“Your brother?” Rashid repeated in disbelief. “You think Muntadhir is going to let you help the shafit—with money from the palace, at that?” He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t possibly be that naive, Ali. The only thing your brother’s going to do to the Treasury is drain it to pay for wine and dancing girls.”
“He won’t,” Ali protested. “He’s not like that.”
“He’s exactly like that,” Rashid replied. “Besides which, you haven’t fallen in line, not really. If you were loyal, you would have had us arrested.” He nodded rudely at the retirement papers. “I’d be dead, not pensioned off.”
Ali hesitated. “We have different views on how to help the shafit. That doesn’t mean I want you hurt.”
“Or you know we’re right. At least part of you does.” Rashid let the words hang in the air and then sighed, suddenly looking a decade older. “You won’t be able to continue like this, Alizayd,” he warned. “To keep walking a path between loyalty to your family and loyalty to what you know is right. One of these days, you’re going to have to make a choice.”
I’ve made my choice. Because as much as Ali had initially disagreed with his father’s plans regarding Nahri, he was starting to see where they could lead. A marriage between the emir and the Banu Nahida could bring true peace between the Daevas and the Geziris. And a Banu Nahida raised in the human world—who still looked human—might she not be able to nudge her tribe into being more accepting of the shafit? Ali sensed an opportunity, a true opportunity, to shake matters up in Daevabad and to make sure they landed right.
But he couldn’t do it from a jail cell. Ali handed the retirement papers back. “You should take these. Go home, Rashid.”
“I’m not going back to Am Gezira,” the other man said cuttingly. “I’m not leaving Daevabad, Sister Fatumai isn’t leaving the orphanage, and Hanno isn’t going to stop freeing shafit slaves. Our work is larger than any of us. I would have thought Sheikh Anas’s death taught you that.”
Ali said nothing. In truth, Anas’s death—what had led to it, what had come after—had taught Ali plenty. But they weren’t lessons he suspected Rashid would appreciate.
Something cracked in the other man’s face. “You were my idea, you know. My hope. Anas was reluctant to recruit you. He believed you were too young. I convinced him.” Regret filled his voice. “Maybe he was right.”
He turned away, heading for the door. “We won’t bother you again, Prince. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. And I hope you do. Because on the day of your judgment, Alizayd . . . when you’re asked why you didn’t stand up for what you knew was just . . .” He paused, his next words finding Ali’s heart like an arrow. “Loyalty to your family won’t excuse you.”
22
Nahri
The palanquin that carried Nahri from the palace was a far cry from the one in which she had arrived, the cozy “floral box” she’d shared with an irritated Afshin. A symbol of her elevated station, it could have fit a half-dozen people, and was supported by twice that number. The inside was embarrassingly sumptuous, stuffed with brocaded pillows, an untouched cask of wine, and hanging silk tassels fragrant with frankincense.
And thoroughly covered windows. Nahri tried tearing at the silk panel again, but it was sewn tight. She glanced at her hand, struck by another possibility. She opened her mouth.
“Don’t,” Nisreen said sharply. “Don’t even think of burning the curtains down. Especially not in that human language of yours.” She clucked her tongue. “I knew that Qahtani boy was going to be a bad influence.”
“He’s proving a most useful influence.” But Nahri sat back, throwing the covered windows an annoyed look. “This is the first time I’ve been able to leave the palace in months. You’d think I could actually look upon the city my ancestors built.”
“You can see the Grand Temple when we arrive. Nahids are not expected to mix with the general populace; such a thing would disgrace you.”
“I doubt that very much,” Nahri muttered, crossing her legs and tapping a foot against one of the palanquin’s support poles. “And if I’m in charge of the Daevas, can’t I change the rules? Meat is now permitted,” she intoned. “The Banu Nahida is allowed to interact with whomever she wants in whatever manner she wants.”
Nisreen went a little pale. “That’s not how we do things here.” She sounded even more nervous than Nahri. The invitation to the Grand Temple had come yesterday without warning, and Nisreen had spent every minute of the past day trying to prepare Nahri with rushed lectures on Daeva etiquette and religious rituals that had mostly gone in one ear and out the other.
“My lady . . .” Nisreen took a deep breath. “I would beg—again—that you reflect on what this moment means to our people. The Nahids are our most cherished figures. We spent years mourning them, years believing their loss meant the end of everything until your—”
“Yes, until my miraculous return, I know.” But Nahri didn’t feel like much of a miracle. She felt like an imposter. She fidgeted, uncomfortable in the ceremonial clothes she’d been forced to don: a pale blue gown finely worked in silver thread and pants of spun gold, the hems heavy with seed pearls and lapis lazuli beads. White silk veiled her face, and a white chador—as light and fine as a puff of smoke—covered her hair, drifting to her feet. She didn’t mind the chador, but the headpiece that held it in place—a heavy diadem of gold, glittering with sapphires and topaz and a band of tiny gold disks hanging over her brow—made her head ache.
“Stop fiddling with that,” Nisreen advised. “You’re liable to send the whole thing crashing down.” The palanquin shuddered to a stop. “Good, we’re here . . . oh, child, don’t roll your eyes. That is hardly inspiring.” Nisreen opened the door. “Come, my lady.”
Nahri peeked out, stealing her first look at Daevabad’s Grand Temple. Nisreen said it was one of the oldest buildings in Daevabad and it looked it, as imposing and massive as the Great Pyramids back in Egypt. It was a ziggurat like the palace, but smaller and steeper, a flat-topped step pyramid of three levels, brickwork covered by marble faience in a dazzling rainbow of colors and trimmed in brass. Behind the temple was a tower about twice its height. Smoke rose from its crenellated top.
A large courtyard stretched between the two buildings. A garden—far more orderly than the feral jungle of the palace—had been designed by a clearly discerning eye, with two long rectangular pools meeting to form a cross, outlined by lush flower beds in a riot of color. On either side of the pools, wide pathways stretched, inviting the visitor to linger, to amble slowly through the fragrant shade, past ancient trees with broad fan-shaped leaves. The entire complex was walled, the massive stones hidden by trellises dripping with roses.
It seemed a peaceful place, designed to encourage reflection and prayer—had a crowd of at least two hundred people not been excitedly swarming a single figure.