The Candle and the Flame: "A State of Becoming"–Chapter 16

He spots the formidable woman immediately, standing in the middle of the room, berating a young boy who shares more than a few facial features with her.

He spots the formidable woman immediately, standing in the middle of the room, berating a young boy who shares more than a few facial features with her.

"Mind your tone, Emir. You're still a child." The reprimand is immediate.

She crosses bridges, cuts through gardens and courtyards until she has left the verdant streets of Southern Noor behind.

The names glint, and upon a closer look, Fatima realizes that hundreds of gold tensile strings extend from the names and appear to shape the Ifrit who are no longer shadowy outlines but man-shaped smokeless fire.

The soldiers' eyes widen, and they look down in deference.

After a minute of looking suspiciously at the horse, she acquiesces to riding in front of Zulfikar.

He hates feeling helpless, so disregarding all bounds of propriety, he pulls her into his arms and accepts her fire into himself.

Zulfikar wonders, with some panic, if he has leaped blindly off a precipice.

Aarush sits in the throne room, a grand hall with lavishly appointed seats for the maharajah and the maharani at the front, divans on the sides for the royal family, their relatives, and favored courtiers, and space in front for the masses to stand while waiting to supplicate the maharajah for whatever boon they seek.

The final supplicant has just left, and Aarush is eager to escape the entirely overwhelming room.

“No Ifrit woman has ever manifested here before," Aarush muses out loud.

The landowner seems to realize he has made a gaffe.

In the end, all he can do is tell her again to be careful before muttering a brusque goodbye and riding away.

She looks at the woman who opened the door, notes the shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her face.

Zulfikar looks at the Wazir and sees a brief expression of unadulterated rage on the older Ifrit's face.

He remembers what he was taught before he assumed the position of Emir: He cannot evince any fear or panic to anyone, human or otherwise.

The Wazir's jaw tightens, and he opens his mouth, presumably to argue.
Zulfikar preempts the older Ifrit's protest: "You do realize that Fatima Ghazala is not a reincarnation of Ghazala."

Buckets filled with different flowers—from the decadent saffron to the fragrant gardenia—fill the top of one cupboard.

"You are behaving strangely."
"Because I am hungry?" Fatima Ghazala looks away from her friend's too-perceptive eyes and makes an attempt at levity.

Fatima Ghazala lifts a shoulder, feigning nonchalance.

Even Jayanti Bua has a smile on her usually dour face.

Plus, Maya has just offered her an escape from the disgustingly saccharine atmosphere pervading the gathering.

His action is so at odds with the concern in his voice that Fatima Ghazala is nonplussed.

He has an inscrutable expression on his face.

I was young when our people first came to earth, a fledgling soldier, so I wasn't allowed to even entertain ideas of crossing over.

The scent of jasmine is heavy in the air, cloying in its intensity.

All mirth suddenly leaves his sister's face, and she slumps in her chair.

A few minutes later, a maid shows in Aarush's much- beleaguered advisor, Janab Jamshid.

"I apologize for calling you in your time of repose," the Emir says, his voice sounding even more formal than usual.

Zulfikar is acquainted with worry: how it worms itself into all your thoughts and flavors all your actions. He knows the ponderousness that accompanies fear: when a slew of misgivings paint the future red.

He knows the ponderousness that accompanies fear: when a slew of misgivings paint the future red.

She takes one look at him, her jaw drops open, and she slams the door shut. Zulfikar stares at the door, affronted.

"Fatima, don't interrupt your elders."
Chastened, Fatima Ghazala lowers her head in apology and disappears.

"I understand your concern, sayyid, sayyida," he says in a conciliatory tone, "but I cannot divulge the reason why it is dangerous for Fatima Ghazala to remain here."

"You remove me from the only home I know and pretend as if your word is law. Of course you are imperious," she replies stiffly.

The girl is willowy with dusky skin that shines with youth and vigor. She moves with a grace that reminds Aarush of a gazelle he saw once while on a hunt in the jungles of Asur.

Following the companions into the room, Fatima Ghazala feels overwhelmed by the luxury of Southern Aftab. It is far more ostentatious than Northern Aftab, which, though richly decorated, lacks the vibrance of Southern Aftab.

"We must change your clothes...you probably do not have any clothes befitting one of my companions," the maharani says without rancor.

As the night cannot withstand the day, the Shayateen cannot withstand the Ifrit. They are chaos; we are order. Their affinity for chaos is not what makes them evil, mind.