Traitor to the Throne

I raised my eyebrows at her. ‘Did you point out that Imin’s a shape-shifter and can make anything fit?’

‘You know I did.’ Shazad pulled an annoyed face. ‘It went down about as well as you would expect and now I’m down three more khalats.’

‘You’re going to run out of clothes at this rate.’

‘And when that day comes I will lead a mission to Imin’s tent to reclaim the spoils. But for now I managed to save this.’ She gestured at the white linen clinging to her perfectly. ‘And this. And I know where to reclaim this one from because you sleep four feet away from me.’

I ran my finger and thumb along the hem of the khalat she held out to me, my hand already dry in the unforgiving sun. I remembered something she’d told me once, on one of those dark nights when neither of us could sleep, and we stayed awake talking until we ran out of words or out of night. When she’d told her parents she was throwing her lot in with Ahmed, her father gave her those swords to fight the Rebellion with. Her mother gave her that khalat.

‘That’s the khalat you’re supposed to wear into Izman. When we win this war.’ If we win.

‘We’re still a long way from Izman,’ Shazad said as if she’d heard the if I didn’t voice. ‘Might as well not let it rot at the bottom of my trunk. You can wear it if you swear to me you won’t get blood on it.’

‘It’s dangerous to ask a Demdji to make a promise,’ I said. Promises were like truth-telling. They would come true. Just not in the way you might expect.

‘It’s a wedding, Amani.’ Shazad reached a hand down to help me out of the water. ‘Even you aren’t that good at getting into trouble.’

*

In Dustwalk, marriages happened fast. Most girls just dug out their best khalats, worn thin from years of sisters and mothers handing them down, and draped their sheemas over their heads to hide their faces in that uncertain time between engagement and marriage, lest a ghoul or Djinni notice a woman who belonged to no one, no longer a daughter but not yet a wife, either, and try to claim her for his own.

We didn’t have a prayer house in camp, but we’d always made do. The Holy Father had prepared the ceremony in a clear space at the edge of the sand where the ground sloped up just enough to give a good view of the whole camp below in the last of the light. The wedding began at dusk, the sun setting over the canyon. Like they always did. A time of change in the day for a moment of change in two lives.

Imin wasn’t wearing a repurposed sheema. It was a true wedding covering, made of fine cloth stitched with bright thread, and when the sun hit it, I could just see the outline of the face she had chosen through the thin yellow muslin. It wasn’t one I’d seen on her before. Imin was our best spy, staying alive by looking unremarkable. But the face she’d chosen today was stunning, and she was beaming like I’d never seen Imin smile.

Hala caught my gaze as the two of them knelt in the sand side by side. It’d been an unspoken pact between us Demdji to keep one eye on Imin after that night Navid declared his love for her. None of us had ever seen Imin’s walls drop for anyone in camp before Navid.

Imin and Hala might share a Djinni father, but by the sound of things they couldn’t have had more different mothers. Rumour had it Hala had torn her mother’s mind apart, driving her crazy on purpose because she hated the woman so much. The Rebellion had found Imin in a prison waiting for execution at the hands of the Gallan. Imin had spent sixteen years hidden in the house of grandparents who shielded their daughter’s Demdji child. Alone and lonely, but safe. Until the day Imin’s grandmother collapsed from the heat on their doorstep. Imin was otherwise alone in the house. The sixteen-year-old waited, hoping a neighbour would notice. But finally, desperate, Imin ran out to help wearing the same slender girl’s form she’d donned to fight the heat that morning. The body was too weak to drag a grown woman, though. Imin shifted into a man’s shape out in the open.

Word reached the Gallan. They killed Imin’s whole family on the same doorstep, as they tried to block the soldiers’ path.

Until Navid, Imin had treated anyone who wasn’t a Demdji with distrust. Even me, on account of how I’d thought I was human for sixteen years.

It would take the slightest misstep from Navid to send Imin back behind walls. But even Hala hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with him, and she’d been trying real hard. Anyone could see the way Navid looked at Imin. And it didn’t change no matter what body our shape-shifter wore, woman or man, Mirajin or foreign.

The Holy Father stood between Navid and Imin as they faced us, sitting in the sand, legs crossed. He recited the usual blessings for a wedding as he filled two large clay bowls with fire. He handed one to Imin and one to Navid. He spoke of how humanity was made by the First Beings out of water and earth, carved by wind, and lit with a spark of Djinni fire. He reminded us that when Princess Hawa and Attallah became the first mortals ever to wed, their fires were twinned and burned so much brighter for it. All these centuries later we still uttered the same words they had.

As he spoke we came up, one by one, the women of the camp to Imin, the men to Navid. Each of us dropped something of ours into their fire to bless the union. In Dustwalk I’d always given an empty bullet casing or a lock of hair. I didn’t have anything else to give.

For the first time in my life I had more, and I’d had to think about what I ought to give, as Shazad and I got ready. For just a second my fingers had drifted over the red sheema. The one Jin had given me in the burned-out mountain mining town of Sazi. As I closed my eyes for Shazad to press dark kohl into my lids, I could picture myself tossing it into the fire, watching the red cloth catch. It would go up in seconds. I was angry but I didn’t hate him. I’d fastened it around my waist like a sash instead, the way I always did with Shazad’s clothes.