The War to Save the Worlds Page 6

  I pull back, allowing Hamza to bend over, his hands on his knees, taking deep gulps of air.

  I punch him in the arm. (Lightly! I swear.)

  “Hey! That actually almost hurt,” Hamza says. “What’s your deal?”

  “Well… I’m… I’m sorry. But no more you-might-die stunts. Mom and Dad will kill me if I let you crack open your skull. Besides, what were you thinking?” Since my parents aren’t here, I have to be in charge, imagine what they would do or say. They definitely would’ve given him a stern talking-to, but they would definitely not have sucker punched him. (Lightly!) That part was all me.

  “Obviously, that I could do it.” Hamza pulls himself up to standing. “I dunno.… I thought maybe I could conquer my fear of heights. I believed in myself. Why couldn’t you believe in me, too?”

  Hamza looks dejected. There’s probably only been a few times in his life I’ve seen such a crushed look on his face. He’s usually the upbeat, always-sees-the-glass-half-full sibling. “Hamz, I do believe in you. I believe in you being alive. Even if you annoy me once in a while.” I’m trying to be jokey, but it kind of falls flat. He nods and heads toward Razia, who is holding out a canteen of water.

  I glance over and see the worried looks on the faces of all the jinn. I don’t think they’re so much worried about Hamza’s near death/serious injury experience as they are about what the heck happens next. I’m guessing this wasn’t written on the Everlasting Scroll. (Note to self: Ask who wrote the scroll and how old it is. This would be a cool project for history class.) I watch as Hamza takes the water and slinks down by a wall where he’s hidden in shadow.

  I sigh. Sitting sounds good. Pretending this whole thing isn’t happening sounds better. But there’s no chance of that. I step closer to the wall, but as I near it, I feel my paper clip necklace and the silver-colored Ayatul Kursi pendant slightly lift from my collarbone in the direction of the wall. I move closer still, and I can feel a little tug at the back of my neck. I look around and see the Supahi standing at attention while Abdul Rahman, Razia, and Maqbool appear in deep conversation. No doubt finally realizing that we’re not the Chosen Ones. No one is even looking at me. This isn’t a jinn trick. I pull the necklace off, letting it dangle from my fingertips, and inch nearer to the black stone walls. As I approach, a force yanks the necklace out of my hand, and it flies the last several inches between my fingertips and the wall, and sticks.

  My necklace sticks to the wall.

  I put my hand on the dark stone. Those little bits of sparkle shine in the light of the torches. I rub my hand across the metallic sheen. My brain whirs. This looks so familiar. Paper clips sticking to stone…

  I suck in my breath. Every year we take a field trip to the Field Museum of Natural History. Usually it’s for the dinosaurs. But in fourth grade, we did a unit on magnetism, and Ms. Maley took us to the Hall of Gems & Minerals. There were all these rubies and diamonds and emeralds and really fancy necklaces. But in a corner was a small case with a hunk of nondescript black rock with a bit of a sheen to it, a line of paper clips stuck out of it like they were trying to stab through the surface of the stone. Our teacher told us that without this rock, the magnetic compass would never have been invented during the Han dynasty in China.

  Oh my God. It’s lodestone. This entire structure is made of lodestone.

  I know exactly what to do. (At least, I think I do.)

  CHAPTER 7

  It’s Getting Hot in Here

  “I DON’T GET IT. WHY ARE YOU SO EXCITED ABOUT A LOAD of stone?” Hamza sidles up to me as I wave my hands around, all excited as I figure out how to explain what I need to Abdul Rahman, Maqbool, and Razia. The properties of lodestone may limit jinn powers—Maqbool said they could only be their essential selves in here—and that’s exactly what I’m counting on.

  “Lodestone. It’s a type of stone that is magnetized. It’s pretty rare. I bet museums would go bananas if they saw a whole structure of it.”

  Hamza shrugs.

  I roll my eyes. “Pay attention in science class. The treasure chest”—I point to the domed ceiling—“is probably held up by magnetism. To free it of its maglev bonds, we need to demagnetize the walls.” I’m so excited that my words spill out of my mouth, banging and smashing against one another.

