with a canal of bright crystal blue water that buoyed a floating deck. Sailors balanced on gangplanks between ships while passengers in elegant clothing strolled across the deck. Mazen saw cloaks embroidered with shifting patterns, shawls that floated without a breeze, and sandals that glittered with gemstones. It was not just the clothing the passengers wore that was extravagant, but the luggage they carried with them—cages containing vibrant-colored birds, carts stacked with living paintings, bags filled with impossibly enormous piles of jewelry…
Mazen did not realize he had drawn close to the edge of the ship until Rijah squawked a warning in his ear. He staggered back and, in doing so, became aware of a smear on his hand.
A bruise?
His breath caught when he held up his hand and saw that it was very much not a bruise. At some point, red lines had carved themselves into his skin, forming an oval. Nothing happened when Mazen scratched at the strange shape. There was no injury, no torn skin. Just the mark, which looked as if it had been inked onto his flesh.
And then the oval blinked at him.
Mazen swallowed a gasp as he whirled, only to find Loulie already marching toward him. “It seems this city has eyes,” she murmured.
She glanced at Rijah, but the ifrit just clicked their beak at her disdainfully. “Do not look at me. I know nothing about this vile magic.”
Loulie sighed. “We have another problem on our hands. Our rescuer knows we’re lying.” She glanced at the sailor who had saved them. Though he was helping one of his fellows steer the ship toward the dock, Mazen had the distinct impression he was watching them.
He frowned. “If he cared, wouldn’t he have…” Tied us up? Taken us prisoner? He did not want to tempt fate by putting a voice to his confusion.
Loulie merely shook her head in response, eyes flicking between the ship and the port. It was clear she was already focused on their next goal: escape. Mazen followed her gaze to the port filled with passengers and seafarers alike. Those headed into the city had to pass through a gate built into a wall surrounding the area. As far as Mazen could tell, it was unguarded.
Loulie glanced at Rijah. “Can you guide us somewhere safe once we’re inside?”
Somewhere safe. They had come here seeking shelter, perhaps answers, if there were any to be found about Omar’s plans. But now that they were here, they lacked a destination.
Rijah absently picked at one of their wings. “Perhaps. It has been… a long time since I was here. The city has likely changed in my absence.”
Centuries was a longer absence than Mazen could comprehend. Still, while Rijah’s words were hardly a reassurance, escaping the ship was better than waiting around to be interrogated.
Mazen steadied himself as the boum came to an abrupt stop, the deck swaying as an anchor was dropped overboard. Sailors began to skirt around them as they secured the vessel. One of them passed Mazen with a grumble, yelling something over his shoulder at their rescuer, who was now securing the gangplank.
Rijah dug their talons into Mazen’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for, foolish human? Move. Or do you plan on loitering until someone takes you away in chains?”
Mazen swallowed his nerves. Rijah was right. Confidence was key.
It was unfortunate he had so little of it.
He straightened as he strode down the gangplank. Loulie kept pace with him, her steps sure and steady. Relief swept through him when she decisively pushed ahead, leading them off the ship and into the port with enviable poise. Mazen trailed her, hesitating only when he spotted their rescuer speaking with what appeared to be a dockworker. The sailor had saved them. The least Mazen could do was thank him—
Loulie grabbed his sleeve and tugged him after her. “Safety takes priority over gratitude.”
Rijah grumbled their agreement from Mazen’s shoulder. “Yes, and I can assure you that a marid does not deserve your appreciation.”
Mazen startled at the word. “Marid?”
He recognized the name of the fabled wish-granting tribe that had once inhabited Ghiban, the city of waterfalls. Was the sailor truly one of those beings? Before he could ask, Loulie hissed under her breath, “Stop talking to the bird. You’ll draw attention.”
She was right, of course. Mazen distracted himself by turning his attention to the crowds. Though some of the passengers could have passed as human, most had features that would have given a human a heart attack. Some had what appeared to be scales running down their arms and necks. Others had eyes that flickered and burned like lit braziers, or skin that glowed and blurred, mirage-like. Instinctively, Mazen drew his scarf closer around his face.
At first, he was overwhelmed by the push and pull of the crowds. His nerves built up to a suffocating pressure, tightening in his chest as the crowd bottlenecked through the gateway. But then he remembered how, back when he’d escaped the palace in Madinne, he’d yearned to lose himself in such chaos, and a familiar calm washed over him. It became easier to follow Loulie after that; all he had to do was keep his eyes on the midnight color of her robes, easily distinguishable in the vibrant crowds.
