Aladdin Fan Fiction ❯ Antiphony ❯ Chapter 16 ( Chapter 16 )

Chapter 16

 

She was suddenly up to her waist in freezing water once again and quickly sinking. This was no fanciful room in a palace; she had one moment to glance around at the endless waves of the ocean before she went completely under, dragged downward by some unseen force.

 

Breath escaped her lungs under the pressure of icy currents and the growing darkness. She fought not to panic as she reminded herself that she could not be physically harmed.

 

It was unsurprising when she found that the first involuntary gasp for breath she took was not a lungful of seawater, but of cold, crisp air. There was only one person who could be waiting for her in such a place. She fleetingly wondered how many of her enemies she would be meeting through the Mirror.

 

“Why, so nice of you to drop by, Princess. How has your trip through the sand been? A little rougher than water, I expect?”

 

The darkness lit up in a soft yellow glow, sending a ripple of déjà vu through her. She half-expected the slimy feel of tentacles to encircle her limbs, but found that she was alone with the mermaid this time. The elemental propelled herself with minimal effort toward her. She looked the same as ever—vivid red hair crowned with a gold tiara, clad in a form-fitting orange top that blended into her tail, dainty facial features enhanced with apparently water-proof cosmetics.

 

Jasmine said nothing, knowing this was only the start of another of the Mirror's twisted scenarios. Perhaps it would be best not to respond at all to the inevitable taunts and mind games. She had let her emotions take over in the last scene, and the pain of the massive memory loss was only too fresh. So she forced herself to stay calm and silent, and returned the elemental's curious gaze without expression.

 

“Catfish got your tongue? Where are the petulant demands to be let free, the futile threats?” Saleen raised a fine eyebrow. “Well, silence does look good on you.”

 

She languidly fanned out her tail and swam in a slow circle around her. “Acting like I don't exist won't help you get out of this any quicker, just to let you know. There are some…issues that need to be hammered out, and we have all the time in the world.” She made a show of inspecting her neatly polished nails. “So why don't we begin, Princess?”

 

“Begin what?” Jasmine finally spoke. “Another one of your failed attemp—”

 

“Let's start with this attitude of yours,” the mermaid cut in. “What was that you were about to say? Another insult from the long list of overused hero lines? Spare me.”

 

Saleen floated idly in front of her, reaching forward to brush a stray strand of hair back from Jasmine's face. She flinched away, and the mermaid lowered her hand with a resigned sigh. “Oh Princess, don't you know how frazzled you look right now? I'm only trying to help you. Proper grooming is essential for relieving stress.”

 

It was unnerving that the Mirror's representations of Raeven and Saleen were so true to life. She then remembered that the Mirror held all of history within its sands; it shouldn't have come as a surprise that it could create such accurate portrayals of any person alive or dead.

 

“I have to admit you were pretty clever in weaseling your way out of lover boy's suspicions last time. The helpless princess routine always works, doesn't it?”

 

“There was nothing to suspect,” Jasmine said coldly. “It wasn't my fault.”

 

“Of course, nothing's ever your fault,” Saleen said nonchalantly. Jasmine felt a chill as the voice of the mermaid seemed to waver for a split-second, revealing the true entity behind the taunts and airy gestures.

 

The elemental smiled, a pristine mask sliding seamlessly over her features once again. “What can I say, digging up dirt on land dwellers is a hobby of mine. A taste of your own medicine, so to speak.”

 

With a wave of her hand, the water before them began to swirl and shimmer. Jasmine tensed, expecting to see a dreadful repeat of what had happened in Desrial. Why did she have to be continually haunted by that scene?

 

“Although I can't imagine how street rats can get any dirtier than they already are,” the mermaid added sweetly.

 

The water cleared into an image of city streets. Agrabah. Jasmine frowned, throwing a questioning glance at Saleen, but the mermaid only nodded with a self-satisfied smirk toward the moving image. The scene was weirdly distorted as if through a pane of glass. Then she realized that the vantage point Saleen had created had to be a body of liquid of some sort, perhaps a pool or a barrel, or even a glass bottle.

 

Peering more closely at the scene, she recognized the place from her trips through the city. It was night, and the area seemed to be lit with faint red and violet smoke, but she could see no lanterns or flame. Menacing, shadowy figures leaned quietly against crumbling walls, and she saw the gleam of blades in their hands as they surveyed the surrounding alleys, seeming to expect violence like a familiar visitor. There were other shadows as well, lithe feminine forms clad in hardly anything more than the smoke that swirled around their bodies, sauntering slowly about the streets, beckoning to strangers who had come here for an obvious purpose. Jasmine was looking at the sordid underbelly of the city, where her father's laws were broken as easily as brittle straws. The merchants who owned the brothels and hashish dens here were powerful and dangerous, and hired their own guards to maintain their idea of order and justice. Razoul's men never entered these streets.

 

Jasmine suddenly dreaded the mermaid's—no, the Mirror's—purpose in showing her this. She had only been to that part of the city a handful of times, and only in passing as she traveled hastily toward other destinations. But Aladdin…she realized she had no idea how familiar he might be with this place.

 

Her lack of control over everything in this Mirror was finally getting to her. She couldn't choose what to see, when to stop, or what memories to lose. Couldn't choose to rest and recalibrate her senses, to sit down and think about all she had seen and what might have been taken away from her already. She had no time to question all the accusations it was throwing at her about her personality, her flaws, her sins, and whether they were true. She was just being tugged helplessly along in a backward-flowing sandstorm into the past, with no knowledge of why the Mirror even existed, what it was aiming to accomplish by impersonating her enemies, and what the purpose of this foreboding scene was.

