They continued their journey on the flying carpet for a good part of the following day—fortunately, without any scorpion stings from the night before. Inna's fire had served its purpose. Arran watched the princess from his position behind her on the carpet, her simple, navy blue jacket billowing in the wind. The embroidered flower patterns glittered golden in the bright, relentless sunlight.

She had been quiet that morning, unusually so. In such short notice, he had grown used to her constant interrogations, the casual insults thrown into the conversation at random places. An unpleasant feeling stirred in his stomach at the stiffness in her shoulders and the complete stillness of her elegant hands and long fingers. Even Zazi, the goddamn snake whose piercing yellow eyes gave him the chills, kept cocking her head at him with surprising insistence. As if to say, Open your mouth and say something already.

He cleared his throat. No reaction on Inna's part. In an awkward motion, he leaned forward and tapped her shoulder with a finger. Finally, her shoulders heaved with soft laughter and she turned her head to glance at him.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

Her eyes glazed over for a second. "It's nothing."

"You've barely spoken a word to me since we left."

The corners of her mouth curled up with a grin, showing off her white teeth. "I'd thought you'd be glad to have me off your back for once."

He didn't answer her smile, staring at a spot on the carpet where the bright colors had worn off with age. "Do you often suffer from nightmares?" Her fleeting joy dissipated faster than a cloud could swallow the sun. Guilty about ruining her revived good mood, he quickly added, "You were moaning a lot in your sleep last night. I tried to wake you, but you didn't react."

"Oh." She sucked the back of her teeth. "It's probably just my spoiled ass which isn't used to sleeping on sand," she joked, though her gleeful tone lacked credibility.

He chuckled nonetheless, even if only to humor her. "Poor little, rich girl."

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Arran decided to let the subject rest now that she seemed less tense. His gaze roamed the dry, deserted landscape around them and he wondered how the carpet—or Inna—knew where they were heading, which direction to follow. However, now that she had untied her tongue, the words burst out of Inna at a pace which led him to deduce she had no control over the matter.

"I dreamed about black cloaks and silver daggers," she said breathlessly. "About the Sphere of Truths and my father's eyes trapped inside them. I dreamed about a woman, too, a woman with blue hair like mine that faded to emerald green as it reached her hips. She had silver eyes, like the moon, but no pupils."

Arran held his breath while he listened to her, scared to utter a sound that would snap her out of it and bring down that wall again that shielded her emotions from him.

"She spoke to me, that woman," Inna continued, the memory a haze in her eyes. "She asked me to free her, but she wouldn't say from what."

She looked up, her face remarkably open, and he frowned in response. "Do you have the gift of foresight?"

"No!" she answered, winding a lock of her hair around her fingers. "Prophetic magic doesn't fit my aura. Too subtle. I've told myself it's nonsense, it's the stress after everything that's happened, but a part of me refuses to believe that. It feels too much like ..." She trailed off.

"Like what?"

"Like the vision I had about you when I looked into the Sphere of Truths," she finished, biting her lip.

His breath caught in his throat. "But your father has the Sphere. You shouldn't be able to—"

"I know," she interrupted, irritated. "That's what bothers me."

They spent the remaining hours of traveling in silence, each lost in their own musings. Arran's lungs contracted uncomfortably in his chest, cutting off his supply of oxygen. Yet another issue to worry about. He followed Inna's example and tried persuading himself it had just been a feverish nightmare as a result of recent events. However, the ever-present weight around his neck formed disturbing proof of the fact that most things in this world were quite the opposite of what they appeared to be.

In the late afternoon, the horizon made room for the skyline of a city. Dozens of towers reached up toward the heavens, their fluorescent spires and domes melting into one vast rainbow of colors. Arran temporarily forgot about his concerns and gawked in awe at the City of Splendor. Though he had never ventured outside his city of birth, he had overheard more than one merchant praising Rasir's undeniable beauty, far superior to Primsharah's. The latter might be the center of wealth in the Orabi Desert, but the Rasirians had much better taste with regard to architecture.