He followed her through the gate and into an alley, where she stopped to assess their surroundings. It was only then, as Mazen paused to catch his breath, that he noticed the depth of the shadows between the buildings. He looked up and, sure enough, saw that the sky had dimmed since they’d entered the city, the blue expanse darkening to a deep violet. Where the stars would have normally been, there was a strange darkness that felt portentously empty.
“What now?” Loulie said. She too was frowning up at the ominous sky.
Rijah flitted from Mazen’s shoulder, shifting in midair to stand before them in their jinn shape: wiry body, sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, black hair pulled into a tail, the familiar turquoise eyes… and now, the strange tattoo on their hand. Mazen grimaced as he beheld the mark. What did it mean that the ifrit was susceptible to this strange magic as well?
Rijah saw him looking and curled their fingers into a fist. “Now, you let me lead. I have a location in mind.” They turned sharply on their heel, promptly guiding Mazen and Loulie from one thoroughfare into another. This area was cramped, an obstacle course with crates and debris littering the ground. The view of the sky was obscured, barely visible above a tangle of crisscrossing clotheslines. A myna bird watched them intently from one of the wires.
A few turns later, they reemerged in a more spacious plaza. Or at least, that was Mazen’s initial perception. But if this was a square, it was unlike any he’d ever seen, more closely resembling lived‑in ruins than a thriving city. He was surprised to see jinn ducking through half-crumpled archways and wandering between dilapidated buildings. In the center of the square, a circle of children stood clapping and laughing around a run-down well. He startled when one of them surged out from the water with a grin, revealing a mouth of razor-sharp teeth.
“Focus,” Loulie said.
When he looked up, he saw that she had already gone on ahead, quickening her pace to catch up with Rijah’s increasingly frantic strides. Mazen hurried after her, his unease growing as they chased the ifrit past cramped buildings with splintered doors and smashed roofs. Rijah’s gaze had become unfocused, their attention flicking rapidly across the landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, Mazen saw shadows stretch across the alleys, but every time he looked up, the streets were empty. His disquiet only grew as the buildings collapsed into structures so gutted and hollow it became impossible to make out their original shape.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Loulie mumbled.
Unable to offer reassurances, all Mazen could do was nod in nervous agreement.
The two of them followed Rijah up a sloping dirt path into a clearing. When the ifrit abruptly stopped, Mazen nearly fell right into them. Hesitantly, he stepped back to survey the sight that had given them pause, and inhaled sharply when he beheld the destruction before them.
Like the plaza they’d passed through, this area was filled with ruins. But unlike the plaza, it was devoid of life. The ground here wasn’t just barren but scorched, the wreckage spotted with odd tar-black smudges. This was not a place that had fallen into decay; it had been decimated.
“No.” Rijah’s voice caught. They staggered forward, each of their steps slow and weighted. And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, they fell to their knees with a pained keening sound.
A shudder traveled up Mazen’s spine. “What is this place?”
“A place burned so deeply it’s been scarred.” It was Loulie who responded, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. Her hand hovered over her neck, where a shackle had once encircled her throat—a relic put on her by Imad, one of the villains who had burned her home to ashes.
Mazen brushed the memory of the hunter and his fiery death aside as he glanced at Rijah. The ifrit was staring up at the ruins with raw anguish on their face. “There was a settlement here before. It should have been safe. It should have…” The words broke into a choked exhale.
Mazen hesitated. He knew how it felt to have the world shatter beneath his feet. Reluctant to intrude on a misery he was clearly not meant to witness, he let his attention stray back to Loulie, who was inspecting the surrounding wreckage. He followed her to a broken pillar, where she stood frowning at an object cupped in her palms.
Mazen recognized her compass. He did not know how its magic worked, only that it could lead her to specific locations and objects. On multiple occasions, it had also guided them out of danger. He glanced at it over her shoulder. “What did you ask it to locate?”
“Sanctuary.” She watched the arrow for a few moments before wandering deeper into the ruins. Mazen spared a brief glance at Rijah, then followed her through an archway into a broken enclosure where granite walls jutted from the ground and towered like crooked gravestones. It was in the shadow of those looming ruins that Loulie abruptly paused to pat at her robes. Without explanation, she turned and shoved the compass at him.
