The personal route they would go, then. “I haven’t lost my mind, uncle. Nor do I want to sack you. I need you, Wajed. You were right—we’re at war, but our enemy isn’t down there,” Ali said, gesturing to the cells. “Nahri has saved my life twice over from Darayavahoush and Manizheh. Jamshid was Muntadhir’s dearest … companion,” he said, faltering slightly. “And surely the warrior who taught me strategy sees the benefit in Manizheh’s children being on our side.”
“I see the benefit in them being hostages.”
“Then I see the benefit in finding a new Qaid. I would rather not,” Ali said, not missing the emotion storming across Wajed’s face at the ultimatum. “But the Nahids are my allies, and I will not allow them to be threatened.”
“Your father tried to make allies out of the Nahids. Look where that got him.”
“My father tried to force them into being allies. That’s not what I’m doing. Uncle, I know part of you must hate me for that night. But I do not regret disobeying him. I loved my father. I am sorry, sorrier than I will ever be able to express, that we did not part in peace, but more than that, I am sorry that he died with such sins on his soul. His final command would have slaughtered hundreds of innocents. He died threatening a woman under his roof, his own daughter-in-law. If you disagree with my actions and wish to leave my service, I’ll understand. But I don’t intend to follow his path.”
Wajed pressed his mouth into a thin line. “You are like a son to me, Zaydi. You are a Qahtani, and you will have my service as your father did before you. But you must understand how angry our people are.” He leaned closer. “Trust me when I say I’m not the only one who will look upon this alliance with doubt. Nearly every person in this castle lost someone to Manizheh or has a loved one trapped in Daevabad. You’re very popular with our people, which I’m sure you know, having used your popularity to convince the Citadel and Geziri Quarter to riot,” he added, a little acidly. “Be careful with that support.”
Ali nodded. “I will. Right now, though, I need to find my mother. If I ask you to stay here …”
Wajed rolled his eyes. “Your Nahids won’t come to any harm. I’ll even apologize—yes?—and call them by their fancy titles.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Ali smiled before turning away.
But the brief lift in his spirits at winning over Wajed vanished as he kept walking.
He shouldn’t have had to make that choice. It was the same thing that had been swirling in Ali’s head since his brother first took the zulfiqar strike Darayavahoush had meant for Ali. Because Jamshid was right. It should have been Ali.
Instead, Muntadhir was dead, and Ali wore the seal, and he didn’t think he would ever stop carrying that guilt.
A pair of servants passed, a soldier saluting. Ali barely managed a response. Protocol hadn’t been something he’d thought about in weeks, and he didn’t trust himself not to make an error. Instead, he stepped into the first alcove he saw, grateful to find that it twisted into a small, empty balcony. It was an otherwise lovely day, and just beyond the jungle, Ali caught a glint of the sea, the bright sun reflected against the water.
And then the other part of Jamshid’s shouting came back to him.
Your brother was the love of my life.
Ali suddenly felt very, very foolish—a hundred whispers and comments and looks that had blown past him returning and making obvious in hindsight what he’d missed. But he didn’t understand why—why would Muntadhir have gone to such lengths to keep his relationship with Jamshid a secret from Ali? It wasn’t as if his brother had bothered to hide anything else. The drinking, the women, his lackluster attitude toward prayer, toward any element of their faith—a litany of sins.
And is that what you consider this? A sin? Was Ali even one to judge? He spent half his nights dreaming about his brother’s wife and had the blood of innocents on his hands. What had Muntadhir done in comparison? Fallen in love with someone forbidden? All Ali could do at this point was relate.
But that hadn’t been the worst of Jamshid’s accusations. God, that night on the roof … There had been a time when Ali thought about that night every day. Now he could scarcely remember his would-be assassin’s name.
Hanno. Hanno, the shafit shapeshifter from the Tanzeem. He’d had a daughter kidnapped and killed by purebloods, and it all came back to Ali in pieces. The grief in the other man’s eyes, the blood, the pain, the curt order Ali had growled to Jamshid before passing out—get rid of him. Ali must have seemed like a monster.
He must have seemed exactly like Ghassan.
Was that how it started, Abba? Had his father felt like this as a young king, so scared and uncertain how to rule that he’d simply crushed anything he feared might hurt him? The act that Ghassan had put on in the court, the act Muntadhir had had to perfect his whole life—when saddled with that kind of responsibility, how else did you respond if you knew a mistake would doom everyone you cared for?
Your brother was the love of my life. Jamshid’s words came again, but it was Muntadhir whom Ali saw in his mind. How much of himself had his brother had to hide behind his broken grin?
Ali leaned against the wall, embracing the shadow. For a moment, he wished for a proper imam, for someone who knew the Book and whose faith had not been shaken, to tell him what to do next.
A slippered step drew his attention.