 

By nature you are needy for control. I imagine it has been very difficult for you to feel like it is slipping away…

 

Mozenrath's words had never sounded truer.

 

Absurdly, she wished that he were here again to break Saleen's power over her, to dispel the image of dark, smoky streets that reeked of her kingdom's shame. But she was alone, and she could not choose to stop the scene from continuing.

 

She could not choose to end it before she saw Aladdin's face among the scattered wanderers in that cradle of filth.

 

No…

 

Not there. He shouldn't be there. What is he doing there?!

 

Her hands flew to her face, instinctively blocking out the sight, even though the simple reflex of shutting her eyes would have done just the same. But it was in the nature of all people to put as many barriers between themselves and the unpleasant things they could not bring themselves to face. For all her assertions of courage and defiance of the Mirror's fear tactics, she was no exception.

 

She stopped short of shutting out the sight completely. It was also part of human nature to seek out the truth, even if it would rip her heart to shreds.

 

She watched as he moved with as much stealth and grace as he always did, confident ease coupled with lightning reflex held in check, casting infinitesimal glances casually at his surroundings as if he had something to hide. He was carrying something valuable on his person, that much she could tell.

 

He walked up to a curtained doorway surrounded by tall muscled men who would think nothing of slashing a street rat's throat and taking whatever treasure he had managed to pilfer from some unsuspecting patrician. But they did not move as he approached. The one nearest to the door simply drew back the beaded curtain to let him inside. She caught a full glimpse of Aladdin's face as he looked over his shoulder one last time in wariness.

 

And she let out a slight breath of relief. This was a scene from the past, before they had met. His face was younger; he was sixteen, perhaps. Seventeen at most.

 

She calmed herself. Perhaps her fears were unfounded. Perhaps he was here to deliver a treasure in secret to some lord who did not want to be seen by official city guards. Perhaps he had been forced to serve one of the unsavory merchants who owned this quarter, his exceptional skill at thievery and espionage having caught their attention.

 

“Those are fair conjectures. But your desperation has made you forgetful,” Saleen murmured, smiling wickedly as Jasmine realized the Mirror could read her mind. “I'm the one who picked this scene to show you. Why would I choose something so unexciting, so—typical—of your diamond-in-the-rough hero? Why not something more…provocative?”

 

The mermaid's taunt threw her back into a whirl of fear and dread. Aladdin was a diamond in the rough, pure of heart, pure in his love for her. He didn't belong in such a wretched scene, walking purposely into a den of prostitutes and drug lords.

 

“You mean he couldn't belong with any woman before you, hm?” Saleen purred. “Think again, Princess.”

 

The window in the water blurred, revealing a dimly lit, hazy room tinted mauve by the new vantage point of a wine goblet. A raw sense of intimacy exuded from the low ceiling and lush carpet, muffling the sound of footsteps and voices. There was a spacious bed concealed on each side by long gossamer curtains that glittered in shades of amethyst and rose. The faint outline of a reclining figure was visible behind the gauzy drapes.

 

Aladdin moved forward hesitantly, his natural confidence seeming to falter in the intoxicating aura of this room, and drew back the long curtain at the foot of the bed.

 

The first spike went through Jasmine's heart with alarming precision. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful. Her flawless face was a mesmerizing blend of delicacy and sharpness, her long-lashed eyes questioning the poor street boy who had come to visit. Her lower body was covered in a brightly colored sarong, and her torso was wrapped loosely in a light saffron shawl. Stretching her legs languorously across the sheets, she tilted her head at him, but Jasmine saw through her feigned curiosity.

 

Of course, a woman who made a living off her body used her beauty as a weapon. Her eyes held the look of a masterful actress, every gesture and facial expression part of a ruse to entice her visitors. She must have used such a mask to please many wealthy clients in order to afford her luxurious living quarters. But she shouldn't have needed to stage an act in front of a penniless street rat unless he had something of value for her.

 

Jasmine saw that her earlier conjecture was correct. He drew out a small object from his vest and extended it toward the woman with an open palm. It was a gold bracelet inlaid with rubies, obviously of great value. It might have meant a year's worth of food and basic necessities for him. And here he was, giving it away to a whore.

 

As the second spike struck her heart, she realized how difficult it was to breathe, and it had nothing to do with the water. Aladdin had been truly enraptured by this woman. She was dangerously beautiful and might have had the power to make a street boy feel like a prince, but in reality she was just a whore, on par with the thieves and thugs that roamed the streets of this part of Agrabah.

 

But Aladdin was a thief, a street rat. In actuality he wasn't stepping above his station, no matter how refined and wealthy this woman appeared. Street rats stole and lied to make ends meet. Women like her sold their bodies and manipulated naïve hearts.

 

You really think they're innocent?

 

Mozenrath's words echoed through her head as the woman smiled with a veneer of warmth and accepted the glittering bracelet from the calloused hands of a street rat. A street rat who would later win the heart of a princess, a woman born into royalty and riches a commoner could never hope to attain…a woman who had never thought to question his past outside of the hardships he must have faced growing up on the streets. A woman who had waited chastely for a man who would be worthy of her. Her naiveté was killing her slowly now, shattering her long-held trust in him, her image of him as a man of virtue.