Before Mazen could question her, she pulled Qadir’s dagger from one of the inner pockets of her robe and raised it to her eyes. “Qadir?” Her voice quavered—with hope? Or was it fear? Mazen did not know what she was looking for, but there was clearly something about the blade that was making her anxious.
He moved toward her cautiously. “Is something wrong with the dagger?”
Loulie was staring into the steel with a concentration that unnerved him. “I don’t know. It’s… humming?” A dent appeared between her brows. “I think it’s reacting to something.”
Mazen’s fingers curled over the compass. He remembered the last time its magic had hummed through his blood, the way the wood had warmed beneath his touch and the magic had poured through him with such intensity it had fogged his mind. He could see that same cloudiness descending on Loulie now as she searched their surroundings.
Mazen reached out a hand—to gently shake her, anchor her—when he saw movement above them and froze. He craned his neck to see a creature descending on them.
He pulled Loulie back so quickly she yelped in surprise and stomped on his foot. Mazen flinched, but the pain was forgotten when he saw the creature they had avoided by mere inches. It was a snake. Or at least, it looked like one. But it was the most bizarre reptile Mazen had ever seen, its body a line of misshapen knots. It reminded him of…
A rope?
He and Loulie watched the creature slither away, up one of the ruined walls, to a figure sitting cross-legged at the top. The reptile latched on to the stranger’s outstretched arm and hissed at them with an invisible mouth.
They stared at the jinn. The jinn stared back. And then she smiled.
It was a disarmingly innocent smile, very much at odds with the mischief in her slit-pupil, catlike eyes and the knife she twirled in her fingers. Mazen spotted more knives strapped to her arms and a curved scabbard at her hip. The weapons glittered eerily beneath the black cloak she wore—a garment that roiled around her like smoke.
“Salaam.” Her tone was light, conversational. “You forgot to declare your goods at the port.” The dagger stilled between her fingers. “Also, yourselves.”
Mazen had just realized she must have been following them, before she threw the rope-snake at them again. This time, he was too slow to avoid it. Desperate, he stomped on it, but the snake didn’t just look like a rope. It was a rope, and it did not seem to feel pain beneath his boot. It wrapped itself around his foot, then his ankles, binding them together. The world blurred as Mazen pitched forward. He hit the ground with a wheeze.
In the periphery of his vision, he saw Loulie back away, still clutching Qadir’s knife. The cloaked assailant jumped down from the wall and landed with unnatural grace before her. She straightened to her full height—a remarkably intimidating five feet—and lunged at Loulie.
The merchant reacted sluggishly, her knife sailing over their assailant’s head without precision. The jinn easily caught her wrist. Loulie retaliated by trying to knee her in the stomach, but her opponent easily circled her and pulled her arm above her head.
Panic beat a frenzied crescendo in Mazen’s head, but every time he tried to move, the rope grew tighter around his ankles, cutting off his circulation. As his body quaked with pain, he shaped his whimper into a plea for help.
“Rijah!”
The Shapeshifter must have heard the skirmish, because they were already approaching, the murky anguish in their eyes cut through with blue lightning. “Unhand my companions.”
The stranger tilted her head as Loulie struggled. As the jinn’s grip tightened, her nails sharpened into claws that punctured the merchant’s skin. Loulie threw herself backward with a yell. She managed to catch the jinn off guard, but by the time Loulie staggered away, the damage was already done. A thin stream of red blood trickled down her wrist.
The jinn stared from the crimson tipping her strange claws to Rijah. “Care to explain why your companion’s blood is red?”
Rijah looked imperiously down their nose at her. “No.”
At first, the jinn looked taken aback. But then, as she stared at Rijah, her surprise mellowed into something like awe. “Your eyes…”
“Captivating, I know. Captivating even on your face, I suspect.”
Rijah’s form wavered as they stepped forward. The effect was not unlike watching ripples distort a reflection on the surface of a lake. Only, after the reflection had settled, Rijah stood before them in a completely different shape. Five feet tall, rotund figure, a sharp face with jagged, stonelike features, and a mane of riotous black curls. Except for their eyes, which remained the telltale turquoise, they were a mirror image of the jinn standing before them.
