Well, that accounted for the dozens of Geziri warriors milling about. “I’m glad to see you,” Ali replied. “It’s good to know others from our class survived.”
Sameer’s expression grew somber. “I still can’t believe what happened to the Citadel.” He flushed. “Forgive me, I know you were there—”
“It’s fine. I know I’m not the only person who lost friends that night.” But Ali changed the subject, trying to stay ahead of his emotions. “I’m headed to the masjid for fajr if you’d like to join me.”
Happy surprise filled Sameer’s eyes. “I would be honored, Your Highness—I mean, Your Majesty,” he corrected. “I apologize; the men and I weren’t certain which to use.”
Taken aback, Ali realized that neither was he. The kingly title probably shouldn’t have been a surprise—he was the last Qahtani prince and already bore Suleiman’s seal on his face. There was a ceremony, of course, to make it official: a simple one in the custom of his practical tribe. The officers, the nobles, essentially anyone in a position of authority would pledge their loyalty to his rule in a public place, offering wooden tokens with their names while the sheikhs and leaders of various villages and clans would send contracts upon wooden slates or bark paper. Ali would have burned them a month after his coronation, in a fire conjured by his own hands—a fire he would have pledged to enter himself if he ever broke his people’s trust.
As ridiculous as it seemed, Ali hadn’t thought much about his political future. He’d been focused on getting to Ta Ntry, consumed by the catastrophic fall of his home and family. Oaths and ceremonies and titles—all that seemed a world away, belonging to a father who’d been larger than life and to a gleaming seat of jewels. Ali couldn’t imagine sitting on the shedu throne or making anyone bow before him. He was an exiled prince on the run with no possessions save his zulfiqar, surviving on the grace of others.
Realizing Sameer was still waiting for a response, Ali said what felt honest. “‘Brother’ is fine. I’m not one for titles, and I think we’re all in this mess together. Now let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
SHEFALA WAS LOVELY IN THE QUIET DAWN, THE CASTLE mostly empty. A mossy stone path led away from its coral walls and through a wooded glen of chirping birds and towering old trees, their silvery trunks so wide it would have taken two people holding hands to encircle them. Movement past the thick scrub caught Ali’s eyes, and he let out a delighted sound as he spotted a pair of giraffes in the grassy field beyond, eating from a towering mimosa tree.
The mosque was elegantly sparse—reed mats and woolen carpets set on the cleared ground between enormous columns carved from baobab trees. A wooden lattice had been constructed overhead, perhaps to carry a roof during the rainy season.
A larger crowd than Ali would have expected was already gathered there, the men and women on opposite sides. The majority were Ayaanle and Geziris, but Ali also saw some of Fiza’s shafit crew, a half dozen Sahrayn, and a handful of the merchants and travelers from the other tribes who’d been visiting Ta Ntry when word came of Daevabad’s fall.
Ali entered, and a shift went through the worshippers, who murmured salaams and blessings. He offered a weak smile, uneasy at being a distraction, but trying to return as many of the greetings as possible before taking a spot in the back next to a white-haired Ayaanle man who’d been propped up against cushions.
The old man gave him a startled look, one eye blurred by a cataract, and then laughed. “What are you doing next to me, prince? We’ve been waiting for you to come lead the prayer!”
Blood rushed into Ali’s face. “I’m honored, but that’s really unnecessary. I wouldn’t want to displace—”
“Oh, just do it.” Fiza had entered the mosque, a turban wrapped around her hair. She grinned at the old man. “His recitation is very lovely.”
Ali looked at her in surprise. “Thank you?”
Fiza laughed. “You don’t need to look so shocked. Criminals occasionally need God too—we’ve got more things that require forgiving.”
Ali glanced over the expectant faces. The last time he’d led prayer for a group this size had been back in Bir Nabat, and the memory stirred his heart. He’d been so content there, his restlessness satisfied by the good work he could do for the people who’d protected him. It was the kind of respect one had to earn, not the kind gained by fancy titles and jeweled thrones.
He smiled at the waiting congregants. “As long as some of you will chat with me afterward, I would be honored.”
ALI STAYED AT THE MOSQUE UNTIL THE LAST PERSON left, leading prayer and then sitting and catching up with the djinn who’d attended. He listened more than he talked, drinking rounds of coffee and tea as Geziri soldiers spoke in grief-stricken voices about their murdered companions at the Citadel and foreign traders worried about being so far from home during a war. Nearly everyone had loved ones in Daevabad, more than one person breaking down in tears as they recalled sending an excited brother or daughter off to Navasatem. Ali heard stories of how panicked everyone had been when magic failed, their lives upended in a day as they wondered if the Almighty had come to punish them again.
They were heavy tales, and Ali perhaps should have felt weighed down by them, engulfed by the same dread that had overwhelmed him yesterday at the thought of such responsibility.
But he didn’t feel overwhelmed. Instead, by the time Ali was ready to return to the castle, he felt … grounded. He and Nahri weren’t doing this alone. They had people—good people, smart