 

The woman slipped the bracelet on one dainty wrist and admired it with feigned awe and concealed contempt at the boy's foolishness, twirling it idly with her fingers as if completely unaware of the painstaking process he must have undergone to acquire it. He must have said something then, because she turned her attention toward him once again, her smile seeming to lose its warmth as she beckoned him with a lazy gesture of her hand. At the sight of her fiancé moving across the bed of another woman, the third spear sliced cleanly through the last of Jasmine's fraying heartstrings.

 

“Stop,” Jasmine whispered, not able to feel her tears in the ocean that surrounded her. “Saleen, stop.”

 

“My my, the standards for heroes are quite lax these days, aren't they?” Saleen said, ignoring her plea. “My impression was that princes were supposed to dally with princesses only? Oh, that's right. Aladdin isn't a prince. I guess street rats can't really be blamed for crawling around with their own kind, can they?”

 

Jasmine shut her eyes, refusing to see any more of the scene, having witnessed enough of a truth she had never considered before. But what had she expected? That all his life he'd been waiting for the day a princess would walk across his path and he'd become the kingdom's hero?

 

“How does it feel, Princess,” the mermaid said in a soft, menacing tone, “to finally be on the receiving end of a little secret keeping?”

 

Her heart was still beating even though she thought it lay in ribbons. And her lungs still drew in air even though she thought she would suffocate. She was still alive, and she would still live beyond this.

 

But would it ever be the same between her and Aladdin? Could she ever look at him and see the same pure-hearted hero who'd swept her off her feet?

 

He hadn't really lied, she tried to justify weakly. He just hadn't told her the most salient details of his past. How could he even have begun to broach the subject with her? This wasn't something anyone would be willing to share with their fiancé. But in her gut she felt there was no justification he could offer for this ugly picture of his past. He hadn't betrayed her, because he hadn't even known her yet, but…he had broken something between them with this stain on his character.

 

She thought about how flirtatious he had tended to be with other women even after they had met. How he had blown kisses to a balcony of dancer girls during his grand, magic-filled parade through Agrabah, even though his heart was supposedly set on her. How he had ended up in Sadira's brainwashing trap because he had willingly followed her to her home. And how he had so easily turned on the charm with Saleen herself, even though it had been part of the plan to free Jasmine from her watery prison. The signs had been blatantly obvious. If he acted that way when he was committed to be married, what had he been like when he was alone?

 

But she could not imagine Aladdin stooping so low as to exchange gold for purely physical pleasure. The thought that immediately followed struck another blow to her heart. What if he really had loved the woman; what if he'd been as committed to her as he was to Jasmine? Had he been so deeply and foolishly in love that he'd bought into her seasoned acting? He had been young at the time. People made mistakes when they were young.

 

She clung desperately to the thought that at least he had been faithful to her since they had met, no matter what his past had been like. Though at times he flirted and his eyes wandered, he hadn't done anything wrong. He had proven his love for her countless times through danger of death.

 

Her mind was a whirlwind of thought and emotion that she could not sort out. She held onto the one anchoring assertion that she had to stand firm against the Mirror's attempts to break her. Her emotions were pulling her in a dozen directions, but she could not fall.

 

So she opened her eyes against the pain of betrayal, jealousy, anger, hurt, and helpless dread at the knowledge that things would never again be the same between her and the man she loved. And she saw that the water before her was dark and empty.

 

“Is it really that shocking?” Saleen questioned with amusement. “I thought you knew there were others before you. Didn't he tell you on that sunny day on the beach when you first had the pleasure of stumbling into my water?”

 

The mermaid's words stirred up an old memory that had once seemed insignificant. Jasmine remembered that conversation. She had asked him if he had seen other women before her, and he'd responded nonchalantly that there had been many. Though it had bothered her, she had forgotten about it in the ensuing havoc of falling into Saleen's water.

 

“This is the most speechless I've seen you, Princess,” the mermaid remarked. “Where are the threats, the self-righteous vows? Wizard boy didn't turn you into a Mamluk, did he?”

 

At the mention of Mozenrath, she forced her thoughts away from Aladdin and to the scene that awaited her next. If she could just concentrate on her purpose here, then she would be able to make it through. If she allowed herself to agonize over the past and her own pain, she would never get out of this Mirror before going mad.

 

The elemental looked surprised at the calmness of her voice when she finally spoke.

 

“The damage has been done,” Jasmine said softly. “Let me go.”

 

A sly smile appeared easily on the mermaid's face. For a jarring moment Jasmine saw the crazed grin of a little girl with black soil cupped in her dainty hands, watching her with malicious glee. She blinked and the flickering illusion was gone, but the chill in her blood remained.

 

“Very well,” Saleen said evenly. “Although as you might expect…things are just going to get dirtier from here.” She winked and tapped a neatly manicured finger against Jasmine's temple. “Have fun in the sand, dear. Give my regards to your handsome sorcerer.”

 

The water began to churn and lighten into the color of sand, its texture transforming from cold and wet to coarse and dry. She kept her thoughts on Mozenrath, the fact that she was one step closer to discovering his ultimate plan every time she persevered through the Mirror's torment.