As the stranger stepped back in surprise, Mazen saw his opening. He reached out, grabbed her ankle, and pulled. It was enough to unbalance her, and Rijah used the opportunity to lean down and burn the rope off his legs. The Shapeshifter hauled him roughly to his feet. “What are you waiting for? Both of you, go.”
Mazen did not have to be told twice. He tucked the compass into his satchel and spun to grab Loulie. But the merchant was no longer beside him. She had withdrawn to the edge of the fight, putting a broken wall between her and the jinn. When Mazen called to her, she didn’t react, just stood there with her knife raised. It was only then he noticed her unnatural stillness.
And then he saw a flicker of light. Blue fire, dancing across the edge of her dagger.
The ground lurched. Mazen’s breath snagged when he saw thin lines of flame spiral into existence beneath his feet. The lines flared and spread, shooting inward like the threads of a spiderweb. A spiderweb with Loulie at its center.
The force of the mysterious magic threw Mazen off his feet. By the time he’d regained his balance, the fire had risen into walls, forming a maze of smoke and heat.
And Loulie, much to his horror, had vanished into the heart of it.
3
AISHA
Aisha bint Louas was dying.
Or she would have been, had she not already been undead.
I did not know undead things had still-beating hearts, said a soft voice in the recesses of her mind. Though Aisha was loath to admit it, she was grateful for its flippant reassurances. The ifrit sharing her mind was not good company, but she was company all the same, and Aisha preferred her voice to the haunting lament of the dead souls buried beneath the desert sand.
Making a deal with death is not the same as cheating it, Aisha thought as she pressed a hand to her eyelids. The afternoon sun filled her vision with red shadows as she dragged her exhausted body past yet another godsdamned sand dune.
She could feel the smile in the Resurrectionist’s words as she responded, Indeed. But our deal did not bring you back from the dead; it saved you from it. There is a difference.
Aisha scoffed. Dying might have been easier than this aimless, torturous misadventure.
It had been three days since she’d crawled her way out of a sinking hellhole. Three days since she’d fled from the man she’d sworn revenge against. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see him: Omar bin Malik, smirking at her. She could remember the exact moment the King of the Forty Thieves—now the sultan of this country—had defeated her beneath the Sandsea.
She had not been the only one overwhelmed. The last time she’d seen Qadir, who had remained in the ruins with her, he’d been reduced to a faint, smoky figure with Omar’s blade pressed to his neck. While Aisha had been able to use the Resurrectionist’s magic to escape, Qadir had not been so lucky. And as for the other people she’d been traveling with…
Aisha shook off her concern for the missing prince and merchant to refocus on her current predicament. She had made it out of the underground ruins and onto solid ground, but now she was lost in an unfamiliar part of the desert and her exhaustion was catching up to her, blurring the strange white-colored dunes into pale smudges.
She ignored her thirst and pressed on, concentrating on the weight of her boots in the sand, the whistle of the wind in her ears—and then, horrifyingly, the burn in her legs as her knees buckled. She would have collapsed if not for her blade, which she thrust into the sand to keep herself balanced. When she stumbled, it was the desert, not the ifrit, that mocked her. The whispers of the dead were nonsense, and yet she could discern their tone.
Cold, laughing, mocking.
Aisha was too tired to block them out. She deeply regretted her decision to fight Omar’s thieves with magic borrowed from the Resurrectionist. That cursed power had kept her alive, but it had also drained her. Now she felt bereft, reduced to a mere shell of herself.
She did not know how long she stood there, eyes shut against the glaring sun, before she recognized the crunch of hooves in the sand and looked up to see a cloaked stranger riding toward her on a stallion.
The man paused feet away, sliding off his saddle and venturing forward to peer at her through his scarves. “Are you a human?” His eyes narrowed. “Or jinn?”
“Human,” she snapped in a voice raspy with disuse. She straightened—or tried to.
When she staggered, the stranger reached for her. Unthinkingly, Aisha grabbed for his hand. It was only after he’d steadied her that she realized her body had gone numb. No, that her limbs had suddenly tightened, like they’d been wound through with string.
Aisha’s body moved, but she was not the one moving it.
Such a simple thing, the ifrit mused, to push a human past their breaking point.
Aisha’s stomach sank as she tried and failed to dig her heels into the sand. When they’d made their deal to share a body, Aisha had made the Resurrectionist promise never to make her do anything against her will. She ought to have known better than to trust her.
