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.”
Something twinkled in the Afshin’s bright eyes. “Right you are, boy.” He raised his blade.
Ali met his next thrust with a clash of their blades, but the Afshin was good, improving at a frighteningly fast rate, as if he could literally absorb each of Ali’s actions. He moved quicker and struck harder than anyone Ali had ever fought, had ever even imagined possible. The room grew hot. Ali’s brow felt oddly damp—but of course that wasn’t possible. Pureblooded djinn didn’t sweat.
The power behind the Afshin’s blows made it feel like sparring with a statue. Ali’s wrists ached; it was getting difficult to maintain his grip.
Darayavahoush was backing him into a tight corner when he abruptly broke away and lowered his zulfiqar. He sighed as he admired the blade. “Ah, I have missed this . . . Peacetime may have its virtues, but there’s nothing like the rush and clash of your weapon against the enemy’s.”
Ali took the moment to catch his breath. “I’m not your enemy,” he said through gritted teeth, though he very much disagreed with the sentiment right now. “The war is over.”
“So people keep telling me.” The Afshin turned away, strolling slowly across the room and deliberately leaving his back unprotected. Ali’s fingers twitched on his zulfiqar. He forced himself to push away the strong temptation to attack the other man. Darayavahoush wouldn’t have put himself in such a position if he were not entirely confident he could defend it.
“Was it your father’s idea to keep us separated?” the Afshin asked. “I was surprised by how eager he was to see me gone from Daevabad, even offering up his firstborn as collateral. And yet I’m still blocked from seeing my Banu Nahida. I was told there’s a waiting list for appointments the length of my arm.”
Ali hesitated, thrown by the abrupt change in subject. “Your arrival was unexpected, and she’s busy. Perhaps—”
“That order did not come from Nahri,” Darayavahoush snapped, and in an instant Ali felt the room grow hotter. The torch opposite him flared, but the Afshin didn’t seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the wall. It was where most of the weapons were stored, a hundred varieties of death hanging from hooks and chains.
Ali couldn’t help himself. “Looking for a scourge?”
Darayavahoush turned back around. His green eyes were bright with anger. Too bright. Ali had never seen anything like it, and the Afshin was not the first freed slave he’d met. He glanced again at the blazing torches, watching as they flickered wildly, almost as though they were reaching for the former slave.
The light faded from the Afshin’s eyes, leaving a calculating expression on his face. “I hear your father intends to marry Banu Nahri to your brother.”
Ali’s mouth fell open. Where had Darayavahoush learned that? He pressed his lips together, trying to hide the surprise in his face. Kaveh, it had to have been. Considering the way those fire worshippers were whispering together when they entered the training room, Kaveh was probably spilling every secret he knew. “Did the grand wazir tell you that?”
“No. You just did.” Darayavahoush paused long enough to enjoy the shock on Ali’s face. “Your father strikes me as a pragmatic man, and marrying them would be a most astute political move. Besides, you are rumored to be some sort of religious fanatic, but according to Kaveh, you’re spending a great deal of time with her. That would hardly be appropriate unless she was meant to join your family.” His eyes lingered on Ali’s body. “And Ghassan clearly doesn’t mind crossing tribal lines himself.”