FARHANA KHOURI HAD been sobbing all night, and Kalila could take it no longer. She knew very well that her mother was not a woman of action. In fact, neither was she—Zeinab had always been the pillar of strength that held their family together—but that needed to change.

That was why at daybreak, when the sky first began bleeding from black to blue, the first thing Kalila did was rummage through all of her possessions for spare coins. She had a few, but it would definitely not be enough for what she needed to do. She couldn't ask her mother for anything, for they still required money for necessary provisions.

Making a hasty and reluctant decision, Kalila then saddled her sister's brown Badawi horse and set off purposefully.

To find Riyad al-Harthi.

Riyad was the handsome son of a wealthy nobleman. Kalila and Zeinab had known him since they were children; he had always been gracious and kind to the younger girl, but downright playful and flirtatious with the older one. Kalila had long since suspected that he was secretly in love with Zeinab, but the girl had always been to oblivious to notice.

At this time of morning, Kalila knew just where to find him. He would be practicing his archery, using as a target the same warped tree he always used.

She was not a good rider. She was clumsy and had little control over the horse. Her limited knowledge of horseback permitted her to get where she needed to be, but made the ride a struggle nonetheless. As the wind blew through her dark curls and the hot sun bore down on her as it strengthened, she remembered the riding lessons she'd had with her sister. They had always seemed tedious, but Zeinab had insisted.

Kalila now wished to have those days back. More than anything.

She rode on, hiding her face from anyone who might know her, reminiscent of certain moments with her sister. Her eyes burned and she urged herself not to start crying until she knew what had happened. She needed to know that she was alive. If anyone could do it, it was Zeinab.

When, at long last, Kalila found Riyad al-Harthi just where she expected him to be, she dismounted the horse. At the sight of him, she felt a slight and inexplicable pang in her chest. He was so concentrated on his target that she was invisible to him—until she walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

Riyad dropped the bow to his side and whirled around to face her. The very moment he did, a deep confusion spread across his countenance. He was at least a head taller than she was. His eyes were a pale, intoxicating grey, and his dark brown hair was an unruly mess of curls that somehow didn't take away from his beauty—in fact, they added to it. He was just the type of man Kalila had expected her strong, confident sister to end up with.

"Kalila-jan, what are you doing here?" he demanded, a wild look in his eyes.

She blushed slightly at the term of endearment. And then mentally scolded herself for it.

"I thought—I thought you were—" he spluttered, disbelief seemingly making him unable to formulate a coherent thought. "You were the latest wife of the monster that rules these lands! How—did you escape?"

"I didn't escape, Riyad," she said sadly, shaking her head. "Please keep your voice down. I don't want anyone else to hear. I'll explain everything to you, but you must keep it a secret at all costs. I'm only telling you because I need your help with something."

He nodded wordlessly.

"It was supposed to be me. It should've been me. But Zeinab—she took my place," Kalila explained, her eyes downcast. "She assumed my identity and went off to marry the monster of a king."

And his face fell. As did his bow, which tumbled from his slackened grip and settled to the ground at his feet. The look of disappointment adorning his features could not be concealed, and it killed her.

He would rather it be me.

The realization turned her expression stoic and cold. When he said nothing, she continued speaking.

"I'm going to see Hakeem Nawawi and I need gold," she said bitterly, straightening her spine and pretending that she wasn't at all hurt by his reaction to the news. She was suddenly blunt about what it was that she needed from him. She couldn't stand to be near him any longer.

"Why are you going to see that raving lunatic?" he demanded, his eyebrows pulling together. "Kalila, you can't possibly believe in that stuff! Nawawi is a mad fool who seeks nothing more than to rob people of their money in exchange for false—"

"For God's sake, Riyad, just give me the damn gold!" she burst out suddenly in a high voice, all of her tacit disappearing into the wind. "You've got enough of it and I need to make sure that my sister survived the night as she promised she would. I don't care if it's a foolish thing to do, but if there's even a sliver of a chance to make sure she's safe, I'd be willing to do whatever it takes."

A single treacherous tear slipped down her cheek, followed by many others. Through her blurry vision, she saw his solemn expression, laden with guilt. He sighed in defeat and fished around in his pockets, producing a sack of coins.

He then thrust it into her trembling hands.

"I'm... sorry, Kalila-jan," he whispered to her. "I'm so very sorry. I would do anything for either of you, you know that? If this—if this can make you feel better, then go ahead. But I have one request before you do."

Her watery gaze met his despondent one.

"May I accompany you?"

"What?" she asked between stifled sobs.

"May I accompany you to Hakeem Nawawi's?"

She bit her lip and nodded slowly, averting her eyes from his. Her curls bounced around her with each movement—while the rest of her had lost its liveliness, they hadn't.

"Perfect. I'll get some more gold just in case. I'll be back soon, just stay here."

He left and returned quickly with his own Badawi horse. His was a light shade of chestnut. Memories of his races with Zeinab in the desert sand surfaced to the forefront of Kalila's mind; she clutched onto the satchel of coins with an iron grip, trying to prevent the trembling in her limbs from worsening.