This is your will, the Resurrectionist insisted. I am merely helping you realize it.
The stranger, unaware of Aisha’s internal struggle, released his hold on her and stepped away. He unwound his scarves to reveal a youthful, bearded face, then assessed her disheveled condition with a flinty expression. “You are traveling alone?”
If only. Moments ago, she’d been grateful for the ifrit’s presence. What a fleeting sentiment that had been.
Something softened in the stranger’s face at her sullen silence. Perhaps she was so pathetic a sight he felt sorry for her. “The gods must have led me to you, then.” He gestured skyward with a gloved hand. “Perhaps they were acting through Samira.”
Aisha glanced up. A blur of motion caught her eye: a falcon drifting above their heads.
“Samira and I were out hunting,” the stranger continued. “When she saw you from a distance, I thought you were a jinn.” His bushy brows scrunched. “And yet you—”
The falcon released a shrill cry that made them both freeze. Aisha immediately spotted the movement on the horizon that had disturbed the bird. At first, she did not know what she was looking at. Then she heard the distant whinnying of horses.
Omar? Her heart gave an involuntary lurch at the thought of facing his army again.
She relaxed only when she realized the approaching riders were not the jinn she’d fled from—not Omar’s mysterious soldiers. They were simply men, bearing crude weapons.
The hunter turned and, with a muttered prayer, reached across his saddle for a bow and quiver. “Stay here,” he said. “Whatever the dispute, I will resolve it.” He strapped on his quiver and trudged ahead, calling Samira to his leather glove with a whistle.
A palpable tension hung in the air as the hunter paused before the four riders. One of the strangers—a tall, muscled man whose features were hidden beneath his hood—spurred his horse forward. “You are of the Asfour tribe, no? We have come seeking recompense. Last night, one of your tribesmen hunted on our land without permission and shot two of our livestock. He fled before we could pursue him.” He lifted his chin. “Your tribe owes us compensation for the loss.”
The Asfour hunter stood with his back to her, but Aisha could hear the disbelief in his voice when he replied, “We know better than to disturb the peace for such a thing. Besides that, I oversaw last night’s hunt. We did not travel beyond our lands.” He inhaled slowly, calmly. “I will excuse your lies if you leave us in peace, ya sayyid. We do not want any trouble.”
Silence.
Aisha shuddered as the rider glanced toward her. A slow smile curved his lips. “Fine. Give us the woman and we will be on our way.”
Hmm, the Resurrectionist said as Aisha bristled. So, they think us a prize?
The Asfour hunter sputtered as the horseman rode past. When the villain paid no heed to his pleas, he nocked an arrow. A painfully slow moment passed as the hunter hesitated. Aisha was not foolish enough to think he would risk his life to protect her, a stranger.
She tensed as the leering rider approached. As he drew closer, something in his face changed. “You look…” Familiar was the unspoken word. Aisha saw the spark of recognition in his narrowed eyes. It dawned on her that she had a reputation—Omar’s reputation—hanging over her head and that it was possible this man had caught word of her betrayal.
But before the rider could condemn her, an arrow stopped his words. Aisha stared at the shaft protruding from his throat, at the red bubbling from his lips. The man toppled from his horse with a bloody cough. His comrades gaped in shock. The Asfour hunter looked on in horror, as if stunned by his own actions.
And then: chaos.
The second rider charged forward with a scream, blade drawn. The hunter barely managed to dive out of the way in time to avoid being skewered. His falcon took to the sky in the same moment, diving toward the third rider, who was rushing toward his dying companion.
Come. The ifrit’s voice was a hum in Aisha’s bones. Let us show them our worth.
The creature’s cursed magic overwhelmed Aisha before she could steel herself against it. It rushed through her body in a heady wave, seeping into her weakened senses until all she could hear—all she could feel—was the fading soul of the downed rider. The Resurrectionist’s magic shot out like a tether, connecting Aisha’s mind to the body. When her resolve wavered, the ifrit was there to fan the flames of her determination against Aisha’s will.
Obey me, she—they—commanded.
The third rider was too busy warding off the falcon to see the corpse shift. By the time he’d noticed, it was too late. His gasp pitched into a scream as the dead man lunged.
Bleary-eyed, Aisha searched for the fourth rider. She was too numb to feel anything but relief when she saw him fleeing back toward the dunes. Coward, she and the ifrit thought.