  But I’m met with blank stares. Aargh. No one is getting it. I wonder if I’ve made a miscalculation. Forgotten basic principles of magnetism? I sigh. Sensei’s words come back to me: You need to believe here and here. He said that while pointing to his head and heart. We don’t have a lot of other options. Might as well try this one. The worst thing I could do is fail. And be humiliated. But the world might end anyway, so at least my cringeworthy moment wouldn’t last long.

  I take a deep breath, put on my best explain-y teacher voice. “Lodestone is a permanent magnet, except it’s not technically permanent.”

  “So an impermanent permanent magnet. That makes no sense.” Hamza knits his eyebrows together.

  “It means that the magnet retains its, uh, magnetism without help from an outside source, unlike other magnets, which eventually lose their power. But… anyway, a permanent magnet actually can be demagnetized. With heat. Since the entire building is lodestone, we need to heat the walls up a lot. Like, to one thousand degrees or more.”

  “But how would…” Hamza trails off, a grin spreading across his face. “Like maybe with fire?”

  I nod. “Like maybe with fire.”

  Maqbool’s eyes light up, literally. Razia smiles.

  “Would someone please explain in terms a jinn can understand?” Abdul Rahman furrows his very wide brow.

  “Wow, jinn really don’t know how forces on Earth work, do you?” I’m maybe being a bit bratty about this, but after all of Abdul Rahman’s raised eyebrows and exasperated tones, he kind of deserves it.

  Abdul Rahman scoffs. “I know the important things!”

  “I understand,” I say as I spy Maqbool and Hamza trade looks and try to stifle their giggles. “What I need is for all of you jinn types to unleash your inner fire so we can heat these walls up to one thousand degrees.”

  “Yeah, let your flame flag fly!” Hamza yells.

  I nod. “Stop using your energy to keep this shape. Be your true jinn essence.”

  “This is a most unorthodox request from a champion,” Abdul Rahman says. “I’m certain Suleiman the Wise meant for you to get this chest down yourselves.”

  “That’s exactly what we are trying to do,” Hamza says.

  “Yes,” I say. “With science. Brain muscle, not muscle muscle. And with a little help from our friends.” I smile.

  “Very well, then.” Abdul Rahman nods. “Children, shelter yourselves in the entryway.” He hands us the cloak from around his neck. “Wrap this around yourselves. It will protect you. Flame cannot penetrate it.”

  We hurry toward the building’s entry—as far as we can get from the jinn. No time to lose. We’ve lost so much already.

  Hamza and I crouch down, and I throw the violet robe over us. It’s featherlight, and we can see through the fibers. How can it protect us from anything?

  We huddle closer. Neither of us say it, but I can feel our shared thoughts in the air between us: Please, please let this work. My hands get all clammy. I shiver.

  Then the room is on fire.

  Through the weave of the cloak, we see orange-blue flames leap from the skin of all the jinn. They touch the walls with their hands, and their bodies transform into infernos. Even with the cloak protecting us, the heat hits us like a wave, like when you step too close to a raging bonfire. The lodestone glows, its metal sheen ablaze. Sweat pours down my back.

  Right before we melt into human goo, I hear a crackle, a pop, and see the large iron chest careening toward the floor. It’s going to shatter. It’s going to split open the ground. But inches before it touches, I see Razia and two dozen or so other Supahi whip out their daggers and slide them across the floor, taking up a rectangular formation, catch
ing the chest on the hilts right before it crashes to the ground. The jinn return to their people-like form, and the room immediately cools.

  “Did you see that?” Hamza yells, jumping up from behind the cloak. “How fast they moved? The blades catching the light? Total slo-mo movie sequence except, you know, not in actual slow motion. The Supahi should meet up with the Dora Milaje. They’d be unstoppable.”

  Hamza doesn’t seem to be freaking out that much about this whole Chosen One, Earth-ending scenario because I think half the time his imagination is planted in an alternate superhero reality anyway. He’s living the ultimate fan fiction. I wish I could feel the same. Maybe it would give me immunity from the terror ripping at my insides even though I’m thrilled that I was right about the maglev bonds holding up the chest.

  Hamza races toward the iron chest, and I follow close behind.

  “Use the robe! Don’t touch it with your hands!” yells Maqbool. “You’ll burn yourself!”

