Stop. A rush of energy punched through her like it had back on the ship, an instinct of self-preservation. That was not the kind of future Hatset was offering.
That was not the kind of future Nahri would ever have.
Because the queen’s words were untangling. How fiercely she loved her children. How reckless she knew her son could be in pursuit of doing the right thing. How her dead husband, another cunning ruler, had planned to bring Ali down with a single letter written in Nahri’s hand.
“You’re not interested in making me queen,” Nahri finally said. “You’re interested in ending this war before it truly begins, and you want to use me to keep Ali in Ta Ntry where he’s safe.”
The silence that fell in the corridor was deafening. Ah. Nahri could always tell when she’d called a mark true.
Hatset clasped her hands together, a very imperial gesture. “Do you know what it’s like to wait for news that your child is dead? To wonder if every letter, every visitor hesitating on your doorstep, is going to be the one to shatter your world? Because I’ve gone through that twice now, Banu Nahri. So you will forgive me for not wanting to watch my son rush into a war he cannot win against the only person who’s ever truly frightened me.”
“You don’t know that we can’t win,” Nahri said vehemently. “And what about your other child? Have you forgotten—”
“There is not a second in the day I forget where Zaynab is.” True fury—the kind Nahri had never heard from the always calm queen—scorched in Hatset’s voice. “Ali killing himself in Daevabad won’t bring her home.”
That was not ground on which Nahri was going to win. She changed course. “You can’t truly be asking me to continue lying to Ali and Jamshid about Muntadhir. That’s a cruelty beyond you.”
“So tell them both and divorce Muntadhir,” Hatset replied, launching into what must have been her backup plan with a speed Nahri envied. “There’s not a sheikh in Ta Ntry who would deny you a divorce. You could be married in a matter of months.”
“I don’t want to be married in a matter of months!”
“Then you’re a fool,” Hatset charged. “You’re the one who brought up Zaynab, so now you’re going to hear what I would tell my daughter if she was in your position: women like us don’t get to stay independent. You’ve journeyed alone with a man twice now. People talk, and they say vicious things. They’ve been saying vicious things about you and both of these men for a long time. You need to make your loyalty clear.”
It was Nahri’s turn to be angry. “I have made my loyalty clear.” She was furious now, and she leaned into it. Fury was familiar. “I’m loyal to Daevabad and its people. I’ve been forced into a marriage once and seen the resentment it breeds. I won’t do it again, especially not with a man who I—”
“A man who you what? A man who you betrayed your own mother to save? Who has you smiling like a schoolgirl when you open your bedroom door? Ah, yes, a terrible fate to marry a kind young king who loves you and stay a few years in a peaceful castle on the sea. Far better to destroy yourself out of pride and end up a prisoner in another gilded cage back in Daevabad.”
The words were delivered with more frustration than malice. Nahri believed Hatset: this probably was the advice she would have given Zaynab. That made it worse, this passing of a barbed baton between women who, no matter how clever, how powerful, would always be known by the men to whom they were attached.
Nahri turned away. At the end of the corridor, a wide window opened on the midnight forest, revealing a glimmer of the sea shining beyond the tangle of black trees. Nahri paced toward it, wanting to put space between herself and the queen. She pressed her palms on the stone sill. It was cold and rough beneath her hands, solid.
Hatset was waiting for an answer. Nahri could feel her eyes on her back. Nahri did know about the whispers in the castle. She knew what people said about her and Dara. What they said about her and Ali.
To hell with them all.
“I’ll give you until tomorrow to tell Ali about Issa,” Nahri said, still staring out the window. “I pray you do. Because it’s going to break his heart if he finds out you lied about Muntadhir, and Ali doesn’t deserve that.”
Hatset sighed. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I would rather make a mistake than have my choices stripped away.” Nahri tried to sound firm, as if it didn’t feel like she was also snuffing out something in her heart, something small and fragile and new. “I won’t marry him. Not like this. And I will never abandon Daevabad.” She drew her shayla close before turning back in the direction of her rooms. “Talk to your son, my queen. I’ve made my decision.”