They rode beside each other, but didn't speak on the way. Each remained a prisoner to their own mind, on the lookout for the tent they sought. Kalila was once again forced to cover her face and turn away from anyone who might recognize her, for they believed her to be the latest wife of the murderous boy-king.

At last, they reached their destination. Nawawi's tent was unmistakeable; it stood out from all the other tents in their camp.

It was deep purple, with bright orange embellishments sown into the fabric. Unlike anything that anyone but Hakeem Nawawi would dare possess.

Riyad opened the flap of the tent first and stuck his head inside. Kalila barely heard what he said—she was too nervous to learn of Zeinab's current state—until his fingers grazed her arm and pulled her from her trance.

Upon entering the mysterious tent, she saw candles everywhere; they flickered with life, despite there being sufficient daylight. It was hotter inside the tent than it was out in the desert sun. The smell of spices and incense that swirled into a thick smoke was overwhelming, causing tears to spring into Kalila's eyes and her chest to heave. The interior was decorated with multiple ornate tapestries, and dried herbs were strewn messily all over the tent floor.

Hakeem Nawawi stood in the very middle with a far-off look in his eyes.

He was the camp's only practicing magus, who was also believed to be a madman. He offered his services in exchange for gold, but very rarely received much of it. Though he was quite young—not much older than eighteen-year-old Riyad—his head was completely bald. His skin was somewhat pale and sallow. He wore one earring, a gold chain around his neck, and a qamis that was much too large for him.

It was evident that he was a strange boy. But mad? Perhaps not.

Insanity couldn't be perceived through appearances.

"What is it that you've come for?" he asked, grinning toothily at the pair; it was then that Kalila noticed one of his front teeth was missing.

When she spoke, her voice had gone back to being small and mousy.

"Can you show us someone we need to see?" Kalila questioned. "In their current state?"

"I can," said Hakeem, his grin widening. "The question isn't whether or not I can do it, but whether or not I will." He extended his arm towards the pair of them and opened his palm.

Kalila reached for the sack of coins. Riyad tried to stop her, but even though he lowered her hand, Hakeem had already seen it.

"How much?" Riyad asked the magus suspiciously.

As Hakeem's gaze swept over Riyad, taking in his qamis, sirwal trousers and shoes, the greed in his eyes built. Riyad's clothing alone demonstrated that he was a man of wealth.

"I think you can spare that satchel, rich man," the magus said, leering at him.

"You nutty bastar—"

Hakeem silenced him by lifting a finger. "Ah ah ah—I don't negotiate. And by 'nutty bastard', I certainly hope you mean my faint smell of nutmeg."

Riyad glared at him, but the magus didn't seem fazed by it in the slightest. In response, Kalila handed the coins over without a second thought, her heart thundering from within her chest.

Hakeem's smile cemented onto his face as he turned on his heel without thanking them. He led them to a basin filled with fresh water. He prepared three tumblers of some sort of liquid and herbs, then shoved one into Kalila's hands and the other into Riyad's.

"Drink that," he ordered, without explanation. He drank his own, then stopped to the floor of the tent, grabbed two handfuls of spices and sprinkled them into the basin of water.

Kalila lifted the tumbler to her lips, but Riyad stopped her once again. Her annoyance with him rose as he shot her a warning glare and wrapped his hand around her wrist. His skin burned against hers, but she had no time to feel flustered by his touch when she was so frustrated with his stubbornness.

"Are you drugging us?" the nobleman's son demanded, running a hand through his brown curls in distress.

"In a sense," Hakeem mused, tugging at his earring. It did nothing to quell Riyad's unrest. "Look, if you don't drink that, you won't be able to see the visions at all. It won't kill you. It might make you feel a little woozy afterwards, but the same would be true if you were to get drunk." A wicked laugh, surprisingly high in pitch, seeped from between his lips.

The girl wrenched her wrist from Riyad's grasp and downed the contents of the tumbler immediately. The liquid tasted strongly of cinnamon, nutmeg, and many other spices that she could not put a name to. It was foul and unpleasant, and it burned Kalila's throat and numbed her tongue instantly. As though by magic, her mind became as foggy as the tent's interior.

Kalila nudged Riyad. "Just drink it," she told him. "Drink it or leave."

"Yes, rich boy. Listen to the girl; drink it or leave." Hakeem laughed again.

With evident reluctance, after glaring at the gleeful fool, he raised his own tumbler to his lips and poured it down his throat, grimacing.

"State the full name of the person you wish to see," Hakeem said, addressing Kalila.

"Zeinab Nejem," she replied.

The magus placed his hands over the basin of water, closed his eyes and began to mutter something under his breath. As he did so, the smoke within the tent spiralled about and enveloped them. The candlelight wavered. Finally, an image began to form upon the surface of the water within the basin.

Kalila approached it and bent her face towards it. She gasped at what she saw.

Her sister sat at a table with two other well-dressed men. Zeinab was very much alive. She was eating and talking, and there were no visible signs of harm anywhere on her body.

"Riyad, she's alive!" Kalila said excitedly, reaching over to grab his arm. Happy tears gathered in her brown eyes. "She's alive. Oh, only Zeinab would've been able to survive something like this. Only my sister."