“I know who you are,” he says.
Something about his tone causes my heart of smoke to flicker in response, and I throw my guard up. “Oh? And who, O boy of Parthenia, am I?”
He nods to himself, his eyes alight. “You’re her. You’re that jinni. Oh, gods. Oh, great bleeding gods! You’re the one who started the war!”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the jinni who betrayed that famous queen—what was her name? Roshana? She was trying to bring peace between the jinn and the humans, but you turned on her and started the Five Hundred Wars.”
I turn cold. I want him to stop, but he doesn’t.
“I’ve heard the stories,” he says. “I’ve heard the songs. They call you the Fair Betrayer, who enchanted humans with your . . .” He pauses to swallow. “Your beauty. You promised them everything, and then you ruined them.”
A thousand and one replies vie for my tongue, but I swallow them all, bury them deep, deep in my smoky heart. Was it too much to hope, Habiba, that five hundred years would be enough to bury the past? They sing songs of us, old friend. This boy, in his rags and poverty, knows who I am, knows who you were, knows what I did to you. And how can I deny it? Beneath our feet, the ruins of your city lie. He saw them with his own eyes. And why should I hide who I truly am? The Fair Betrayer. The name fits. I add it to the long list of other names I have collected over the years like flotsam in my wake, many of them far less flattering.
Letting out a long breath, I shrug one shoulder. “So what now? Will you toss me away? Bury me again?”
He laughs, a cold, sharp laugh. “Throw you away? When you can grant me three wishes? Would I throw away a bag of gold just because I found it in a pile of dung?” He winces. “I didn’t mean . . . It’s just all so . . . I need to think.”
I watch as he paces in a tight circle, his hands raking his hair over and over, until it nearly stands on end. When he finally stops, I feel dizzy just from watching him. I’d nearly forgotten how frenzied you humans are, always bouncing here and there, like bees drunk on nectar. And this boy is wilder than most, his energy radiating outward, warming the air around him.
He seems to arrive at some conclusion at last, because he stops his mad pacing and faces me squarely, his jaw hardening in resolution. I have to bend my head back a little to meet his gaze.
“So. Three wishes. Anything I want?”
“Anything in this world, if you’re willing to pay the price.”
His eyes narrow. “Tell me about this price.”
With a sigh, I conjure a small flame in my hand and let it dance across my fingers, like a charlatan’s coin. “Every wish has a price, O Master. Seldom do you—or I—know what that price is, until it has already been paid. Perhaps you’ll wish for great wealth, only to find it stolen away by thieves. Perhaps you’ll wish for a mighty dragon to carry you through the sky, only to be devoured by it when you land. Wishes have a way of twisting themselves, and there is nothing more dangerous than getting your heart’s desire. The question is, are you willing to gamble? How much are you willing to lose? What are you willing to risk everything for?”
At that, his eyes harden, and I see that he knows exactly what he wants. He turns and begins walking, his steps sliding in the sand. I follow behind, my eyes on his tattered cloak as it snaps in the wind that whips across the dunes. As I wait for him to reply, I pass my little flame from hand to hand.
“You destroyed a monarchy once,” he says after a moment, his voice low and dangerous, a dark current beneath a still sea. “I want you to help me do it again.”
I close my fingers, my flame disappearing in a puff of smoke. “So. You’re some kind of revolutionary, then?”
Again with that short, bitter laugh. He keeps walking, his words carried over his shoulder by the wind. “A revolution of one, that’s me.”
“Very well.” I run ahead of him, turning and walking backward so that I can look him in the eye. “What is your first wish, Master?”
“Well, to begin with, stop calling me Master, as if I were some kind of godless slaver. I have a name.”
Names are dangerous. They’re personal. And the last time I got personal with a human, it ended badly. The evidence is buried just a few spans beneath my feet.
“I don’t care to know it.” Better that way.
“If I tell you my name,” he says, “you must tell me yours.”
I stop walking. “I don’t have a name.”
He stops beside me, watching me with his head cocked a bit, like a chess player waiting for me to make a move. “I don’t believe you.”
How can one so mortal be so positively infuriating? “Don’t your songs mention my name?”
His lips slide into a half grin, and he resumes walking, the wind blowing his hair across his face. “Not any you’d like to hear, I think.”