 

He was the reason for her suffering, the greatest suffering she had ever experienced in her pampered life. Suffering that she willingly accepted because she needed to defeat him. But then there was the unsettling voice at the back of her head, now seizing the chance in her confusion to whisper a thought through the barrier she had built around it. She wasn't here only to defeat him; that goal had blurred at the edges long ago, when she had decided to risk her life to obtain the Mirror.

 

Obsessed.

 

She clamped down on that voice once again and shut it away tightly, refusing to continue that train of thought. To her relief, her rapidly changing surroundings were enough to occupy her attention. The sand enveloping her vision darkened to black as it receded from her face, settling into solid ground beneath her feet, its midnight shade spreading outward all around her into the distance as far as she could see. The sky was as dark as night, but it was strangely warm, not freezing cold like the Agrabanian desert. She was alone in the vast emptiness of these dunes, a sallow moon hanging overhead. Shielding her eyes from it, she was surprised at its unusual intensity and…heat? She could feel the familiar rays of the sun tingling her skin, but there was no blazing light to accompany them. And then she realized that what appeared to be the moon suspended in its sickly pallor in the sky was actually the sun, its brilliant golden glow asphyxiated by the oppressive darkness that pervaded this place.

 

A bone-chilling, unearthly howl forced out the remnants of pained confusion from her mind. It was disturbingly close. She immediately tensed, crouching in a defensive stance, her eyes darting around to find the source of the vile sound. And then she heard another, even closer, overlapping with the first. There was more than one creature nearby.

 

The shrill scream of a young girl split the air, followed by the quick, choking breaths of someone running on her last bit of energy. Jasmine ran up the high dune in front of her, not caring for danger or terror, knowing she could not be harmed or seen. In despair she realized she could not help the girl, either.

 

At the top of the dune she looked down and saw a flash of flaxen hair and a silver cloak against the blackness of the sand, the young princess stumbling haphazardly toward the slope as three sleek shadowy shapes bounded after her, still a distance away but closing fast. As they let loose another chorus of deathly howls, she saw what they were by the shine of the razor sharp teeth in their gaping mouths. Undead hounds. Destane did keep man-eating dogs after all.

 

But they were far from normal canines. Their bodies were frighteningly disproportionate, the front part of their bodies monstrously muscular, with nearly fleshless skulls for heads, their sunken red eyes flaring as they tracked their prey. But the rear of their bodies seemed to taper off into smoke, their hind legs flickering in and out of the air, hardly touching the ground as they barreled forward mostly on the strength of their front legs. Their feet ended in elongated claws that visibly gleamed even from a distance, and Jasmine imagined for a terrifying moment the fate of those who were caught by one of these monsters.

 

Laila was going to meet that fate in another three seconds. Jasmine wrenched her eyes away as the girl screamed one last time before hitting the sand with a dull thud.

 

Without warning, the triumphant howls of the hounds suddenly became angry snarls and pained whimpers.

 

A breath of relief escaped her lips at the sight of Laila lying whole and unharmed in the sand. The hounds had surrounded her on three sides but were keeping a healthy distance, their crimson eyes narrowing at the dark figure that had appeared in front of the young princess. Their rear legs solidified as they took several steps backward, sizing up the intruder with whatever senses undead creatures had.

 

There was a brilliant flash as three circles of white light lit up the ground beneath each of the beasts, black sand exploding around their malformed bodies. Currents of light shot upward from the rings encircling them, and the forms of the creatures began to flicker and fade along with their howls of protest and rage. In another second the light died down, the glowing circles slowly disappearing from the sand. The monsters were nowhere to be seen.

 

The tall figure that had cast the spell lowered his hand and whirled around, glaring down at the fallen princess who was just regaining full consciousness. He drew back the hood of his gray cloak with a brisk flick of the fingers, revealing an older, obviously irritated Mozenrath.

 

“What were you thinking, you fool? You should know by now that you can't escape. Have you cracked completely?” he gritted out, towering over Laila's trembling form. He did not offer a hand to help her up. “Never mind. I think the answer is quite apparent.”

 

Jasmine walked down the slope to see them better. Laila was sitting upright now, her thin arms curled around her knees, one of the sleeves of her silver cloak having torn off in her flight. She rocked back and forth, babbling incoherently, obviously still shaken by her near-death experience. Perhaps she really had gone mad. The poor girl had shown signs of instability since the day she had arrived at the Citadel.

 

“He's going to…he told her that…he wanted…she said…not enough…not enough!” she blurted out, her hands now clutching the mess of golden hair atop her head. “Don't let her take me!”

 

Mozenrath's face was a mask of utter contempt as he knelt down to her face level and stared into her bloodshot eyes. “What are you babbling about? Who said what?”

 

“Power. Power is in the souls. The souls, you understand, you dimwitted fool!” she shouted viciously in a voice not quite her own. In the next second she receded into the trembling tone of a young girl lost in her own madness. “I can't…I can't let…”

 

The slap he delivered to her face rang crisply in the dead night air. Jasmine bristled angrily at his callousness. He must have cast some sort of silencing spell as well, because Laila abruptly stopped whimpering.

 

“Get a hold of yourself,” he said coldly. “Before I change my mind and let the hounds have you.”

 

He grabbed her by the forearms and roughly drew her to stand upright with him, still staring into her eyes and forcing her gaze to be still under some kind of magic. Jasmine could see the faint shudders in her jaw as she strained to move against the spell.

 

“What have you been hearing? Just the voices of madness that have taken up residence in your mind? Or is there something important I need to know?”