The flying carpet started to lower them toward the ground. Rasir's city gates, high and imposing and embellished with white, sparkling quartz, beckoned them closer like two arms held wide open in a welcoming embrace. A steady stream of carts and travelers flowed in and out.

Which reminded Arran of a tiny, logistical problem.

"How are we going to introduce ourselves to the Shah of Rasir?" he asked Inna, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the wind. "We can't just walk in with our filthy clothes, carrying this carpet on our shoulders."

Inna's lips moved without sound while she opened her duffel bag and rummaged through its contents. She fished out a small pouch; the circular forms of no small amount of coins pressed into its leather exterior. Her face darkened. "Ah, what use is it?" she cried out, tossing the pouch back into the duffel bag. "We can't just enter the city and buy ourselves the finest of carriages without arousing suspicion. A princess is to be expected to own a carriage before her arrival. Otherwise the Shah will recognize us for what we really are: refugees."

"So what do we do?" he shouted back.

His stomach tumbled against his rib cage as they dropped at high speed. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood to stifle the startled yelp bursting through his throat. Digging his fingers into the carpet, he braced himself for the painful impact. Inna, on the other hand, flung her arms in the air and whooped with elation.

He must have closed his eyes sometime during the landing, because the next thing he knew, Inna clasped his shoulder and shook him until his teeth rattled. "You can look again now, Arran," she teased.

As the adult he was, he stuck out his tongue at her and cracked open one wary eye. He was relieved to see solid ground beneath his feet, although the subtle landing had left him flabbergasted. The carpet rested on the sand as though it hadn't just plummeted out of the sky. He raised an eyebrow at Inna, who answered with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I know, I'm great at landings," she boasted, smoothing out her wild hair.

"I thought you said you had never flown before."

She shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Ah well, in that case, I must be a natural."

He groaned while he pushed himself up, his stiff legs buckling under his weight. "We're still nowhere closer to riding through the city gates in a fancy carriage, though." An idea occurred to him. The Amulet grew warm against his skin, as if the djinn had read his thoughts and agreed. "Do you think the djinn could give us a makeover worthy of royalty if I asked him to?"

Inna's eyes widened. "No. You're not going to waste one of your wishes on this."

He flicked his thumb against the necklace. "We may not have another choice."

She said nothing. Zazi lifted her head from Inna's collar and flicked her forked tongue against the princess's cheek, as in silent encouragement. Arran sighed. "I'd offer you my special services as a professional thief, princess, but an empty carriage racing through the streets would probably catch even more attention."

That pulled a soft chuckle from her. "I feel so useless right now. I have more money than I can spend, yet actually spending it would jeopardize the entire plan." She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. "I suppose we do need the djinn, then."

Arran took a deep breath, filling his lungs with plenty of air before the djinn would suck it out of them all over again. This time, though, he didn't even need to call the spirit explicitly.

Smoke swirled, two crimson orbs were set ablaze. A voice like crashing thunder and scraping boulders knocked the wind out of him. "MASTER."

"I would like to make a wish," Arran said.

"WHAT DO YOU WISH FOR?"

He exchanged a quick look with Inna, who stood frozen in the sand. The desert had turned white like the powder of pulverized bones, the sun reduced to an angry, bleak blotch in the leaden sky. "I wish to look like a prince of the royal court of Primsharah, who accompanies the crown princess Serafina to the native land of her betrothed."

Inna glowered at him. "He's not my betrothed," she hissed. An impish grin curved his lips in response. Her eyes narrowed to golden slits. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"VERY WELL," the djinn replied evenly. "ANY SPECIFIC REQUESTS?"

Arran put a finger to his lips, pretending to ponder the djinn's question. Inna snorted with perfectly mastered indignance. "Well, now that you ask, I'd like to be dressed in gold. From head to toe." Inna's eyes bulged and he held his belly with laughter.

"AND WHAT WILL YOU GIVE ME IN RETURN?"

