It did not take long for the night’s cold to sneak through the walls of the cell. They were thin and the wide space and windows did not help in keeping the heat inside.  Staying still left it to settle on his skin, but Curdle hadn’t wasted his energy pacing. 

He’d slept instead, when the excitement wore away all desire to be awake. Fear was no refuge. Shame was no shield. He'd slept because it was his only escape. The ache in his shoulders was what woke him when they began protesting the position his tied hands forced them into. He shivered then, confused, trying to reach for the light quilt that should have covered him. The movement sent him sliding to the side and he blinked his eyes open in surprise. He was leaning against a wall, alone, no quilt, no mattress, no master. 

Fiira was dead.

A poor memory to awaken to.

Curdle grunted as he struggled back upright, concerned by the growing numbness in his fingers, but not at all surprised by the same in his backside. Sitting too long on stone would do that to anyone. 

What he liked least was the creeping lassitude of his thoughts. Their sluggish stirring fit well with the shock of everything that had happened over the last two days. How far he had fallen. He had accepted Fiira’s death without truly seeing beyond it. He hadn’t allowed himself the chance to consider the consequences beyond pushing them away. Now, he was living them. They thought he’d killed her. Those that did not believe it were willing to let it be said. Because it forgave the fuss they’d made, and his being held. It explained her disappearance when they could not, and he would not. 

In that much, at least, he had held his own. Saying nothing, holding to silence as his final hope. As long as they did not find the urn, as long as they did not know to look for it, there was still a chance.

But below the calm surface, anger had turned his dreams restless. It sat in his chest, to the right of his heart, shortening his breath and echoing each drumming pulse in his ears. His hands were tied, a twist of rope holding him prisoner, a knot he could not reach with fingers that had lost all feeling. There was no one inside to watch his struggles, though he was certain enough that someone would be nearby. Earlier, he had let their confidence lull him. Let it soothe the quiet hurt that had curled itself up inside his bones as though the warmth of living blood was any comfort. They could say what they wanted of him, do what they would, because he’d done his best. The best that any jinn could offer their master. 

He’d given her remains away, not even on a promise that they might leave the walls. Then he had walked back not to gratitude for offering himself in service again, but to suspicion. 

If that was his best, him, a high noble’s personal jinni! He was not worth even a dog’s notion of faith. It was no wonder he’d thought he heard the West Wind laughing as he gave up. But worse, these people were not worth what he had given them. They were not worth his obedience, his service, his life. He owed them nothing. Fiira, of course, had been owed only what the contract demanded of him. But in the end, it hadn’t been a demand, had it? His one chance to prove he was more than a binding, ruined. By his own hand.

As the sun rose, scraping shadows across the floor with a harsh, unforgiving ease, Curdle watched the flat walls take on the faint texture of any mud-daubed hut. There was nothing special about his prison. Yet it held him still. Because he allowed it. Slowly, for the numbness was working its way up his wrists now, and his shoulders creaked with every movement, the jinni shifted to his feet and slid his way up the wall, grunting at stiffness reawakened. But it was only walls and a bit of rope, nothing more. He might not have fit through the windows, but they were large enough for a cat to slink through, or a bird. His mouth twisted beneath his beard, and a low chuckle grated from his dry throat even as his shape began to blur, shimmering like a mirage. Better to make it a bird then, a little one that would just slip right through the rope. He could feel the feathers, the shift in size, his toes stretching while his feet shrunk in his boots. 

And almost, almost he thought it might be that easy. But the rope, twisted and harsh as it had felt when they’d first tied it, suddenly seemed to tighten and he felt the smooth silk of hair. Cutting away contact with his hands, even as his magic flickered and flared, snapping further out of his control the harder he pushed against that resisting circle. It stung, biting away his breath. It burned, searing his skin. His insides were a mess of organs, small and large and disfigured, squeezing. Squeezing until he let go, gasping out a whimper, for he hadn’t the strength to scream. 

When he opened his eyes, Curdle was on his knees, forehead against the floor, staring at it. Shaking, shivering, scrambling for what was left of the scattered pieces of himself. Sweat dripped from his nose. It soaked through his shirt. He couldn’t stop the tremors.

This was why they did not set a guard inside the door. Why they didn’t need to find a prison more secure. Human hair, woven with hemp, a rope to steal his magic. His arms felt dead. He wasn’t even certain he still had hands. It was only good against shifting, but that was the strongest magic most jinn had when they were contracted. It could not defeat disbelief. Jinn magic was not a truth so much as a sideways lie, and while humans had ever been good at telling lies, they were just as quick to deny their own, so their bodies held very strictly to their shape. Humans were humans, no matter what others might think they looked like. There was nothing for his magic to work with then. And a bird with human hands was not a bird, no matter what he tried to convince himself.

It had taken him half the morning to stop trying, and half again of what was left to recover from that failure. When the bells rang noon he heard the guards outside being replaced, but they only pulled back a small flap to peer inside and check that he had not escaped and was not trying to. They gave him little chance to try anything with them. A desperate jinni was a dangerous jinni, but what could he do if there was nothing to make use of? 

He could find something… Somewhere else…

Curdle’s thoughts were tired. Not really logical, because of course he could not find anything anywhere else when he was tied up and unable to leave. But it was the best choice to make. And it was instinct that set his mind tumbling after the idea. In the oldest stories, jinn were creatures of air and fire, their power was in motion and sleight of hand. Deceit made real. Their realm was outside walls and restraints. They’d grown smaller over the years, solid, close, grounded. There was nothing left of that time other than remnants, ghosts and rumours. But as his mind slipped sideways into a daze, half seeking sleep and half reaching for refuge, the walls around him crumbled to dust, the roof had never been. His arms, disconnected with reality, spread on either side of him, lifted and rushed down, pushing him up away from the earth. 

A sharp wind suddenly rattled the roof tiles and spat sand into the guards’ eyes, making them curse and spit before checking both inside and out to be sure this was not some jinn magic at work. They found nothing untoward, no strangers without, and only one man within, sleeping through the heat of the day. 

Above them, he circled once in surprise, for the dream felt so real. But the realisation did not send him suddenly plunging towards the ground. He rose higher instead, relishing his newfound freedom before turning and rushing in a rough, headlong tumble towards the caravan routes. He had to find that woman and her cart.