  The deep gray iron chest is unadorned. There are no latches. I guess Suleiman the Wise figured if someone got it down, they were owed whatever was inside. There’s a handle jutting out from the top. I wrap Abdul Rahman’s cloak around it as he nods with approval. Then, together, Hamza and I heave open the lid.

  The inside looks like the night sky—black velvet illuminated with tiny stars spreading across the fabric. They look like they’re embroidered with threads of silvery moonlight. We reach in to take the gifts awaiting us: a dagger with an ivory hilt bejeweled with bright blue lapis lazuli. Hamza’s eyes widen with excitement as he holds it in his hand.

  “Celestial steel,” whispers Maqbool. “It can cut through anything.”

  I touch a smooth leather quiver filled with emerald-tipped arrows. Next to it is a black bow that has the same metallic sheen as the walls. It feels good when I pick it up. Solid. I pull the straps across my chest and settle the quiver and bow against my back. They’re impossibly light. Lighter than when I lifted them out of the chest. Not sure how the physics of that works, but like I said, all the regular rules feel a little bent right now. I mean, yes, I figured out that the walls were lodestone and could be demagnetized, but also, there is no place in the world with this much lodestone. And I had to use a jinn furnace. Though, if I believe the whole it was written line that Abdul Rahman keeps quoting, then Suleiman the Wise would have known everything would happen as it did because he read it in the Everlasting Scroll. Still don’t really believe the destiny angle, because every single moment up to now feels like some weird combination of being in the wrong place at the right time, luck, and random lessons from science class.

  Hamza reaches in one more time and pulls out a silver-gray—“Uh… is this a ribbon?”

  I rub the fabric between my fingers. It feels like… silk? But more elastic-y. Rubbery silk. It’s too wide to be a ribbon. I grab one end and let it unfurl toward the floor, scrutinizing every inch to see if I can figure out what it’s for.

  Hamza sniffs it.

  “How is smelling this thing helpful?”

  “It’s about as helpful as what you’re doing.”

  “I’m sizing it up,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “So I can figure out its, uh, purpose.” I take the loose end in my free hand and flip the sash from vertical to horizontal, holding it out at arm’s length in front of me. Its long, wide pleats fold smoothly one over the other.

  “You know what this looks like? Remember when Ummi and Papa went to that hospital fundraiser?”

  Hamza nods.

  “Papa wore a tux. This looks like the sash he wore around his waist. Ummi said it had an Urdu name.… a cummerbund!” Kamar. Waist. Band. Strap.

  “Does battling the Ifrit mean wearing a magical tuxedo? It’s not my first choice, but I’m in.” Hamza seems totally serious as he says this.

  “I think Ummi said the original meaning of the Urdu word—kamarband—was for what soldiers in the Indian Army used to tie around their waists to hold weapons. So maybe that’s what it’s for.”

  “Not exactly blown away by this, er, gift? But I guess I can’t exactly stick a dagger in my pocket,” Hamza says, and starts wrapping it around his waist.

  Maqbool clears his throat. “Is there only one cummerbund?” He catches Abdul Rahman’s eye. “Seems odd seeing that there are two Chosen Ones. Don’t you agree, my Vizier?”

  “It’s obviously meant to be shared,” he responds.

  I get why Maqbool is suspicious. We’re not exactly hero material. I mean, who could possibly think that a girl who can’t pass the test for her next karate belt and her younger brother, a rock climber afraid of heights, would be the ones chosen to save the world? I wish Maqbool believed—or at least could fake it. It would make me feel a lot, lot, lot better if he seemed as sure as Abdul Rahman is. But the tiny part of me that isn’t completely and totally freaking out is kind of psyched that I solved this challenge using my knowledge of magnets! (Note to self: Figure out if there’s any way I can get extra credit in science class for this.)

  “Hang on,” Hamza says. There’s an envelope, too. He picks up a brittle yellow paper between his fingers—it looks like it could crumble into dust any second—and turns it to the back, where there’s a dark red wax seal. It looks like a star and there are some words, Arabic letters maybe? They look a little like Urdu, but I can’t make them out.

  “Khatam Suleiman,” Razia whispers.

  “The what now?” Hamza asks.

