Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (37 page)

Jinni:
JEE-nee

Jinn:
JIN

JINN CASTES

Shaitan:
shy-TAN

Djan:
JAN

Ifrit:
if-REET

Marid:
muh-RID

Aisouri:
ass-or-EE

CHARACTERS

Amir:
ah-MEER

Anso:
AN-so

Bashil:
bah-SHEEL

Calar:
cuh-LAHR

Dthar:
d-THAR

Haraja:
hah-RAH-ja

Haran:
huh-RAHN

Jordif:
JOR-diff

Leilan:
lay-LAHN

Malek:
MAL-ick

Nalia:
NAH-lee-uh

Noqril:
no-KREEL

Phara:
FARE-ah

Raif:
RAFE

Samar:
sah-MAR

Saranya:
sah-RAN-yah

Tazlim:
TAZ-leem

Touma:
TOO-mah

Umbek:
OOM-bek

Yezhud:
YEH-zhood

Zanari:
zah-NAHR-ee

WORDS IN KADA

bisahm (bee-ZAH-m)
A magical shield used to cover an area in order to prevent jinn from evanescing into it.

chiaan (chee-AHN)
The magical energy force that all jinn possess.

Dhoma (DOH-ma)
The Forgotten—a desert tribe of jinn on Earth. The jinn are from all different castes and reside in the Sahara.

evanesce / evanescence
This is the same word in English, but used differently. When jinn travel by smoke, they evanesce. The smoke itself is called evanescence.

fawzel (faw-ZEL)
Jinn who shape-shift, usually from human to bird form.

gaujuri (gow-JER-ee)
A hallucinogenic drug used in Arjinna.

gharoof (gah-ROOF)
A term of endearment for children. Translates as “little rabbit.”

hahm'alah (HAHM-ah-lah)
The magic of true names, whereby jinn can contact one another psychically.

jai (j-EYE)
A term of endearment used among family members; a
suffix, as in Nalia-jai.

Kada (KAH-dah)
The jinn language.

keftuhm (KEF-toom)
Blood waste. A term referring to male offspring of the Ghan Aisouri.

ludeen (loo-DEEN)
Tavrai homes in the Forest of Sighs; jinn tree houses.

niba (NEE-bah)
The jinn currency.

pardjinn (PAR-jin)
Someone who is half jinn, half human; seen as abomination by the jinn.

rohifsa (roe-HEEF-sah)
Jinn word for “soul mate” that translates as “song of my heart.”

sadr (s-AHD-r)
Arjinnan prayers in the jinn holy book, comparable to the Christian psalms.

Sadranishta (s-AHD-r-ahn-EESH-tah)
Jinn holy book.

salfit (SAL-feet)
A derogatory term used by the lower castes when referring to Shaitan and Ghan Aisouri jinn, who mostly reside in the mountains. Literal translation: “goat fucker.”

s'arawq (s-AR-ah-wok)
Arjinnan monsters; half cobra, half scorpion.

savri (SAH-vree)
The favorite drink of the jinn, a spicy wine with hints of cardamom.

sawala (sah-WALL-ah)
Traditional Arjinnan clothing consisting of pants and a long tunic. Worn by both males and females.

Sha'a Rho (SHAH-ah-ROE)
Ghan Aisouri martial art, with similarities to yoga, tai chi, and kung fu.

si'lah (SEE-lah)
Cannibalistic sirens found in underground water sources in Morocco.

skag (SKAG)
Insult used for any caste, male or female. Loosely
translates as “motherfucker.”

tavrai (tuh-VR-EYE)
Form of address used for members of the jinn resistance, similar to “comrade.”

voiqhif (v-wah-KEEF)
A psychic power similar to remote viewing. Very rare among the jinn.

widr (wi-DEER)
An Arjinnan tree, similar to a weeping willow. Has silver leaves.

zhifir (zh-if-EER)
An Arjinnan fiddle.

EXPRESSIONS IN KADA

Batai vita sonouq. (buh-TAI VEE-ta soh-NOOK)
My home is yours. Used when visitors come to one's home.

Faqua celique. (FAH-kwah seh-LEEK)
Only the stars know. Used when the future is uncertain.

