“That isn’t necessary,” she protested. She wasn’t the only one. Alizayd pointed in Dara’s direction, a flurry of Geziriyya coming from his mouth.
The king hissed a reply and raised his hand, and Alizayd shut up, but Nahri wasn’t convinced. She didn’t want to go anywhere with the rude prince, and she certainly didn’t want to leave Dara’s side.
Dara, however, reluctantly nodded. “You should rest, Nahri. You’ll need your strength for the coming days.”
“And you won’t?”
“Oddly enough, I am perfectly well.” He squeezed her hand, sending a rush of warmth straight to her heart. “Go,” he urged. “I promise not to go to war without your permission,” he added with a sharp smile at the Qahtanis.
As Dara released her hand, she caught sight of the king’s careful gaze on the two of them. Ghassan nodded at her, and she followed the prince through an enormous set of doors.
Alizayd was halfway down the wide, arcaded corridor by the time she reached him. She jogged, trying to keep up with his long strides while casting curious glances at the rest of the palace. What she saw was well maintained, but she could sense the age of the ancient stone and crumbling facades.
A pair of servants bowed low as they passed, but the prince didn’t seem to notice. He kept his head down as they walked. He clearly hadn’t inherited his father’s diplomatic warmth, and the openly hostile way he had spoken to Dara made her nervous.
Nahri sneaked a look at him from the corner of her eye. Young was her first impression. His hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders hunched, Alizayd carried his lanky body as if he’d recently sprouted into his alarming height and was still getting used to it. He had a long, elegant face, one that might have even been handsome had it not been furrowed in a scowl. His chin was scruffy, more the hope of a beard than anything substantial. Besides the copper scimitar, a hooked dagger was tucked in his belt, and Nahri thought she caught sight of another small knife bound to his ankle.
He glanced over, probably in the hope of studying her in a similar fashion, but their eyes caught, and he quickly looked away. Nahri cringed as the silence between them grew more strained.
But he was the king’s son, and she was not easily deterred. “So,” she started in Arabic, remembering what Ghassan said about him studying the language. “Think your father’s going to kill us?”
She’d meant it as a poor joke to lighten the mood, but Alizayd’s face twisted in open displeasure. “No.”
The fact that he answered so easily—like he’d been mulling over the question himself—shocked her out of her feigned casualness. “You sound disappointed.”
Alizayd gave her a dark look. “Your Afshin is a monster. He deserves to lose his head a hundred times over for the crimes he’s committed.” Nahri startled, but before she could respond, the prince pulled open a door and beckoned her through. “Come.”
The sudden appearance of the late-afternoon light dazzled her eyes. The lilt of birdsong and monkey calls broke the quiet, occasionally cresting into the croak of a frog and the rustle of crickets. The air was warm and moist, so fragrant with the aroma of rose blossoms, rich soil, and wet wood that her nose stung.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, her amazement only grew. What stretched before them could hardly be called a garden. It was as vast and wild as the feral woods she and Dara had journeyed through, more like a jungle intent on devouring its garden roots. Dark vines sprawled from its depths like lapping tongues, swallowing the crumbling remains of fountains and ensnaring defenseless fruit trees. Flowers in near violent hues—a crimson that shone like blood, a speckled indigo like a starry night—bloomed across the ground. A pair of spiky date palms glittered in the sun before her, made entirely of glass, she realized, their plump fruit a golden jewel.
Something swooped overhead, and Nahri ducked as a four-winged bird—its feathers the variants of colors one would see in a setting sun—flew past. It vanished into the trees with a low growl that could have come from a lion ten times its size, and Nahri jumped.
“This is your garden?” she asked in disbelief. A tiled path stretched before them, broken by gnarled, thorned roots and shrouded by moss. Tiny glass globes filled with dancing flames floated over it, illuminating its twisting route into the garden’s dark heart.
Alizayd looked insulted. “I suppose my people don’t keep the gardens as immaculate as your ancestors did. We find ruling the city to be a more appropriate use of time than horticulture.”
Nahri was losing patience with this royal brat. “So Geziri hospitality doesn’t involve stabbing your guests, but does allow for threats and insults?” she asked with mock sweetness. “How fascinating.”
“I . . .” Alizayd looked taken aback. “I apologize,” he finally muttered. “That was rude.” He stared at his feet and motioned toward the path. “If you please . . .”
Nahri smiled, feeling vindicated, and they continued. The path turned into a stony bridge hanging low over a glimmering canal. She glanced down as they crossed. The water was the clearest she’d ever seen, gurgling over smooth rocks and shining pebbles.
Before long they came upon a squat stone building rising from the vines and crowded trees. It was painted a cheerful blue with columns the color of cherries. Steam seeped from the windows, and a small herb garden hugged its exterior. Two young girls knelt among the bushes, weeding and filling a thatched basket with delicate purple petals.
An older woman with lined skin and warm brown eyes emerged from the building as they approached. Shafit, Nahri guessed, noticing her round ears and sensing the familiarity of a fast heartbeat. The woman wore her graying hair in a simple bun and was dressed in some complicated garment wound about her torso.
“Peace be upon you, sister,” Alizayd greeted her when she bowed, in a far kinder tone than he had used with Nahri. “My father’s guest has had a long journey. Do you mind caring for her?”
The woman gazed at Nahri with undisguised curiosity. “It would be an honor, my prince.”
Alizayd briefly met her eyes. “My sister will join you soon, God willing.” She could not tell if he was joking when he added, “She is better company.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, turning abruptly on his heel.
An ifrit would be better company than you. At least Aeshma had briefly attempted to be charming. Nahri watched as Alizayd quickly returned the way they’d come, feeling more than a little uneasy, until the shafit woman gently took her arm and guided her into the steamy bathhouse.