“It’s their home,” Ghassan continued. “And I am their king. I will not allow the shafit—a problem the Daevas had no part in creating—to threaten them in their own home.” He turned to face Ali. “If you are to be Qaid, you must respect this.”
Ali lowered his gaze. He didn’t respect it; he entirely disagreed. “Forgive my impertinence.”
He suspected that wasn’t the answer Ghassan wanted—his father’s eyes stayed sharp another moment before he abruptly crossed the room toward the wooden shelves lining the opposite wall. “Come here.”
Ali followed. Ghassan picked up a long, lacquered black case from one of the upper shelves. “I hear nothing but compliments from the Citadel about your progress, Alizayd. You’ve a keen mind for military science and you’re one of the best zulfiqari in your generation. None would dispute that. But you’re very young.”
Ghassan blew the dust off the case and then opened it, pulling a silver arrow from a bed of fragile tissue. “Do you know what this is?”
Ali certainly did. “It’s the last arrow shot by an Afshin.”
“Bend it.”
A little confused, Ali nonetheless took the arrow from his father. Though it was incredibly light, he couldn’t bend it in the slightest. The silver still gleamed after all these years, only the scythe-ended tip dulled by blood. The same blood that ran in Ali’s veins.
“The Afshins were good soldiers too,” Ghassan said softly. “Probably the best warriors of our race. But now they’re dead, their Nahid leaders are dead, and our people have ruled Daevabad for fourteen centuries. And do you know why?”
Because they were infidels, and God willed us to victory? Ali held his tongue; he suspected if he said that, the arrow would be getting a new coat of Qahtani blood.
Ghassan took the arrow back. “Because they were like this arrow. Like you. Unwilling to bend, unwilling to see that not everything fit into their perfectly ordered world.” He put the weapon back in the case and snapped it shut. “There is more to being Qaid than being a good soldier. God willing, Wajed and I have another century of wine and ridiculous petitioners ahead of us, but one day Muntadhir will be king. And when he needs guidance, when he needs to discuss things only his blood can hear, he’ll need you.”
“Yes, Abba.” Ali was willing to say anything at this point to leave, anything that would let him escape his father’s measured gaze.
“There’s one more thing.” His father stepped away from the shelf. “You’re moving back to the palace. Immediately.”
Ali’s mouth dropped open. “But the Citadel is my home.”
“No . . . my home is your home,” Ghassan said, looking irritated. “Your place is here. It’s time you start attending court to see how the world works outside your books. And I’ll be able to keep a better eye on you—I don’t like the way you’re talking about the Daevas.”
Dread welled up in Ali, but his father didn’t press the issue. “You can go now. I’ll expect you at court when you’re settled in.”
Ali nodded and bowed; it was all he could do not to run for the door. “Peace be upon you.”
He’d no sooner stumbled into the corridor than he ran into his grinning brother.
Muntadhir pulled him into a hug. “Congratulations, akhi. I’m sure you’re going to make a terrifying Qaid.”
“Thanks,” Ali mumbled. He’d just witnessed the brutal death of his closest friend. That he was soon to be in charge of maintaining security for a city of bickering djinn was something he’d yet to dwell on.
Muntadhir didn’t seem to pick up on his distress. “Did Abba tell you the other good news?” When Ali made a noncommittal sound, he continued. “You’re moving back to the palace!”
“Oh.” Ali frowned. “That.”
His brother’s face fell. “You don’t sound very excited.”
A fresh wave of guilt swept over Ali at the hurt in Muntadhir’s voice. “It’s not that, Dhiru. It’s . . . it’s been a long morning. Taking over for Wajed, the news about the weapons . . .” He exhaled. “Besides, I’ve never been very . . .” He searched for a way to avoid insulting his brother’s entire social circle. “. . . comfortable around people here.”
“Ah, you’ll be fine.” Muntadhir threw his arm around Ali’s shoulder, half-dragging him down the corridor. “Stick by me, and I’ll make sure you get embroiled in only the most delightful of scandals.” He laughed when Ali gave him a startled look. “Come. Zaynab and I picked you out apartments near the waterfall.” They turned the corner. “With the most boring furnishings and least comfortable amenities. You’ll be right at ho—whoa.”
The brothers drew to an immediate stop. They had to. A wall stood in their way, a jewel-colored mural splashed across the stone.
“Well . . .” Muntadhir’s voice was shaky. “That’s new.”
Ali edged closer. “No . . . it’s not,” he said softly, recognizing the scene and remembering his long-ago history lessons. “It’s one of the old Nahid murals. They used to cover the palace walls before the war.”
“It wasn’t here yesterday.” Muntadhir touched the mural’s bright sun. It flashed beneath his fingertips, and they both jumped.
Ali gave the mural an uneasy look. “And you wonder why I’m not excited about moving back to this Nahid-haunted place?”
Muntadhir made a face. “It’s not usually this bad.” He nodded to one of the figures on the cracked plaster facade. “Do you know who that’s supposed to be?”
Ali studied the image. The figure looked human, a man with a flowing white beard and a silver halo above his crowned head. He stood before a crimson sun, one hand resting on the back of a roaring shedu, and the other holding a staff with an eight-pointed seal. The same seal that was on Ghassan’s right temple.
“It’s Suleiman,” Ali realized. “Peace be upon him.” He gazed at the rest of the painting. “I think it depicts the ascension of Anahid when she received her abilities and Suleiman’s seal.” His eyes fell on the bent figure at Suleiman’s feet. Only her back was visible, the long taper of her ears giving away that she was a djinn. Or daeva, rather. Anahid, first of her line.
Blue paint flooded Suleiman’s robes.
“Odd,” Muntadhir remarked. “I wonder why it picked today of all days to start trying to repair fourteen centuries of damage.”
A shiver went down Ali’s spine. “I don’t know.”
7
Nahri
“Raise your arm higher.”
Nahri lifted her elbow, tightening her grip on the dagger. “Like this?”
Dara made a face. “No.” He stepped up to her, the scent of his smoky skin tickling her nose, and adjusted her arm. “Loosen up; you need to be relaxed. You’re throwing a knife, not beating someone with a stick.”
His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary on her elbow, his breath warm against her neck. Nahri shivered; relaxing was a thing easier said than done when the handsome daeva was so close. He finally stepped away, and she fixed her eyes on the scrubby tree. She threw the dagger, and it sailed past the tree to land in a patch of bushes.