 

She was freed from the silencing spell temporarily, and sound poured forth once again from her cracked, bleeding lips. “He's after our souls,” she said in a surprisingly lucid voice.

 

Mozenrath stopped her before she could continue. “You're talking about Destane. Right?” He gave her a violent shake as she began to chatter uselessly once again. “Right? You've heard Destane talking with someone.”

 

She nodded, tears flowing down her once full and rosy cheeks, now reduced to gaunt, pallid flesh.

 

“And it's a she,” Mozenrath said, frowning. “What do they say? What about souls?”

“All of them. She wants…” she said, her voice cracking in a sob. “Run. Run before he can take it…”

 

Mozenrath growled in frustration as he tried to make sense of her muttering. “She wants all of them? Whose? And why is he giving them to her?”

 

“Power is in the souls,” she echoed, forced to keep staring into Mozenrath's unfaltering gaze.

 

He seemed to understand then, nodding slowly as he digested her reply. “The prisoners…” he mused under his breath. “Makes sense.”

 

He turned his attention back toward her. “He wants ours as well? Me, you? Xerxes, Raniye?”

 

“You,” she said softly. “You're last.”

 

His hard gaze faltered at her ominous words, and he released her arms slowly. “Do you know what kind of power it is?”

 

“Power is in the souls.”

 

Apparently deciding he would get no more useful information out of her, he turned away and broke the restraining spell, letting her collapse once again into the sand. In the distance Jasmine heard howling once more. She wondered how many monsters roamed this land. Perhaps she should consider herself lucky that she and Aladdin had never encountered anything other than Mamluks during their visits.

 

Jasmine was transported instantaneously back to the Citadel with them as Mozenrath cast another spell. Her surroundings materialized within a second, and she saw that they were in a bedroom. It was Laila's, from the look of the clothing strewn haphazardly around the floor and under chairs, across the bed and on top of an overturned dresser. She had apparently made a mess of things before her futile attempt to escape. Mozenrath grabbed her by the arms again and unceremoniously dumped her onto the bed, roughly shoving her legs onto the mattress as they carelessly slid over the edge toward the floor. With a curt gesture of his hand, the princess was covered in a blanket, her head resting against a large pillow.

 

“If you try to escape again, I'm not going to save you. Now sleep,” he ordered.

 

“I'll dream of them…”she whimpered, tears still coursing down her face.

 

Scowling, he raised one hand reluctantly—his right, Jasmine noticed, which he always seemed to use for spells—and passed it over the girl's frightened blue eyes. The tense muscles in her face relaxed, and she closed her eyes without another word.

 

Letting out a long breath of exasperation, Mozenrath briskly drew his arm in an arc of dark fire and transported himself and Jasmine out of the room.

 

They arrived in the vast library of the Citadel. She barely had time to wonder exactly what Laila had revealed when she remembered that Eberzin had said something about the power of souls. They were the power source of Mozenrath's gauntlet. But it had originally been Destane's…

 

“Welcome back,” a female voice said.

 

Mozenrath strode toward the table where the dark-haired princess was seated, clad in a black dress similar to what she had worn when Jasmine had first seen her. She did not look up from the thick book she was reading. Getting a closer look at the older girl, Jasmine found she was even lovelier now that she had matured several years. But the hollowness in her long-lashed eyes revealed that no amount of outward beauty could compensate for what she had lost inside. Her gaze was empty as she finally met Mozenrath's arrogant stare.

 

“I found only one source that might yield more information about the Book's whereabouts. The ruins of the Archive of Haroul,” she said, her voice ingrained with a deep weariness. “But that's a far journey from here. I don't know how you could convince Destane to let you go.”

 

Mozenrath began to pace the floor in front of the table restlessly. “Xerxes and I searched those ruins when he sent us to capture the wraith hawks. There is nothing there but rubble; it has been ransacked of all value over the centuries.”

 

He stopped and looked at her critically. “Nothing else? You could find nothing else in this massive library about it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Keep looking,” he said curtly. “There's got to be something here. Try the tomes on Athirian mythology. Let me know tomorrow if those show any potential.”

 

“I've looked through them already, Mozenrath,” Raniye said tiredly. “Even if you do find the Book, you have no knowledge of how to harness its power. I think you should consider another route.”

 

“I might just do that, actually,” he said with unexpected ease. Raniye raised an eyebrow. “Our resident empath disclosed some interesting information to me just now. Seems that a near-death experience is needed to wrench anything useful out of the jumbled mess of her mind.”

 

His words made Jasmine pause. After Jafar's betrayal, her father had begun employing empaths among his personal guard, as their uncanny sensitivity to others' thoughts and emotions allowed them to screen for potential traitors. But such people were rare and more than often mentally unstable from the continuous overexposure of their minds to outside forces.

 

“What did she say?” Raniye asked.

 

“Destane's been conversing with some kind of spirit about power. A female spirit that wants souls. My conjecture is it's one of those classic deals: power in exchange for souls. Not his own, of course; I think he's using the prisoners. I knew he was up to something when he started killing them himself instead of having me do it,” Mozenrath said as he began to pace again, his loose gray robes swirling about his thin frame. “And she said I'd be last.”

 

“If he's saving you for last, then he'll probably kill all of us first. When is he planning to do it?” Strangely, there was no trace of fear in her voice.

 

Mozenrath eyed her warily. “I don't know. I have to find out what kind of power it is first.”