  “The Seal of Suleiman, made by his Ring of Power,” Maqbool answers. “He has left this for you.”

  “Let me open it,” I say, carefully prying the envelope from Hamza’s hands.

  I break the seal. I keep waiting for, like, a concealed trap to set off flying poison darts, but nothing happens. My dad says I shouldn’t always expect the worst. But so far, everything has kind of been worse than anything I imagined. Dropping the envelope back into the chest, I carefully unfold the letter and read aloud:

  To the champion of Qaf,

  You have met the first challenge with aplomb. I have arranged these for your wits only to solve so that no impostor may claim the mantle of champion. Beware that more dangerous obstacles await you. Set by the offspring of the one who rebelled, the dev who tore a hole in the fabric of the universe.

  It is written that you alone stand between man and his ultimate destruction—

  Uh, record scratch. “What’s up with the sexism. It’s constantly the world of men or the destruction of man.” I roll my eyes.

  “Who cares,” Hamza says. “Keep reading. Or give it to me, I’ll—”

  “Get your mitts off of it.”

  “Look.” Hamza points to the bottom of the letter. “There’s something in different color ink, like a special message.” Hamza moves closer and reads over my shoulder. “What you seek is seeking you. Well, that’s not creepy. And what does the next paragraph say? The writing is so tiny.”

  He shoves in to get a better look, bumping me and pushing me forward. I stumble and throw out a hand to balance myself. Hamza reaches for my elbow to pull me back so I don’t fall into the chest.

  “Children, careful! That paper is very—”

  But Maqbool doesn’t get a chance to finish because a small tremor shakes the floor, making Hamza fall into me, and instead of helping me straighten up, Hamza tries to grab my arm to pull us both back, but he misses and grabs the letter. Before he can move his hand, the floor shakes again, pulling us apart. And the paper along with us. Hamz and I each have a piece in our hands. The two halves spark and turn to ash immediately.

  Uh oh.

  This is bad.

  A much stronger tremor shakes the room. This time, even the jinn stagger forward.

  This is worse.

  “The Box of the Moon. Check it!” shouts Abdul Rahman.

  Hamza’s backpack is by the wall where he was sulking. We race over to it. He grabs it and opens it. The gears are in motion, and the tiny moon is closer to Earth.

  Nope. I was wrong ear
lier. This is worse. The worst. Like moon-shatteringly bad. Literally.

  Abdul Rahman joins us to take a look at the moving moon in the Box and turns an even deeper blue than he already is. I can feel heat pulsing off him. Like he’s holding back his fire. Abdul Rahman claps his hands, and the sound explodes across the dome. “That’s it. We can’t wait any longer. We make for the Obsidian Wall. Now. No more arguing and no more destroying ancient documents, or I’ll turn you both to ash.”

  We hurry back to the golden throne, feeling occasional shocks beneath our feet as the treetops sway above. We’re mostly silent. Personally, I’m keeping my mouth shut because I’m afraid I’ll puke. Hamza hasn’t said a word, either, which is a rare occurrence. Wish my parents were here to see this. Wish my parents were here, period. Not sure what is more terrifying: Seeing that piece of the moon growing larger in the sky and noticing the cracks on the lunar surface getting deeper, or having a jinn threaten to turn us to ash like Suleiman’s letter.

  I can tell Abdul Rahman feels bad about what he said. He’s been hanging back with Maqbool, who is moving his hands around wildly while he speaks in a language I don’t understand. And Abdul Rahman’s face actually looks… sad?

  We all take our places on the throne again. Heading for the Obsidian Wall. Whatever that is. I don’t even bother to ask the question, because I’m guessing we’ll get yelled at again. Not really sure how this Chosen One thing is supposed to work, but it sure does involve a lot of shouting.

  Once we’re seated, Maqbool clears his throat and raises an eyebrow at Abdul Rahman, who slowly nods, then speaks, “Ahh, yes, children, I must explain something to you.” Clearly, someone got a talking to. “We will now begin a short journey to the Obsidian Wall.” Hamza opens his mouth to speak, but Abdul Rahman cuts him off. “We will traverse close to the ground, merely feet above, as we ascend up the mountain. This is simply faster than walking at human speed and will prevent unnecessary trips and falls.” Hamza looks relieved.