Ghar lahim. (GHAR la-HEEM)
Nice to meet you.

Hala l'aeik. (HAH-la l-EK)
It is the will of the gods.

Hala mashinita. (HAH-la mah-shi-NEET-ah)
Gods save me.

Hala shalinta. (HAH-la SH-ah-lin-tah)
Gods forgive me.

Hif la'azi vi. (HIF la-AH-zee vee)
My heart breaks for you. Used as a condolence.

Jahal'alund. (JUH-hahl-uh-loond)
Gods be with you. Typical jinn greeting.

Kajastriya vidim. (kuh-JAH-stree-yuh vih-DEEM)
Light to the revolution. Expression used among jinn revolutionaries, as a toast or battle call.

Ma'aj yaqifla. (mah-AHJ yah-KEEF-lah)
I wash my hands of it.

Shundai. (shoon-DIE)
Thank you.

Vasalo celique. (VAH-sa-lo suh-LEEK)
Follow the stars.

Wadj kef. (WAH-DJ KEF)
Obey the blood.

ARABIC PHRASES

Alhamdulilah. (al-HAHM-doo-lee-lah)
Thank God.

Bismillah (BIZ-meel-ah)
Islamic phrase, “In the name of God”—often used colloquially before travel, for protection, and to ward off evil spirits.

habibi (ha-BEEB-ee)
darling.

hayati (hai-YAH-tee)
my life: used as a term of endearment.

Khatem l-hekma (kah-TEM l-EK-ma)
Ring of wisdom (Moroccan term referring to King Solomon's sigil).

Salam aleikum (sah-LAH-m ah-LIKE-koom)
Greeting in Arabic-speaking countries. Translates as “Peace be unto you.”

Ya Allah! (YAH ah-LAH)
Oh, my God!

Yalla habibi! (YAH-la ha-BEEB-ee)
Let's go, darling! Used among friends and strangers.

This is a book about siblings, so I must first thank mine for all their love, support, and crazy-making ways: Meghan Demetrios, Jake Dowell, and Luke Dowell. I would fight a Calar for you.

Another round of thanks to the absolutely fantastic team at Balzer + Bray and HarperCollins: you have made this whole experience great, great fun. Next, to the B+B+B trifecta: Balzer, Bray, and Bowen. Donna Bray, brilliant editor and tireless cheerleader; Alessandra Balzer, reader of blush-inducing scenes; and finally my agent, Brenda Bowen (and everyone at Sanford Greenburger) for making dreams reality. A kiss across the pond to my UK editor, Kirsten Armstrong, and to the team at Random House UK.

My betas, for letting me know what I could get away with and what needed to be cut: Kathryn Gaglione, Sarah and Brandon Roberts, Jamie Christensen, Elena McVicar, and Megan
Gallagher. My Allies: if ever I need an army, I know you're standing by with the VCFA family. And, as always, Leslie Caulfield, Jennifer Ann Mann, and Shari Becker, my writing sisterhood of awesome. Unending thanks to Zach, ever my
rohifsa
(TS&TM&EO), and all my family and friends who continue to cheer me on. Love to Becky Stradwick, Megan Shepherd, and Sarah J. Maas.

Finally, to my readers, my Blogger Caravan, and all the bloggers out there who have shown so much enthusiasm and support for my characters and their stories:
shundai.

[Fikt]shun

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Turn the page for an excerpt from

FREEDOM'S SLAVE

BOOK THREE

of the

DARK CARAVAN CYCLE

BOTTLES.

They were the only illumination in the pitch-black room. Hundreds of them, filled with jinn of every caste. Clear bottles, pulsing with the light of their prisoners' magic. Emerald, sapphire, gold, ruby: the jinn energy swirled inside, trapped.

They covered the shelves that had been carved into the lapis lazuli wall behind the throne, just one of many changes Calar had made to the palace. She had taken to calling them her court. When faced with a decision, Calar would smile, brilliant in her cold beauty, and say,
Why don't we ask my court?
She'd caress a bottle or two, speak to the miserable jinni inside it.
What do you think I should do?

