That stung, she couldn’t deny it. “Is that what this is about then? You’re ashamed of me?”
“I . . .” Dara shook his head. Something like regret seemed to briefly flicker in his face before he turned away. “Nahri, you didn’t grow up in my world. You can’t understand.”
“Thank God I didn’t! I probably would have been killed before my first birthday!”
Dara said nothing, his silence more revealing than any denial. Her stomach twisted. She’d been imagining her ancestors as noble healers, but what Dara suggested painted a far darker picture. “Then I’m glad the djinn invaded,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I hope they got vengeance for all the shafit my ancestors murdered!”
“Vengeance?” Dara’s eyes flashed, smoke curling out from under his collar. “Zaydi al Qahtani slaughtered every last Daeva man, woman, and child when he took the city. My family was in that city. My sister wasn’t even half your age!”
Nahri immediately backed down, seeing the grief in his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”
But he’d already turned away. He crossed toward their supplies, moving so fast the grass scorched beneath his feet. “I don’t need to listen to this.” He snatched his bag from the ground, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder before shooting her a hostile look. “You think your ancestors—my leaders—such monsters, the Qahtanis so righteous . . .” He jerked his head toward the encompassing darkness. “Why don’t you try singing for a djinn to save you next?”
And then before Nahri could say anything, before she could really comprehend what was happening, he stalked off, vanishing into the night.
8
Ali
Where is he?
Ali paced outside his father’s office. Muntadhir was supposed to meet him here before court, but it was getting late and there was still no sign of his perpetually tardy brother.
He gave the closed office door an anxious look. People had been passing through all morning, but Ali could not yet bring himself to go in. He felt terribly unprepared for his first day at court and had barely slept the night before, the spacious bed in his extravagant new quarters too soft and covered in an alarming number of beaded pillows. He’d finally settled for sleeping on the floor, only to be assailed by nightmares of being thrown to the karkadann.
Ali sighed. He took one last look down the corridor, but there was no sign of Muntadhir.
A flurry of activity greeted him when he entered the office, scribes and secretaries loaded with scrolls dashing past assorted ministers arguing in a dozen different languages. His father was at his desk, listening intently to Kaveh while one servant waved an incense burner of smoldering frankincense over his head and another adjusted the stiff collar of the white dishdasha he wore under his immaculate black robes.
No one seemed to notice Ali, and he was happy to keep it that way. Dodging a wine bearer, he pressed against the wall.
As if on some prearranged signal, the room began to disperse, the servants slinking away and the ministers and secretaries making their way toward the doors leading to the king’s massive audience hall. Ali watched as Kaveh made a notation on the paper in his hand and nodded.
“I’ll be sure to tell the High Priests that . . . ,” he trailed off and then abruptly straightened up as he noticed Ali. His face turned stormy. “Is this some sort of joke?”
Ali had no idea what he’d already done wrong. “I . . . I was supposed to come here, right?”
Kaveh gestured rudely at his clothes. “You’re supposed to be in ceremonial dress, Prince Alizayd. Robes of state. I had tailors sent to you last night.”
Ali mentally cursed himself. Two anxious Daeva men had presented themselves to him last night, stammering something about measurements, but Ali had dismissed them, not thinking much of it at the time. He neither desired nor needed new clothes.
He glanced down. His sleeveless gray tunic had only a couple of gashes where he’d been slashed during practice, and his indigo waist-wrap was dark enough to hide its zulfiqar burns. It looked fine to him.
“These are clean,” he argued. “I only wore them yesterday.” He gestured to his turban; the crimson cloth indicated his new position as Qaid. “This is all that matters, no?”
“No!” Kaveh looked incredulous. “You’re a Qahtani prince—you can’t go to court looking like someone just dragged you in from a sparring match!” He threw up his hands and turned to the king. Ghassan had said nothing, simply watching them fight with a strange twinkle in his eyes. “Do you see this?” he demanded. “Now we’ll have to start late so your son can be properly—”
Ghassan laughed.
It was a full-throated, hearty laugh, one Ali hadn’t heard from his father in years. “Aye, Kaveh, let him be.” The king came from behind the desk and clapped Ali on the back. “He has Am Gezira in his blood,” he said proudly. “Back home, we never bothered with all this ceremonial nonsense.” He chuckled as he led Ali toward the door. “If he looks like he just finished thrashing someone with a zulfiqar, so be it.”
His father’s praise was not a thing doled out often, and Ali could not help but feel his spirits lift. He glanced around as a servant reached for the door leading to the audience chamber. “Abba, where’s Muntadhir?”
“With the trade minister from Tukharistan. He’s . . . negotiating a deal to reduce the debt we owe for the Royal Guard’s new uniforms.”
“Muntadhir’s negotiating our debts?” Ali asked skeptically. His brother and numbers did not go well together. “I didn’t think economics his strong suit.”
“It’s not that type of negotiation.” When Ali’s confused frown only deepened, Ghassan shook his head. “Come along, boy.”
It had been years since Ali had last been in his father’s throne room, and he paused to fully appreciate it as they entered. The chamber was enormous, taking up the entire first level of the palatial ziggurat, and held up by marble columns so tall they disappeared into the distant ceiling. Although it was covered in fading paint and broken mosaics, one could still make out the flowery vines and ancient Daevastani creatures that had once decorated its surface—as well as the pockmarks where his ancestors had pried out gems; the Geziri were not ones to waste resources on ornamentation.