 

“There's a lot you have to find out. What kind of being he's made this deal with. How many souls he requires. How much time we have left before he kills—”

 

He interrupted her with a dismissive snort. “As if I'd let that happen.”

 

“Do you have a plan to stop him?” she asked.

 

“I will,” he asserted coolly, but did not elaborate. He stopped his pacing in front of a bookshelf, his cool gaze passing over rows of lettered bindings without really reading them. A span of silence passed before Raniye spoke again.

 

“I need more ayurma. He's returning tonight.”

 

A twinge of disgust passed over Mozenrath's face as he absently passed his hand—still healthy flesh, Jasmine noticed now—over the thick bindings of spell books and tomes she had no understanding of.

 

“You've had too much of it,” he said tensely. “It's become an addiction just as harmful as what it's meant to cure.”

 

“I would rather be a slave in body to a mere potion than a slave in heart and mind to a man I have wanted dead for years,” she replied calmly. “Give it to me.”

 

“I just need a little more time, Raniye,” he said sharply, turning toward her. “A little more time and he will be dead.”

 

“And what's your plan, Mozenrath?” she said, softly challenging him. “You keep saying you'll kill him, but the reality is you don't know how.” She did not flinch at his acidic glare; it was apparent she did not mean it as an insult, only as a statement of fact. “I'm just asking to be able to forget. Forget the sickening things he makes me do. Forget how badly I want to die when he poisons my mind—”

 

“You have to remember. Especially now that we know he's up to something,” Mozenrath said adamantly, turning from the bookshelf and approaching her. He planted his palms on the table, on either side of the book she had been perusing. Jasmine saw the conflict that underlined his steel gaze. “You have to talk and listen and remember. Or has that drug made you forget your loyalties already?”

 

Raniye sat still and unbowed by his intimidating stance. “Is that what I am to you now? Just another loyal servant? I guess I shouldn't have expected the apprentice to be much different from the master.”

 

He flushed angrily and grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her violently to her feet. “You are a slave here whether you like it or not,” he said harshly. His tone dropped lower, and his grip seemed to ease infinitesimally. “But believe me, I will kill Destane and take power over this domain. Then you will have your freedom. Not before.”

 

Raniye's gaze did not falter. Her midnight eyes were empty, spiritless. Jasmine wondered whether she would even be able to enjoy freedom if Mozenrath could grant it to her.

 

“Let go of me, Mozenrath,” she said quietly.

 

He removed his hand tentatively from her wrist but did not back away. They stood silently for several seconds, separated by a wooden table and the ancient secrets scattered atop it.

 

Then Mozenrath gestured with his hand, and they disappeared from the room. Jasmine felt her feet lift from the ground as she followed them in a soft whirl of air. She touched down on sand, almost slipping as she landed on the side of a steep dune. Mozenrath was already walking up the slope, and Raniye watched him curiously for a moment before moving after him.

 

They were still in the Land of the Black Sand, as the color of the granules beneath their feet clearly affirmed. But the sky was lighter than usual. The sickly shrouded sun was no longer hanging high above, but dropping nearer to the horizon in front of them. She reached the top of the dune after Mozenrath and Raniye, where a breathtaking sight awaited her.

 

They were at the edge of the dark, open-air prison that was Destane's territory. A few feet in front of them lay the dividing line between the Seven Deserts and the Land of the Black Sand. Coarse midnight earth faded into the lighter common hue, a cool breeze shifting the meandering swirls of the border. Beyond the boundary were endless dunes of familiar gold sand, glittering in the prelude to an auburn sunset, the sky still darker than it was in other lands. The clouds were tinted russet instead of orange, and the sky overhead was bleeding into violet.

 

The wind ruffled Mozenrath's unbound hair, sweeping it around his shoulders. He brushed a curl back from his face as he surveyed their surroundings, seemingly awaiting a response from the princess he had brought here. Raniye's own raven-black hair flowed loosely around her face, obscuring her expression from Jasmine's view. She did not move, staring straight ahead at the glowing sun that was steadily sinking toward the horizon.

 

“Did you bring me here to mock me, Mozenrath?” she asked softly.

 

He looked at her for a long moment before answering. “This is the line between you and your greatest desire. What will you give to cross it?”

 

She closed her eyes, feeling the wind against her skin and letting it whip her hair into further disarray. “I've already given all I have. What more is there?”

“There is always more,” he said simply. “You are still alive.”

 

“I am alive in the way Mamluks are alive,” Raniye said bitterly. “I should have died long ago, but Destane has kept me alive for his own pleasure. My kingdom has kept me alive for its survival. And you…” She rounded on him suddenly. “You are no better.”

 

He appeared surprised at her outburst, but for once did not react with anger or impatience. He waited for her to continue and did not back away when she stepped closer to him. One slender hand reached up to brush his hair back from his pale, solemn face.

 

“You wouldn't set me free,” she whispered harshly. “Even if you managed to kill Destane and take control of these lands, you wouldn't give me my freedom. You don't know the meaning of the word. Your heart is full of black sand, Mozenrath. Power is the only thing you care for. That's the real reason you want the Book of Khartoum, and the reason you're so eager to believe the raving of a mad empath. You want the power of all those souls for yourself.”