From where Kesmir now stood, hidden in the shadows, he could just make out the shapes of the naked bodies stuffed into the vessels. A curved spine, head on knees, eyes closed in order to block out what was happening. It was a small miracle Calar had decided not to line the bottles with iron, the sick-making element that would have killed most of the jinn by now. She claimed she was being merciful by allowing them to keep their
chiaan,
but Kesmir knew the truth: she liked seeing them in pain. Liked making them watch what she did from the throne. It was no fun if they were dead.

Several bottles were so tiny, they could have rested in Kesmir's palm. Others were grotesque—tall, but incredibly thin, so that the
jinn inside had no choice but to stand with their arms raised above their heads. There were bottles that were so squat, they resembled discs more than vessels, and the jinn inside these looked like contortionists, their limbs held at painful, impossible angles.

They hadn't noticed Kesmir yet. He couldn't bear to see their accusing eyes. He might as well have put them in there himself. He'd often considered setting them free, but there was little good that would do. Calar would just kill them all, then find some horribly inventive way to punish her disobedient lover.

It was already too late for the prisoners whose bottles no longer emanated light. The corpses inside were slowly decaying, their spirits finally free of the bottles' confines. He'd tried to get Calar to take the dead jinn away, but she wouldn't.

They're a message,
she'd said,
to anyone who dares to defy me.

Just last night, Kesmir had been present when an Ifrit peasant begged that Calar spare his daughter's life. Begged on his knees, forehead touching the mosaic floor in deference. Sweaty skin against tiles that curled into elegant geometric stars and vines. Kesmir had been standing in his usual spot: three steps to Calar's left. The Royal Consort, His Wretchedness Kesmir Ifri'Lhas.
Royal Whore, more like,
he thought.

He faced the great hall as the sun streamed through the latticework windows and climbed the carved pillars covered with ancient Kada
scrollwork—prayers to the gods for the safekeeping of the Aisouri who were long dead. The high, vaulted ceilings were covered in mother-of-pearl mosaics made to look like the sky at dawn, when the Aisouri had once trained in their ancient martial art,
Sha'a Rho.
It was the most magnificent place Kes had ever been.
Yet in the three years since taking up residence in the palace, Calar had turned it into a slaughterhouse. The throne room stank of dark magic, fear, and blood. This day would be no exception.

“Why should I spare a traitor's life?” Calar had said. She spoke in a wine-drenched drawl, more interested in the
savri
in her hand than the agonized father at her feet.

She was toying with him. Kesmir had already seen what Calar had done to the jinni's daughter—this false hope she was dangling before him was nothing more than the amusement of a bored tyrant. He shuddered and Calar's eyes flicked to his. He gave her a small smile, the cruel one they used in their games. Only he didn't want to play the games anymore. She returned the smile and Kesmir relaxed: she hadn't noticed his revulsion. Gods, when had that happened—
revulsion
? Not so long ago his sole purpose in life had been to love her, and love her well.

“Not a traitor, My Empress. No,” the jinni had said. “A silly child in love. The boy's a Djan, yes, but not a
tavrai.
I swear it. He is still a serf—please, you can ask his overlord. My daughter is a good Ifrit.”

“What would you tell your daughter right now, if she could hear you?” Calar had said, her voice going soft.

This, Kesmir knew, was her favorite part.

The Ifrit began to cry. “I . . . I'd tell her I love her and that I will find a . . . a good Ifrit boy for her. No more Djan. A . . . a soldier from My Empress's army, perhaps.”

Calar smiled, false benevolence. She gestured to one of the bottles behind her. Inside, an Ifrit girl's mouth was open in a silent scream, palms against the glass. Her face was bruised, lips
swollen and bleeding. Like the other jinn in the bottles, she was naked. The bottle was just big enough for her to sit on her knees, her arms covering her breasts, a useless attempt at modesty. Her eyes were full of terror and shame.

The old jinni looked past Calar. Even now, Kesmir could still hear that father's precise howl of pain. It echoed in his heart and would not let him sleep at night. Not that he would have, anyway.

A sound near a far corner of the room brought Kesmir out of the memory. He gripped his scimitar, waiting. A figure in a dark cloak strode toward him, wearing a wooden mask that disguised the jinni's features—a peasant mask from the harvest celebrations, this one depicting a fox. Necessary precautions when you were trying to overthrow an empress who could read minds.