A breeze, too cold for the desert, slapped Arran in the face and swept away his good humor. He swallowed. Inna crossed her arms over her chest, but instead of the gloating expression he had expected to find on her, a hint of concern clouded her gaze.

"I have not much to offer you, great djinn," he said, suddenly humble and even a bit ashamed. "I possess only the clothes I wear and the wit of my mind."

The djinn paused, his fiery eyes zooming in on Arran. He felt the weight of that gaze in every bone, every muscle of his body. "A MEMORY WILL DO."

His heart stopped, then rebooted at a faster, frantic pace. "A memory?"

"YES, A MEMORY OF YOUR CHOICE THAT YOU DECIDE TO FORGET."

For all Arran's greed, the idea of this spirit stealing his memories permanently was more frightening than losing any kind of physical object. Nothing was so inherently his, so intertwined with every fiber of his being, than what he bore in his mind. Yet, he had known there would be a cost beforehand. Grand wishes came with steep prices.

Staring off into the distance, he skimmed his mind for a simple memory, one that wouldn't affect his personality or his thinking process. Life is the sum of our experiences, Adira had once said to him not long after their father's banishment. They had both looked upon their mother's weeping figure, hunched with heartbreak, and in that moment, Arran had known that their lives had indeed changed in an irrevocable way.

After many minutes of contemplating and dismissing, another memory came to him at last. It had been an early morning in spring, when he was eleven years old. Tucked under a thin blanket, he had listened to the sound of a few rare drops of rain tapping the roof above his head. That was the first and only day in his life he had seen actual rain. He chose that single moment in time to hand over to the djinn. It was nothing too impactful; he would still remember the rain from other memories of that day, and he would remember playing in it with his sister all morning.

He wouldn't mourn that memory as he might others.

The djinn's whirling form grew even larger, towering over the desert like an evil god. "HAVE YOU MADE YOUR CHOICE?"

Arran nodded once. "I have."

Cool, distant satisfaction rippled across his skin. "GOOD."

He didn't actually notice the memory fade from his mind. One moment, he still remembered what he had given the djinn, and then he didn't. He didn't bother frowning over it; the deed had been done.

The sand began to twirl around their feet, higher and faster, until it took the shape of a carriage larger than Arran's room at home. As it solidified, its gold, silver and marble accents became clearer as well as the feather-shaped door handles and polished wheels with spikes hardly a thumb's width. Arran extended a hand to run his fingers across the carved roses and birds on the carriage's wooden exterior. However, he stilled when his eye fell upon the rings on his fingers, each sporting a different jewel: sapphire, ruby, emerald, diamond. He looked down at his feet, wrapped in golden slippers, and slowly let his gaze wander upward across his new attire. He looked like a walking gold bar.

Inna's clothing spoke of more modesty, although her cherry red dress with an almost scandalously deep neckline was certainly eye-catching. Subtle threads of gold braided her midnight blue hair into a high bun, with a single braid curling around the elegant lines of her neck and upper body. She wore no accessories save for a gold choker.

She caught him staring and his cheeks warmed up under her equally assessing gaze. "Gold suits you," she said, "although it's a bit exaggerated."

He grinned and stroked a hand across the soft fabric of his jacket. "It's extravagant, which is why the Rasirian Shah will never suspect something's off."

"We should go," she answered, casting a weary glance at the sky, whose brightness had been restored. "Twilight will set in soon and I want to be inside the palace before it does. I don't think the Shah will appreciate us bursting in while he's having dinner."

The door of the carriage opened as they approached and Arran, assuming his role as a true gentleman, held it for Inna while she climbed inside. Marveling in his newfound wealth, he sank down on the green, velvet couch opposite the princess and breathed out a long sigh. Their bodies lurched forward when the carriage started rolling forward, driven by magic only.

They only stopped once at the city gates for the guards to register their identities and the reason for their visit. Inna drew herself up and presented them as prince Kasmir and princess Nylah of Primsharah, who were here to announce the engagement of their beloved sister the crown princess Serafina with prince Rabyatt of Rasir. Both guards paled at once and motioned them to ride on. Arran wondered whether they didn't need more confirmation of their royal identities, yet he presumed their elaborate means of transport and Inna's likeness to, well, Inna, sufficed.