26
ALI
Ali was a groggy mess by the time he finally woke up the next morning. He groaned into his pillow; silk sheets tangled around his body.
Wait … a pillow? Silk sheets? A mattress?
Ta Ntry. He inhaled, smelling myrrh along with the ocean’s tang on the fresh air. Ali rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. He felt unusually foggy-headed, sleep clinging determinedly to him as he tried to recall what had led to his being in this bed. The last thing he remembered was eating dinner with his mother and then being escorted to a dim room that some people—God, Ali had been so tired he couldn’t even remember their faces—assured him was his.
He squinted in the darkness now. It was a pleasant room, three large windows lit with the deep purple of approaching dawn. Water for washing had been left beside a crisp pale blue robe with an unnecessary amount of maroon embroidery on the sleeves and collar, cut in Ayaanle fashion. A matching cap rested beside it.
Sluggishly rising to his feet—what was wrong with him this morning?—Ali made his way to the tin basin, mumbling a prayer of intention. His reflection rippled in the water.
As did a pair of flat black eyes, round as plates.
Ali recoiled. He shoved the basin away, and water sloshed out, splashing to the floor.
What in God’s name was that? After a moment—and now fully awake—he edged closer again, peering over the basin.
There was nothing. His heart pounding, Ali dipped his hand in the cool water, running his fingers along the basin’s smooth bottom. He wanted so desperately to believe that the sharklike eyes might have been a figment of his imagination, a sleepy remnant of a dream.
Except this was Ali’s life, and being spied upon by some unseen water spirit seemed more likely.
There was also nothing he could do if indeed one of Sobek’s curious cousins had just stolen a peek at him. Instead, Ali finished his ablutions and dressed. A prayer mat had been left on an embossed wooden chest, but with a glance at the sky, Ali estimated he had enough time to walk to the village’s open mosque. He knew it would feel good to pray underneath the vanishing stars and in the quiet company of those who also preferred to perform fajr at the mosque.
A soldier just outside Ali’s door jumped to attention when he opened it.
“Prince Alizayd,” the guard greeted him, touching his heart and brow in the Geziri salute. “Peace be upon you.”
“And upon you peace,” Ali said. He frowned, studying the man’s lowered gaze. “Wait … Sameer?” He laughed, clapping the other man’s shoulder. “Is it really you?”
The guard smiled bashfully. “I wasn’t sure you would remember me.”
“Of course I remember you! I remember everyone in my cadet class—especially the boys who warned me that others had slipped a baby crocodile under my blanket. How are you? How did you get all the way out here?”
“I am well, praise God. I was transferred to Dadan after I finished training at the Citadel,” Sameer explained, naming one of the northernmost garrisons in Am Gezira. “The Qaid came through on his way to Ta Ntry and ordered us all to accompany him.”
Well, that accounted for the dozens of Geziri warriors milling about. “I’m glad to see you,” Ali replied. “It’s good to know others from our class survived.”
Sameer’s expression grew somber. “I still
can’t believe what happened to the Citadel.” He flushed. “Forgive me, I know you were there—”
“It’s fine. I know I’m not the only person who lost friends that night.” But Ali changed the subject, trying to stay ahead of his emotions. “I’m headed to the masjid for fajr if you’d like to join me.”
Happy surprise filled Sameer’s eyes. “I would be honored, Your Highness—I mean, Your Majesty,” he corrected. “I apologize; the men and I weren’t certain which to use.”
Taken aback, Ali realized that neither was he. The kingly title probably shouldn’t have been a surprise—he was the last Qahtani prince and already bore Suleiman’s seal on his face. There was a ceremony, of course, to make it official: a simple one in the custom of his practical tribe. The officers, the nobles, essentially anyone in a position of authority would pledge their loyalty to his rule in a public place, offering wooden tokens with their names while the sheikhs and leaders of various villages and clans would send contracts upon wooden slates or bark paper. Ali would have burned them a month after his coronation, in a fire conjured by his own hands—a fire he would have pledged to enter himself if he ever broke his people’s trust.