“I heard a phoenix cry tonight,” the jinni said. A male this time.

Kesmir drew closer, his hand still gripping his scimitar. “I'm surprised it still has tears,” he answered, voice soft.

It was a different jinni each time, but the same code. Kesmir suspected the jinni behind the mask was a Shaitan—he had the soft cadence of the jinn aristocracy, the perfect diction only the wealthy could afford to have.

“We've found someone who can help you,” the jinni said.

“There are many jinn who offer to ‘help' me.”

The jinni slowly lifted his index finger to the side of his mask and gently tapped twice near his temple. “This kind of help, General,” he said, his voice soft.

Impossible.
It was too much to hope for. And yet, what this jinni presumed to offer was what Kesmir's whole plan hinged on: the first step on the path to wresting his lover's hold on Arjinna was for Kes
to control his own mind, build a wall between his thoughts and her own. It would be pointless for Kesmir to overthrow Calar until he knew how to keep her in the dark, to protect his mind from being ravaged until he begged for death. Reading his mind was a pastime of hers. It used to be a way for Calar to be closer to him, but not anymore. Her mind was a weapon pointed at him as often as not. He couldn't influence her anymore, couldn't hope that her tyranny was just a phase. If he didn't depose her, someone else would. And, unlike him, they would kill her. Fool that he was, Kesmir still had hope that once she no longer had power, Calar would return to herself, to the girl she'd been when she'd rescued him long ago.

“I don't have time to waste—you've put us both at risk by setting up this meeting,” Kesmir now said to the jinni before him. Disappointment tinged his voice—he couldn't hide the desolation of yet another hope dashed. “Calar killed every Aisouri trainer during the coup. There is no one left with that knowledge.”

Gryphons, Shaitan warriors—anyone who knew how to protect the mind had been burned in the massive cauldron that now sat before the palace.

“That is what you were supposed to think,” the jinni said evenly. He took off his mask, revealing a gaunt face with too-large golden eyes and a mess of burn scars covering nearly every inch of his skin. Even so, Kesmir recognized him.

“You're dead,” he said, taking an involuntary step back. “I saw Calar set you on fire, saw her kick you off the cliff.”

“My daughter is the last living Ghan Aisouri,” Baron Ajwar Shai'Dzar said. His eyes glimmered in the wan light of the bottles. “Did you really think there was no one who wanted to keep
me alive long enough for me to see my child on the throne your imposter empress has claimed?”

“Your daughter is barred from Arjinna. The portal—”

“The gods will find a way,” Ajwar said. “She is their eyes, their voice, their sword in the darkness.”

Before Kesmir could say another word, the baron pressed a golden whistle into Kesmir's hand. “Blow this from the top of Mount Zhiqui when the sun rises.”

Without another word, Nalia Aisouri'Taifyeh's father evanesced. Golden smoke swirled around him and then he was gone, leaving behind nothing but wisps of honeyed evanescence and the whistle in Kesmir's palm.

He'd seen them on the Aisouri, when Kesmir and the others had fastened the ropes around the dead royals' necks before hanging them from the palace gate where they remained to this day.

It was how they'd contacted their gryphons.

Kesmir's eyes fell on the throne. The Ghan Aisouri dais had been replaced by one made of pure volcanic rock, a massive thing with hard edges and evil spirals that spilled around it like a demon's halo. Its smooth surface reflected the light of the bottles, and Calar's dark energy hung about it like a shroud.

His mind settled on his own daughter. What had the gods planned for
her,
this child of luckless love?

Calar wouldn't understand what Kes was doing, but it didn't matter: she'd left him no choice. The jinni who'd taken him in after he'd lost everything, who had shown him tenderness and a loyal, fierce love that brought down a kingdom, was still inside her, lurking in some forgotten corner of Calar's heart. But if he
didn't act quickly, the best parts of Calar would be gone, stamped out by her increasing dependence on dark magic, her obsessive need to kill Nalia, whether or not the portal was closed.

Kesmir was trying to overthrow the jinni he'd once loved more than anything in the worlds not because he wanted to destroy Calar, but because it was the only way to save her.