 

If he was offended by her bold accusation, he didn't show it. “You still don't understand, do you?” Mozenrath replied calmly, allowing her hand to rest on his cheek. “Power is everything, the determinant of life or death, the key to freedom and everything else one might desire. With it I may have my revenge. But power used only for revenge is a waste. Destane does not define my life's purpose. His death will merely mark the beginning of a new age.”

 

Raniye shook her head. “You speak such big words for a fledgling sorcerer with no plan. I'm sorry I can't believe you.”

 

He flushed angrily as she started to turn away, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders and pulling her face so close to his that they shared the same breath of air. “You will believe me,” he hissed. “I've achieved everything I've set my mind to thus far, with the sole exception of Destane's demise. But that will come soon enough. I've proven again and again that when I want something, I get it, whether it takes one or ten years.”

 

“Or four,” Raniye said. “Which was how long it took you to become the second self-centered, power-hungry sorcerer to call himself my master.” She smiled sadly at the look of surprised indignation on his face. “I know you won't have the heart to set me free, Mozenrath. But don't concern yourself with me. First think about whether you can truly master the power you so desperately desire, or whether it will end up mastering you. That may be a worse kind of slavery than what I have lived through.”

 

She closed the last few inches between them and kissed him softly. But it was heartless and empty as her eyes, and when they parted, Jasmine's own heart was heavy with the sense of utter desolation in the air.

 

Desolation, and something else far more disturbing. Jealousy. Jasmine immediately tried to choke the unwanted emotion, but it fell from her grasp like an object too hot to touch. She then tried to fight it with cold, rational thought. Yes, she was obsessed with the sorcerer. But that was natural. She had witnessed the most intimate defining moments of his life since birth, and knew him as much more than just an enemy now. Of course it she would feel closely attached to him, but this attachment would not last. This was a passing obsession deepened by the stress she was under because of the Mirror.

 

But she could not deny that she had subconsciously started to think of Mozenrath as her only anchor amidst the sinister madness of her own past. Jafar, Raeven, Saleen, and even Aladdin had driven her closer to the edge of breaking down and giving up. But the one thing that urged her on was the necessity of knowing Mozenrath's plan—and his life, if she were utterly honest with herself.

 

A little more time, she thought. The echo of Mozenrath's words to Raniye. But she felt as little conviction in those words as the Chryilian princess had. She had no plan and no knowledge of how she would accomplish what she had set out to do, how many memories she had left to lose or how many more sickening revelations the Mirror would force upon her.

 

“The ayurma,” Raniye repeated quietly. Mozenrath paused a long moment before he disengaged himself from her and drew a small bottle out of thin air. She swiftly took it from his reluctant hand, tucking it into her pocket immediately as if she was afraid he would change his mind and take it back.

 

“Thank you,” she said, and looked into his eyes with the resigned sadness of someone who had lost all hope. He did not answer, his impassive gaze giving nothing away.

 

Jasmine suddenly remembered the night in the desert when Mozenrath had saved her from Saleen and given her an antidote to Raeven's aphrodisiac.

 

She remembered his gaze then, nearly unreadable but unsettled by the situation he had found her in. Had he been remembering Raniye at that moment? He must have been.

 

Despite the helpless jealousy she felt at the scene before her, Jasmine realized with a sudden prick of pain that in the present time there was likely nothing left of the Chryilian princess but mere memories. The tragic life she had led would probably end soon, perhaps by Destane's hand if he proceeded with his plans or if he discovered her liaison with his apprentice, and Mozenrath would lose another person who was important to him by his master's whims. Underneath his arrogant posturing, it was obvious he cared for Raniye, albeit in a twisted, possessive fashion. They had somehow come to be together even though Raniye was Destane's slave. Jasmine could not imagine how difficult it must have been for Mozenrath to share her with his most hated enemy, the man he had longed to kill for at least a decade. And even to urge her against taking a potion that could ease her pain, for the sake of advancing his own plans for revenge. He was walking a perilous balance between the woman he cared for and the man he hated, a balance that Jasmine feared would soon snap to pieces.

 

Mozenrath remained expressionless as he spoke again. “You are right in saying you won't be free after Destane dies. Because when I offer you your freedom, you won't be able to accept it. You cannot return to your kingdom and expect to be treated as the same noble princess you once were, not after serving as the whore of a dark sorcerer for four years. You will be cast aside, not even fit for the status of a concubine or harem maid. Either that, or you will spend the rest of your life behind the walls of a secluded convent, atoning for your impurity by serving in a new kind of prison.”

 

Raniye had closed her eyes, and Jasmine could see the glistening tears suspended right below her long lashes. Mozenrath continued, his voice still calm and rational.

 

“But there is a way you can have freedom and life once again. By taking those things away from the man who did this to you. Picture him dying. Not yet dead, but dying. In the throes of extreme pain, his mortality frayed to its limit, his hated voice begging you for mercy while you have the full power to deny it. The power to make him wish for death as badly as you have. Power is freedom, Raniye. That is why I have made it my life's goal to pursue it. Not only to kill him, but to take everything from him before he dies; that is the day I have been living for thus far. And then…every day after that, I will live for myself.” He smiled, coldly welcoming the thought. “A heart of black sand isn't so bad if you consider what I can do with it.”

 

“You're lying again,” she said, her tears drying in the wind before they could fall. “You won't allow anyone else to have a part in killing Destane. You're only using me to prepare your plan.”