As soon as the gates had disappeared out of view, he leaned forward and blurted out, "So you're planning to marry prince Rabyatt?"

She clucked her tongue. "No, I'm not."

He gaped at her. "But you just said to those guards that you are."

"It's the best excuse I could come up with for this visit," she snapped, annoyed. "I'm still working on evading the possibly disastrous political and diplomatic consequences when I call off the engagement after our departure."

"Poor Rabyatt," Arran chuckled. "I can sympathize with him. After all, we're both pawns in the game called Serafina Adelhari."

Inna glared at him. "Why don't we discuss your love life for once, Arran? How many girls do you have swooning over those beautiful eyes of yours?"

She wanted to slap the cocky expression off his face. "None at the moment. So, you think my eyes are beautiful?"

She pressed her lips together in sullen silence. He laughed, but he dropped the subject.

The city of Rasir had been built in a perfect circle, divided into different "rings" instead of districts. An oasis constituted its literal heart. The royal palace sprang from the southwestern bank of the small lake, a massive tower of white-painted granite with a spire of solid gold and silver. The tower stood highest of them all and dominated the view on every one of the four main roads. Arran stuck his head out of the window to gaze at it, unsure of whether he should feel impressed or intimidated.

Inna grabbed the hem of his jacket and yanked him back inside the coach. "You're making a fool of yourself," she scolded him. "You have to act like a member of the Primsharahn royal family, and no noble at my father's court would drool at the sight of a tower that scratches the clouds. It's beneath the beauty of our own palace," she concluded so haughtily Arran snorted, only to realize that she was being sarcastic.

At the Royal Tower's gate, Inna repeated their cover story to the guards out front, who, unfortunately, didn't let them pass so easily as the first ones had. However, Inna merely heaved an exasperated sigh and brushed a lock of hair out of the way, revealing a small tattoo of Primsharah's royal emblem behind her right ear, a crowned crow with a miniature palm branch in its beak. Most royal families in the Orabi Desert inked their children to mark their identity, a good habit for tricky situations like this one.

The guards seemed satisfied and gave a single nod. The carriage rode down the long lane toward the tower. Arran's heart leapt to his throat when he spotted the bronze scorpion—Rasir's emblem—above the enormous front doors, which were wide open to visitors and palace staff running errands. It dawned on him that he knew nothing about royal etiquette, in spite of how much he'd dreamed about being a nobleman in his youth.

Inna must have noticed the panic on his face, for she bent forward to lay a comforting hand on his knee. "Just let me do the talking, all right?"

He nodded, reminding himself to put up his poker face.

That proved to be a much more difficult task than he had assumed it would be. A butler greeted them with a stiff bow while they descended from their carriage, as though he had been waiting for them all day. Inna, head high with regal pride, looked him up and down. "Good afternoon. Thank you for receiving us at the Tower. We have come for an audience with the Shah."

The butler's brow wrinkled the slightest bit. "The Shah has already retired to his rooms, milady."

"It's 'Your Highness'," she corrected him with plain disdain. "My brother and I have traveled far to bring the Shah a gift from our father, the Shah of Primsharah, to celebrate the impending union between our nations. I am confident that he will wish to meet with us at once."

The butler's stoic face didn't stir. He inclined his head in silent, reluctant agreement. "If you would follow me, Your Majesties."

Your Majesties. A broad grin tugged at the corners of Arran's mouth, but Inna elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted. "You're really mean, you know that?" he whispered in her ear.

"It's a golden rule in court manners," she replied placidly, undisturbed. "If they don't obey you, you make them."

That's the queen talking again. Even though her sporadic coldness unnerved him, Arran stuck close to Inna's side as the butler led them up a winding staircase carved from white and rose marble. Thick, red carpets covered the steps, so soft his shoes sank halfway into them. His all-golden clothing attracted quite a few stares, both admiring and mocking, and he answered them all with a dazzling grin. A group of women in fine, colorful dresses giggled when he winked at them.

