He stopped at the door, smiling at the old man. Ali hadn’t missed how intently the elder had been watching him. “Would you like me to take you back to the castle, Grandfather?”
His grandfather gave him a mischievous grin. “What gave it away?”
“A number of things, not least of which is the family resemblance.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. Ali didn’t doubt his mother’s words regarding his grandfather’s health and mental state, but Seif Shefala shone with cleverness. “Bah, I doubt I was ever as spry and handsome as you.”
Ali laughed and offered his arm, helping his grandfather into a well-cushioned wheeled seat. “I’m sure you were even more dashing. But why didn’t you introduce yourself earlier?”
“I find I can get a more accurate measure of a man when he’s not aware he’s being appraised.”
“And have I passed muster?”
“That depends on whether or not you can sneak me back into the castle without your mother noticing. Since when are daughters allowed to shut their parents away?”
Ali began wheeling the chair back toward the castle. “She’s always been overprotective.”
The town was waking up, the aroma of brewing coffee and sleepy whispers coming from the homes around them. Again, Ali was struck by a surreal sense of belonging, the knowledge that this place had hosted those of his blood for centuries and, but for a few quirks in his fate, might have been his home.
Daevabad is your home. “I feel as though I should thank you,” he said to his grandfather. “For all the support you’ve shown me through the years.”
“You mean, the money I’ve filled your Treasury vaults with since you were a babe?” His grandfather cackled. “No thanks needed, my boy. The politely irate letters your father sent in return were their own reward. Nothing as prickly as wounded Geziri honor.”
They entered the castle. The sweet song of birds and the dappled sunlight on the old bricks in the courtyard made Ali feel like he’d stumbled upon a forgotten ruin. He had no doubt the castle looked mesmerizing with its magic, bustling and lively when filled with people, but seeing it like this made him feel closer to his ancestors, to the men and women who would have wandered wide-eyed through the human world, creating new lives for themselves.
“This place is incredible,” Ali said admiringly. “I love the way the buildings incorporate what the humans left behind. Do you know anything about the ones who used to live here?”
“Only that the humans were long gone by the time my great-great-grandfather arrived.” Regret peppered Seif’s voice. “They must have been a clever bunch. We still find old tools and pieces of these lovely pots with a glaze no one can re-create. But the first generation of our family to return to Ta Ntry after the war was cagey about their roots, and I suspect that extended to the past of their new home too.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why we don’t have a proper surname, using Shefala instead? That’s a Djinnistani custom. Not that it was uncommon among the Ayaanle who came back to Ta Ntry after serving the Qahtanis. I’m guessing in the chaos of war and revolution, there were plenty of people who reinvented themselves.” His grandfather rolled his eyes. “There are a lot of snobbish old families who never left this coast and sniff down upon us now, but I like to think it means our ancestors were wily.”
Ali thought of that. How much of his life, all their lives and their histories, unraveled the more it was examined? The stories he’d grown up on were just that—stories, with more complicated roots and vastly different interpretations than he could possibly have imagined. It was unsettling, the world and truth he knew getting constantly shaken up.
But it also seemed to bring the past nearer and make it real. Six years ago, people like Zaydi al Qahtani had been legends from another age. Perfect, their feats unparalleled. Now Ali could see the messiness behind the myth, the hero who’d saved the shafit but also made terrible mistakes.
“Abu Hatset …” A young Ayaanle woman appeared in an arched doorway. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” She bowed politely to Ali. “Would you mind if I take our fugitive back to his bed where he’s supposed to be resting?”
“Of course.” Ali glanced at his grandfather. “This was a delight. May I visit you again?”
“I would be offended if you didn’t.” Seif’s voice grew conspiratorial. “Bring those date fritters the cook makes, the ones in rose syrup. Your mother is a tyrant when it comes to my sugar intake.”
Biting back a smile, Ali touched his heart. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Right now, though, he had another destination in mind.
Nerves swept through him as he headed toward the rooms set aside for the Nahid siblings—not just because he was eager to see Nahri, but also because he had no idea what to say to Jamshid that wouldn’t result in getting another slipper flung at his head. Ali was still struggling to find peace with the other man’s accusations, and he’d never been the most diplomatic with his words. Making small talk with his brother’s angry former lover—whom Ali had once forced to kill a man—seemed beyond his skill set.
A pair of well-armed guards stood in front of the finely carved teak door. The Geziri man saluted; the Ayaanle one bowed.
“Peace be upon you,” Ali greeted them. “Is the Banu Nahida here?”
“Yes, my prince,” the Ayaanle man responded. “She and her brother are taking breakfast.”
“Excellent.” Ali pulled free two of the many dirhams his mother had given him last night, handing one to each. “Please know your service is much appreciated,” he said, motioning for them to leave. Ali expected a lot more yelling on Jamshid’s end and didn’t want anyone barging in to “save” him. “If you don’t mind, could you see if any Daeva visitors have left a fire altar the Nahids could use?”
Once they were
