“You should go,” Darayavahoush interrupted. “I can find my way out. I defended the palace for years—I know it like the back of my hand.” He let the words lie for a moment and then turned his attention to Jamshid. His gaze lingered on the young Daeva’s wounds. “You were the one who stopped the riot, yes?”
Jamshid looked positively awed that the Afshin was speaking to him. “I . . . uh . . . yes. But I was just—”
“You are an excellent shot.” The Afshin looked the younger man over and clapped him on the back. “You should train with me. I can make you even better.”
“Really?” Jamshid burst out. “That would be wonderful!”
Darayavahoush smiled and then deftly snatched the zulfiqar away from Kaveh’s son. “Certainly. Leave this to the Geziri.” He raised the blade and twisted it, watching as it sparkled in the sunlight. “So this is the famous zulfiqar.” He tested the weight, looking it over with a practiced eye and then glanced at Ali. “Do you mind? I would not wish for the hands of a—what is it you call us? Fire worshipper?—to contaminate something so sacred to your people.”
“Afshin—” Kaveh started, his voice thick with warning.
“You may go, Kaveh,” Darayavahoush said, dismissing him. “Jamshid, why don’t you join him? Let me take your place and spar a bit with Prince Alizayd. I have heard such great talk of his skills.”
Jamshid glanced at Ali, looking apologetic and lost for words. Ali didn’t blame him; if Zaydi al Qahtani came back to life and complimented his skill with a zulfiqar, Ali would also be speechless. Besides, the arrogant gleam in Darayavahoush’s green eyes was fraying his last nerve. If the man wanted to challenge him with a weapon he’d never so much as held, so be it.
“It’s fine, Jamshid. Go with your father.”
“Prince Alizayd, that’s not a—”
“Good day, Grand Wazir,” Ali said sharply. He didn’t take his eyes off Darayavahoush. He heard Kaveh sigh, but there was no disobeying a direct order from one of the Qahtanis. Jamshid reluctantly followed his father out.
The Afshin shot him a much cooler look once the Pramukhs were gone. “You did quite a bit of damage to the grand wazir’s son.”
Ali flushed. “Have you never injured a man while training?”
“Not with a weapon I knew my opponent could never properly use.” Darayavahoush raised the zulfiqar to examine it as he circled Ali. “This is much lighter than I imagined. By the Creator, you would not believe the rumors about these things during the war. My people were terrified of them, said Zaydi stole them from the very angels guarding Paradise.”
“That’s the way of things, isn’t it?” Ali asked. “The legend outweighing the flesh-and-blood figure?”
His meaning was clearly not lost on the Afshin, who looked amused. “You are probably right.”
He charged then at Ali with a hard right strike that, if it had been a broadsword, would have knocked his head off from the force alone. But the zulfiqar was not that, and Ali easily ducked, taking advantage of Darayavahoush’s stumble to sweep the broad side of his blade on his back.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Prince Alizayd,” Darayavahoush continued, sidestepping Ali’s next thrust. “Your brother’s men were always talking about you; I’ve heard you’re the best zulfiqari in your generation, as talented and as fast as Zaydi himself. Even Muntadhir agreed; he says you move like a dancer and strike like a viper.” He laughed. “He’s so proud. It’s sweet. You rarely hear a man speak of his rival with such affection.”
“I’m not his rival,” Ali snapped.
“No? Then who becomes king after your father if something should happen to Muntadhir?”
Ali drew up. “What? Why?” A briefly irrational fear seized his heart. “Did you—”
“Yes,” Darayavahoush said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I murdered the emir and then decided to return to Daevabad and crow about it because I always wondered what it would be like to have my head on a spike.”
Ali felt his face grow warm. “Aye, don’t fret, little prince,” the Afshin continued. “I enjoyed your brother’s company. Muntadhir has a taste for life’s pleasures and talks too much when he’s in his cups . . . what’s not to like about that?”
The comment threw him—as it was presumably meant to—and Ali was unprepared when the Afshin raised his zulfiqar and rushed him again. The Afshin feinted left and then spun—faster than Ali had ever seen a man move—before bringing the blade down hard. Ali blocked him but just barely, his own zulfiqar ringing with the force of the hit. He tried to push back, but the Afshin didn’t budge. He held the zulfiqar with only one hand, not showing a hint of weariness.
Ali held tight, but his hands trembled on the hilt as the Afshin’s blade neared his face. Darayavahoush leaned close, putting his weight into the sword.
Brighten. Ali’s zulfiqar burst into flames, and Darayavahoush instinctively jerked back. But the Afshin recovered quickly, swinging his zulfiqar toward Ali’s neck. Ali ducked, feeling the whiz of the blade as it passed just over his head. He stayed low to aim a fiery blow at the backs of the Afshin’s knees. Darayavahoush stumbled, and Ali darted up and away.
He could kill me, Ali realized. One misstep was all it would take; Darayavahoush could claim it was an accident, and who would be able to dispute it? The Pramukhs were the only witnesses, and Kaveh would probably be overjoyed to cover up Ali’s murder.
You’re being paranoid. But when Darayavahoush struck out again, Ali met his advance with a bit more gusto, finally forcing him back across the room.
The Afshin lowered his zulfiqar with a wide grin. “Not bad, Zaydi. You fight very well for a boy your age.”
Ali was getting sick of that smug smile. “My name isn’t Zaydi.”
“Muntadhir calls you that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not my brother.”
“No,” Darayavahoush agreed. “I am certainly not. But you do remind me of your namesake.”
Considering that the original Zaydi and Darayavahoush had been mortal enemies in a century-long war that wiped out whole swaths of their race, Ali knew that wasn’t a compliment, but took it as such anyway. “Thank you.”
The Afshin studied the zulfiqar again, holding it so that the copper blade gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows. “Don’t thank me. The Zaydi al Qahtani I knew was a bloodthirsty rebel fanatic, not the saint your people have turned him into.”
Ali bristled at the insult. “He was bloodthirsty? Your Nahid Council was burning shafit alive in the midan when he rebelled.”
Darayavahoush lifted one of his dark eyebrows. “Do you know so much about the way things were a millennium before your birth?”
“Our records tell us—”
“Your records?” The Afshin laughed, a mirthless sound. “Oh, how I would love to know what those say. Can the Geziri even write? I thought all you did out there in your sandpits was feud and beg for human table scraps.”
Ali’s temper flashed. He opened his mouth to argue and then stopped, realizing just how carefully Darayavahoush was watching him. How intentionally he’d chosen his insults. The Afshin was trying to provoke him, and Ali would be damned if he was going to go along with it. He took a deep breath. “I can go sit in a Daeva tavern if I want to hear my tribe insulted,” he said dismissively. “I thought you wanted to spar.”