As ridiculous as it seemed, Ali hadn’t thought much about his political future. He’d been focused on getting to Ta Ntry, consumed by the catastrophic fall of his home and family. Oaths and ceremonies and titles—all that seemed a world away, belonging to a father who’d been larger than life and to a gleaming seat of jewels. Ali couldn’t imagine sitting on the shedu throne or making anyone bow before him. He was an exiled prince on the run with no possessions save his zulfiqar, surviving on the grace of others.
Realizing Sameer was still waiting for a response, Ali said what felt honest. “‘Brother’ is fine. I’m not one for titles, and I think we’re all in this mess together. Now let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
SHEFALA WAS LOVELY IN THE QUIET DAWN, THE CASTLE mostly empty. A mossy stone path led away from its coral walls and through a wooded glen of chirping birds and towering old trees, their silvery trunks so wide it would have taken two people holding hands to encircle them. Movement past the thick scrub caught Ali’s eyes, and he let out a delighted sound as he spotted a pair of giraffes in the grassy field beyond, eating from a towering mimosa tree.
The mosque was elegantly sparse—reed mats and woolen carpets set on the cleared ground between enormous columns carved from baobab trees. A wooden lattice had been constructed overhead, perhaps to carry a roof during the rainy season.
A larger crowd than Ali would have expected was already gathered there, the men and women on opposite sides. The majority were Ayaanle and Geziris, but Ali also saw some of Fiza’s shafit crew, a half dozen Sahrayn, and a handful of the merchants and travelers from the other tribes who’d been visiting Ta Ntry when word came of Daevabad’s fall.
Ali entered, and a shift went through the worshippers, who murmured salaams and blessings. He offered a weak smile, uneasy at being a distraction, but trying to return as many of the greetings as possible before taking a spot in the back next to a white-haired Ayaanle man who’d been propped up against cushions.
The old man gave him a startled look, one eye blurred by a cataract, and then laughed. “What are you doing next to me, prince? We’ve been waiting for you to come lead the prayer!”
Blood rushed into Ali’s face. “I’m honored, but that’s really unnecessary. I wouldn’t want to displace—”
“Oh, just do it.” Fiza had entered the mosque, a turban wrapped around her hair. She grinned at the old man. “His recitation is very lovely.”
Ali looked at her in surprise. “Thank you?”
Fiza laughed. “You don’t need to look so shocked. Criminals occasionally need God too—we’ve got more things that require forgiving.”
Ali glanced over the expectant faces. The last time he’d led prayer for a group this size had been back in Bir Nabat, and the memory stirred his heart. He’d been so content there, his restlessness satisfied by the good work he could do for the people who’d protected him. It was the kind of respect one had to earn, not the kind gained by fancy titles and jeweled thrones.
He smiled at the waiting congregants. “As long as some of you will chat with me afterward, I would be honored.”
ALI STAYED AT THE MOSQUE UNTIL THE LAST PERSON left, leading prayer and then sitting and catching up with the djinn who’d attended. He listened more than he talked, drinking rounds of coffee and tea as Geziri soldiers spoke in grief-stricken voices about their murdered companions at the Citadel and foreign traders worried about being so far from home during a war. Nearly everyone had loved ones in Daevabad, more than one person breaking down in tears as they recalled sending an excited brother or daughter off to Navasatem. Ali heard stories of how panicked everyone had been when magic failed, their lives upended in a day as they wondered if the Almighty had come to punish them again.
They were heavy tales, and Ali perhaps should have felt weighed down by them, engulfed by the same dread that had overwhelmed him yesterday at the thought of such responsibility.
But he didn’t feel overwhelmed. Instead, by the time Ali was ready to return to the castle, he felt … grounded. He and Nahri weren’t doing this alone. They had people—good people, smart people, brave people—fighting alongside them.