The throne room was located on the third floor, a crescent moon with windows that spanned the entire far wall and provided a spectacular view of the city. Arran imagined the Shah standing there, powerful and untouchable as he looked out over his own dominion. The marble throne, grand in its simpleness, matched the image of that sovereign ruler, a bronze and emerald baldachin draped over its back and seat. The scorpion's symbol was an ever-present detail: painted in the coat of arms above the double doors, carved in the steps to the dais, and sewn on the green banners that connected the marble pillars fanning out in both directions from the throne.

Arran felt as out of place as a priest of Amalia, goddess of love, at a divorce application.

Echoing footfalls, heavy and deliberate, approached them from behind. Arran and Inna swiveled around at the same moment to greet the newcomer, a tall, fair-haired man with a barrel for a belly. His beard was the color of the morning light and wiggled along with every one of his steps. A leopard's fur adorned his broad shoulders.

Decadence. Power. Those were the adjectives that crossed Arran's mind to describe the Shah of Rasir.

Without taking his eyes, which were the same unsettling ruby as his son's, off his guests, the Shah spoke to the butler idling on the threshold, "You may go now, Hashim."

The man bowed and kept his head down while he shuffled out of the room. The doors fell closed behind him with a hollow boom.

"So." The Shah strode across the carpet that ran in a straight line toward the dais, passing Inna by a hair's breadth. Neither royal stepped out of the way for the other. He lowered his bulky self onto his throne, which was luckily large enough to seat a giant twice his size. One of his podgy, ringed fingers rested against his lips as he and the princess studied each other, appraising. As both diplomacy and rank required, Inna was the first to avert her gaze.

"It is an honor to reside within your city, Your Majesty," she said, bowing to the waist. Arran followed her example. "We are Prince Kasmir and Princess Nylah of Primsharah, and we have come to bring you tremendous news."

"Let me guess: my son has conquered the heart of your sister and crown princess of your country," the Shah replied. Satisfaction wrinkled the laugh lines around his eyes, breaking through the reserved mask of his face. "That is excellent news, indeed. We shall hold a feast tonight to celebrate!"

Inna smiled, a gesture of carefully calculated charm. "That is most generous of you, Your Majesty."

The Shah leaned back on his throne. His gaze roamed Arran's ostentatious clothes and jewelry, dismissed them and swept across Inna's confident figure, lingering on the snake around her neck. "From what I have heard about your sister's striking beauty, I assume that you look a great deal like her. Blue hair and golden eyes, not a combination that one encounters on a daily basis."

"Oh no, Your Majesty, you are too kind." Her cheeks flushed, although Arran didn't buy her shyness for one second. "In fact, my hair is black rather than blue, and my eyes are amber, not golden."

The Shah tilted his head. "Why, indeed. I can see the difference now."

So could Arran. Inna's hair seemed darker and her irises warmer when he looked at her now. Bewildered, he wondered if it was a trick of the light or whether she had used glamouring magic to alter her appearance.

The Shah opened his mouth to say something else, but he was interrupted by the quiet screech of the door in its hinges. His brow furrowed. "Someone has to oil that door," he muttered, then continued, "Ah, Farooq! Perfect timing, as always. I have just heard that my son Rabyatt is to marry the crown princess Serafina of Primsharah!"

"My sincerest congratulations, Your Majesty," a deep voice answered from the doorway. Arran's heart skipped a beat. That voice sounded familiar ... and so did the man's name, for a fact.

He told himself it was impossible, but the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Slowly, he twisted his upper body to glimpse over his shoulder, afraid to turn around completely not to offend the Shah—and afraid of what he would find. A pair of green eyes, only a few shades removed from Arran's own turquoise and framed by thick, black eyelashes, met his gaze. He felt the impact of that stare like a blow to the chest.

"Baba," he whispered, at the same time as the other man's lips formed Arran's name.