“Do not lecture me as to the safety of our people,” Dara said through his teeth. “Our people would have been safer if we had not rushed this invasion and tried to annihilate the Geziris—as I advised!”
If he thought Manizheh would be taken aback by the show of magic, Dara had underestimated her. She didn’t so much as twitch, the darkness in her black eyes suddenly deeper.
“You forget yourself, Afshin,” she warned, and had he been another man, he might have fallen to his knees at the lethal edge in her voice. “And you are hardly innocent in our failure. Do you not think Vizaresh told me of your delays with Alizayd al Qahtani? Had you executed that bloody sand fly when you first laid hands on him, Nahri wouldn’t have run off with him. She wouldn’t have given him Suleiman’s seal and fled from the city, ripping away our magic. Our invasion might have been a success!”
Dara bristled, but that was not a point he could refute. He might strangle the ifrit later for running his mouth, but not killing Alizayd had been a fatal error.
Manizheh seemed to recognize a hint of defeat. “Do not ever keep anything from me again, understand? I have an entire city to rule. I cannot do so while also worrying about what secrets the head of my security is harboring. I need my people loyal.”
Dara glowered, crossing his arms and resisting the urge to burn something. “What would you even have me do? We still have no idea where either of your children is, and you have made it clear I’m not allowed to risk our tribe’s safety by leaving to go look for them.”
“We don’t need to go look for them,” Manizheh said. “Not ourselves. Not if we send the right kind of message.”
“The right kind of message?”
“Yes.” She beckoned to him again. “Come, Afshin. It’s time I address my new subjects.”
5
ALI
From the time Alizayd al Qahtani was very small, he’d been blessed with the peculiar ability to instantly wake up.
It was an ability that used to unsettle others—nursemaids in the harem tiptoeing about when the little prince who’d been snoring abruptly spoke up, cheerfully greeting them; or his sister Zaynab, who’d go screeching to their mother when he snapped his eyes open, bellowing like the palace karkadann. That Ali slept so lightly had thoroughly pleased Wajed, who proudly declared his protégé rested like a warrior should, constantly alert. And indeed, Ali had seen firsthand what a blessing it was, saving his life the few times assassins came for him in the night during his exile in Am Gezira.
It wasn’t a blessing now. Because when Ali finally opened his eyes, he had not the mercy of a single moment of forgetting his brother was dead.
He was flat on his back, a low, unfamiliar ceiling before him. There must have been a window, for a few rays of sun pierced the warm air, dust motes dancing and sparkling before blinking out of existence. The grassy aroma of fresh-cut herbs, a steady rhythmic pounding, the clip of hooves, and the murmur of distant conversations were all signs indicating that Ali was no longer on an uninhabited bank of the Nile. He was cold, shivering under a thin blanket with the kind of clammy chill he associated with fever, and his body ached, weak in a way that should have concerned him.
It didn’t. Far more troublesome was the fact that Ali had woken up at all.
Was it quick, akhi? Or did it take as long as everyone says? Did it burn? Did the Afshin find you, hurt you worse? Ali knew those weren’t questions he should be asking. He knew, according to the religion he’d preached his entire life, that his brother was already at peace, a martyr in Paradise.
But the pious words he would have spoken to another in his place were ash in his mouth. Muntadhir wasn’t supposed to be in Paradise. He was supposed to be grinning and alive and doing something vaguely scandalous. Not falling against Ali’s chest, gasping as he took the zulfiqar strike meant for his little brother. Not touching Ali’s face with bloody hands, failing to mask his own fear and pain as he ordered Ali to run.
We’re okay, Zaydi. We’re okay. All those months of their stupid feud, weeks and days Ali would never get back. Could they not have sat and hashed out their politics, their resentments? Had Ali ever made clear to Muntadhir how much he loved and admired him—how much he desperately wished he could have ended their estrangement?
And now he would never be able to. He’d never talk to any of his brothers again. Not Muntadhir, who if the zulfiqar’s poison hadn’t taken him first, had almost certainly been tortured by the Afshin in his final moments. Not the men Ali had grown up with in the Royal Guard, now floating dead in Daevabad’s lake. Nor Lubayd, his first friend in Am Gezira, a man who’d saved his life and left his peaceful home only to be murdered by the ifrit. Had Ali ever properly thanked him? Sat him down and cut through Lubayd’s constant jesting to tell him how much his friendship meant?
Ali took a deep, rattling breath, but his eyes stayed dry. He wasn’t sure he could weep. He didn’t want to.
He wanted to scream.
To scream and scream until the awful crushing weight in his chest was gone. He understood now the grief that led people to pull out their hair, to tear at their skin and claw at the earth. More than scream, though, Ali wanted to be gone. It was selfish, it was contrary to his faith, but had he a blade at hand, he was not certain he could have stopped himself from carving out the ache in his heart.
Pull yourself together. You are a Geziri, a believer in the Most High.
Get up.
Still trembling and feverish, Ali forced himself