He stopped at the door, smiling at the old man. Ali hadn’t missed how intently the elder had been watching him. “Would you like me to take you back to the castle, Grandfather?”
His grandfather gave him a mischievous grin. “What gave it away?”
“A number of things, not least of which is the family resemblance.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. Ali didn’t doubt his mother’s words regarding his grandfather’s health and mental state, but Seif Shefala shone with cleverness. “Bah, I doubt I was ever as spry and handsome as you.”
Ali laughed and offered his arm, helping his grandfather into a well-cushioned wheeled seat. “I’m sure you were even more dashing. But why didn’t you introduce yourself earlier?”
“I find I can get a more accurate measure of a man when he’s not aware he’s being appraised.”
“And have I passed muster?”
“That depends on whether or not you can sneak me back into the castle without your mother noticing. Since when are daughters allowed to shut their parents away?”
Ali began wheeling the chair back toward the castle. “She’s always been overprotective.”
The town was waking up, the aroma of brewing coffee and sleepy whispers coming from the homes around them. Again, Ali was struck by a surreal sense of belonging, the knowledge that this place had hosted those of his blood for centuries and, but for a few quirks in his fate, might have been his home.
Daevabad is your home. “I feel as though I should thank you,” he said to his grandfather. “For all the support you’ve shown me through the years.”
“You mean, the money I’ve filled your Treasury vaults with since you were a babe?” His grandfather cackled. “No thanks needed, my boy. The politely irate letters your father sent in return were their own reward. Nothing as prickly as wounded Geziri honor.”
They entered the castle. The sweet song of birds and the dappled sunlight on the old bricks in the courtyard made Ali feel like he’d stumbled upon a forgotten ruin. He had no doubt the castle looked mesmerizing with its magic, bustling and lively when filled with people, but seeing it like this made him feel closer to his ancestors, to the men and women who would have wandered wide-eyed through the human world, creating new lives for themselves.
“This place is incredible,” Ali said admiringly. “I love the way the buildings incorporate what the humans left behind. Do you know anything about the ones who used to live here?”
“Only that the humans were long gone by the time my great-great-grandfather arrived.” Regret peppered Seif’s voice. “They must have been a clever bunch. We still find old tools and pieces of these lovely pots with a glaze no
one can re-create. But the first generation of our family to return to Ta Ntry after the war was cagey about their roots, and I suspect that extended to the past of their new home too.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why we don’t have a proper surname, using Shefala instead? That’s a Djinnistani custom. Not that it was uncommon among the Ayaanle who came back to Ta Ntry after serving the Qahtanis. I’m guessing in the chaos of war and revolution, there were plenty of people who reinvented themselves.” His grandfather rolled his eyes. “There are a lot of snobbish old families who never left this coast and sniff down upon us now, but I like to think it means our ancestors were wily.”
Ali thought of that. How much of his life, all their lives and their histories, unraveled the more it was examined? The stories he’d grown up on were just that—stories, with more complicated roots and vastly different interpretations than he could possibly have imagined. It was unsettling, the world and truth he knew getting constantly shaken up.
But it also seemed to bring the past nearer and make it real. Six years ago, people like Zaydi al Qahtani had been legends from another age. Perfect, their feats unparalleled. Now Ali could see the messiness behind the myth, the hero who’d saved the shafit but also made terrible mistakes.
“Abu Hatset …” A young Ayaanle woman appeared in an arched doorway. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” She bowed politely to Ali. “Would you mind if I take our fugitive back to his bed where he’s supposed to be resting?”
“Of course.” Ali glanced at his grandfather. “This was a delight. May I visit you again?”
“I would be offended if you didn’t.” Seif’s voice grew conspiratorial. “Bring those date fritters the cook makes, the ones in rose syrup. Your mother is a tyrant when it comes to my sugar intake.”
Biting back a smile, Ali touched his heart. “I’ll see what I can do.”
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