And then she did not have the energy to think at all. Aisha felt distinctly as if every second of the corpse’s unnatural life shaved off one of her own.
This was how it had been in the ruins when she’d fallen to Omar. She would never forget the sight of him looming above her, eyes twinkling with triumph as she struggled to breathe. At that point all the corpses she’d raised had fallen back into death, and the well of magic inside of her had run dry, leaving behind nothing but a bone-deep fatigue.
I never thought you would fight me with the magic you so despised, Aisha, Omar had said. And here I thought you were too proud to rely on a jinn’s power.
Back in the present, Aisha’s world dissolved into a blur of colors and sound. The battle blinked in and out. She saw the corpse stab his companion. The remaining rider, in his shock, left himself open to attack. By the next blink, the hunter had felled him with a barrage of arrows.
The cursed jinn magic faded to a dull throb in Aisha’s limbs. Her eyelids drooped as she sank to her knees. She was vaguely aware of the smell of iron. Blood. Her blood, on her lips.
“Ya sayyida?”
She looked up to see the nameless hunter standing above her. When their gazes locked, the concern on his face morphed into open-mouthed horror. Aisha did not have the strength to wonder why before exhaustion dimmed her senses to oblivion.
When Aisha woke, she had control of her body.
The first thing she realized was that she was lying on a bedroll. She surmised, based on the dark cloth walls surrounding her, that she was in a tent. Beside her, sitting on a low table, were a ewer and a small, chipped cup. A platter of dates rested beside it.
“You’re finally awake.”
Aisha sat up so quickly black spots burst before her eyes. She had to squint through them to make out the middle-aged woman sitting cross-legged on a cushion beside her. The stranger had a stern face and graying hair dyed brown red with henna.
“At ease,” she said. “You saved my son, and for that I owe you a debt. You are safe here.” Her gaze drifted languidly to the collar at Aisha’s throat.
Unthinkingly, Aisha set a hand to it. The band of grimacing skulls was a relic—a vessel containing a jinn’s soul and their magic. This one contained the soul of the Resurrectionist. The general populace did not realize relics were living heirlooms; they simply thought them jinn-enchanted tools. Most would not have been able to discern she possessed such an object, but her fight in the desert would have been evidence enough.
Which was why she was unsurprised when the stranger said, “You possess jinn magic.” Her voice was soft, though with caution or wonder Aisha could not tell. “There is a story we tell in these dunes. A tale about a jinn queen who can raise the dead. They say she has eyes as black as midnight and that you can see stars in them if you look closely.”
She frowned at Aisha. “My son says your eyes looked like that after the slaughter.”
Aisha flinched but said nothing. She and the stranger stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them blinking.
In the end, it was the woman who turned away first. She filled a cup and proffered it to Aisha with a sigh. “As I said before, you have nothing to fear from me.”
Aisha was too desperate to be cautious. She gulped down one cupful of water and then another and another until the ewer was empty. Before her caretaker could rise to collect more, the tent flap opened, and a man entered. Aisha recognized the hunter who had found her.
“You’re awake.” He stepped forward, and Aisha saw that he’d brought a bucket of water with him. He spoke softly as he set it down in front of her. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Your, ah, magic saved my life.”
The collar warmed against her throat. How does it feel to be someone’s savior rather than their executioner?
Aisha ignored the twinge in her chest. “A life for a life. You saved mine first.” She frowned. “You haven’t told me who you are. Or where I am.”
The woman sighed. “You ought to introduce yourself first, Aisha bint Louas.”
Aisha’s mind went blank. Instinctively, she reached for her blade, but there was nothing for her to wield, because, of course, they had confiscated her weapons. How did they know who she was? Was it the collar? Or were there already rumors? If Omar found out she was here—
“Please, uma. The least we can do is offer names.” The hunter smiled. “My name is Jaber Asfour al‑Fakhoury. I—”
“Enough, Jaber,” his mother snapped. “We are obliged to be hospitable, but the least we deserve from our guest is the truth.” She settled her pointed gaze on Aisha. “My son says you helped defeat fiends that twisted the tribal honor code. He says you used magic from afar, magic that brought dead men back to life. When he came to your aid, your eyes were black.
“He brought you back, thinking you were possessed by a jinn. But someone from our tribe recognized you as Aisha bint Louas, one of the forty thieves.”