 

“Raniye. If you continue to be my eyes and ears, you will already have a part in killing him. Every bit of information you glean from him, any information you can get about his plan for souls and power, will be a bit of his life running through your fingers. Killing is not all violence. Use your imagination. Princesses aren't supposed to get their hands bloody, anyway.” He grinned cruelly and drew away from her touch, watching the sunset once again.

 

They stood silently on the dune as the sun continued to sink, the sky rapidly darkening into a shade more favored by the black sand. Raniye drew closer to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. The gesture was only half-romantic. The rest might have been out of physical necessity, as each minute closer to Destane's return seemed to drain more energy from her.

 

Jasmine watched them with mixed emotions, still not sure how to react to this new discovery of Mozenrath's past. That small voice bit into her conscience once again, asserting that she had indeed fallen far into obsession, unable to extricate herself from its miring sands.

 

She had never imagined she would ever come to feel this way toward an enemy who had threatened to take all that she cared about from her in some diabolical scheme. But in the measureless course of her time in the Mirror, she had seen what lay beneath the hot temperament and expert acting. He was a man before he was an enemy or anything else. A man of confidence, fear, determination, worry, desperation, obsession, even affection. A man who had changed greatly over the course of his life until he had become the arrogant, cruel, power-hungry sorcerer he was today.

 

But the last two scenes made her realize that people never stopped changing all throughout their lives. Or rather, that change was always possible, even after one seemed to be set in his ways, good or bad. She had despaired during each vision of his childhood and teenage years, watching his descent into the vile depths of dark magic, the desire for vengeance, and a growing thirst for power. But if she hadn't been so intent on seeing what she expected to see, she might have noticed sooner that his path wasn't so linear. He had tortured and killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people by now. But he was still capable of friendship, as ungrateful and callous as he appeared. He had decided that power was the only thing that mattered and that the weak were worthless, but he had rescued Laila from a gruesome death and brought her back safely to her room.

 

He had challenged Jasmine to stop him from wreaking havoc upon her and her kingdom, but he had saved her from Saleen and given her an antidote to clear her system of a Desrialite poison. Perhaps he needed her alive for his plan, as she had guessed earlier, but she still could not explain his second altruistic gesture of the night. Perhaps his reason wasn't manipulative at all, but out of remembrance of Raniye.

 

The sun was halfway immersed in the horizon, and Mozenrath seemed to decide it was time to return to the Citadel. Removing himself from Raniye's loose embrace, he raised one hand to transport them back.

 

“Wait,” the princess said, staying his hand. Looking back toward the horizon, she took several steps forward until she was an inch away from the amorphous boundary line. She reached her arms forward, her outstretched hands casting long shadows into the land beyond the black sand. But her feet remained behind the border. Jasmine was slightly puzzled, but figured there was some kind of spell that bound her to her master's domain. The princess was only giving herself a half-taste of freedom.

 

Mozenrath wordlessly swept his hand in her direction, and the black sand around her feet began to swirl, covering her cloth shoes in a thin shimmering layer. She looked down in surprise, then back at him. He nodded to her, urging her forward.

 

Hesitantly she stepped out of the land to which she was bound as the slave of a tyrant, and into the sands of the Seven Deserts where she rightfully belonged. The sands of her own kingdom were the same shade as the granules currently shifting under her feet, separated from her person by a thin, almost invisible layer of black sand. The closest to freedom she could have, but still a mere semblance of it. She breathed deeply, a slight smile lighting her fair features and seeming to restore her spirit to its former beauty for a brief moment. She looked back at Mozenrath with a smile that was genuine, not empty or sorrowful. He returned her gaze without expression as she turned and crossed back into the Land of the Black Sand. With another flick of his hand, they both vanished, leaving Jasmine behind this time. The floating trail of his spell hung suspended in the air for a second before it began to thicken. She watched impassively as dust and sand accumulated into the swirling waves that soon encased her body, preparing to take her to another time and another place.

He hadn't saved Raniye as Jasmine had hoped before. But he was trying in his own way, through the path of vengeance and power. He wouldn't be able to give her the kind of freedom she wanted, but it was not for lack of will.

 

Despite everything that was crashing down inside of her, she felt a light smile touch her lips at the small bit of hope a simple sunset and the silhouettes of two young survivors had given her. Both were trapped in prisons both invisible and visible, most clearly embodied in the shifting line between the Seven Deserts and the Land of the Black Sand, between freedom and enslavement, each other's companionship and their separate pain, hope for the future and the relentless reality they faced now.

 

As the familiar scents and sounds of Agrabah surfaced around her before the sand cleared, she saw in her own mind the dividing line in her own life. It had appeared the first night of Mozenrath's challenge, when he had forced her to face him alone, hiding the truth from her father and Aladdin, drawing an invisible boundary to keep them at a distance. It had deepened each day and night, driving her further into obsession with the darker side of the divide until she had fully immersed herself in it through the Mirror. And from where she currently stood, she was able to see her past, the familiar light sands that now seemed so far away, and all the shadows there that she had never noticed before—Jafar's murder of her mother, her own ability to hate as deeply as she loved, and her fiancé's buried secrets that had shattered her trust.

 

The sand finally cleared, giving visual definition to the smells and sounds of the marketplace, and she heard the gruff voice of a familiar vendor, tense and accusing.

 

“You'd better be able to pay for that.”

 

And she heard her own voice answer timidly, full of the uncertainty born of ignorance.

 

“Pay?”