Aisha’s heart hammered in her chest. “Who? Who recognized me?”
Jaber and his mother exchanged a look. But before either of them could speak, the tent entrance opened again, revealing another figure. Aisha blinked, but the phantom did not disappear.
The last time she’d seen this man, it had been as she and Mazen departed Madinne on the sultan’s orders. She remembered how somber he had looked, his hazel eyes downcast. Like the softhearted prince Aisha had betrayed, he’d been an obstacle standing in Omar’s path to the throne.
And yet here he now stood, alive. Hakim, the bastard prince of Madinne.
His splendid robes were gone, replaced with a beige tunic and trousers, but he looked more regal than he ever had before, with his head held high and shoulders squared. The only royal ornaments he still wore were the possession-resisting iron rings the sultan had given him.
“Salaam, bint Louas,” he said.
Aisha could not stop herself from staring. “You’re alive.”
“And so are you.” Hakim glanced between Jaber and his mother, a faint smile crinkling his eyes. “Would you mind if I spoke with her alone?”
Umm Jaber’s knees cracked as she stood. She slapped Hakim on the back, hard enough to make him stagger, and said, “Jaber will be outside if you need him.” With a brisk nod, she grabbed her wide-eyed son by the arm and pulled him out of the tent.
In their absence, Aisha eyed Hakim warily. She had never formally spoken to the second prince before. She knew only that he was a talented mapmaker who drew impossibly accurate maps of a desert he had not traveled for years.
She cleared her still-parched throat. “So, you escaped from the palace.”
Hakim settled himself on Umm Jaber’s cushion. “Indeed. Thanks to the wali of Dhyme.”
Aisha said nothing. She knew Loulie al‑Nazari had possessed some affection for Ahmed bin Walid and that Mazen had been jealous of him. But to her, the wali had been just another jinn hunter. An obstacle for Omar and, ultimately, one of the fatalities of his takeover.
“You escaped too.” Hakim’s brow furrowed. “But Mazen is not with you.”
Aisha thought of the smiling, naive prince she’d been journeying with. Omar had tasked her with leading him away from Madinne and then to his demise. She had not cared for Mazen. At least, not at first. But she would never forget the way he’d reached out to her beneath the Sandsea. He was the first person who had ever tried to understand her.
She took solace in the knowledge that he was safer than she was, hidden away in some sunken realm Omar would hopefully not be able to chase him into. When she told Hakim this, his gaze became contemplative. He frowned down at his lap and said nothing.
Aisha narrowed her eyes. “What happened in Madinne? Why did you come here?” She needed to know what her once king had done to take the city. The city he was dragging Qadir to. The city she would need to chase him to if she wanted her vengeance.
Hakim regarded her coolly. “Here is home. The Asfour tribe is my mother’s family.”
Aisha paused to consider this information. It was well known that Hakim had been taken from his mother’s tribe at a young age by the sultan. It made sense, she supposed, that his first instinct upon escaping Madinne had been to seek out the people least likely to betray him.
The mapmaker continued: “I propose a story for a story. I will tell you what transpired in Madinne if you tell me what happened to my brother.”
“Deal. On one condition.” Hakim’s eyes flashed with suspicion, but Aisha just waved a hand at him and said, “I am famished and need refreshment. Am I not a guest?”
A shadow passed over Hakim’s face, but he conceded, rising to fulfill her request. Aisha leaned back against her bedroll as he left the tent. For the first time in days, she was clearheaded enough to discern a way forward. But before she could craft a plan, she would need to tell Hakim about their journey.
She would start at the beginning, with the merchant and her bodyguard.
Neither here nor there, but long ago…
After fleeing a patricidal prince, legendary merchant Loulie al-Nazari and banished prince Mazen bin Malik find themselves in the realm of jinn. But instead of sanctuary, they find a world on the cusp of collapse.
The jinn cities, long sheltered beneath the Sandsea by the magic of its kings, are sinking. Amid the turmoil, political alliances are forming, and rebellion is on the rise. When Loulie assists a dissenter—one of her bodyguard’s old comrades—she puts herself in the center of a centuries-old war.
Trapped in a world that isn’t her own and wielding magic that belongs to a fallen king, Loulie must decide: Will she carry on someone else’s legacy or carve out her own?
The Sandsea Trilogy
The Stardust Thief
The Ashfire King
