THEY FOLLOWED MUSA THROUGH THE FOREST, MOVING so swiftly that Ali struggled to keep his bearings—which he suspected was the point. The Ayaanle originally intended to blindfold the others, and he’d had to talk them down, shushing Fiza when she described in graphic detail what the djinn could do to themselves instead. Exasperated, Musa had finally agreed, and when the shafit pirate snorted in triumph, Ali’s cousin pointed out that this meant they would more likely be killed without being released.
It made for a tense walk.
Worse, Nahri had yet to say a word, unnervingly and uncharacteristically silent at his side. Her expression gave nothing away, the guarded mask Ali remembered from the palace. After so many weeks traveling together, he was taken aback to see it now, and he found himself resisting the urge to take her hand lest she bolt, vanishing into the greenery around them, probably finding a way to take Musa’s gold cuff and lapis earrings with her.
They came upon the town rather suddenly. Ali had been expecting cleared land and forbidding walls, a mighty fortress to match Ta Ntry’s wealth. But Shefala was not that at all. Nestled in the ruins of an older human settlement, the djinn town seemed to bloom naturally from the earth and human past. What might have been the foundation of an ancient hilltop fort had been dug out and opened to shelter a marketplace, and large, airy homes had been built around the trees, utilizing recovered bricks, thatch, and coral walls. There were no straight, paved streets, but rather sandy paths that wound naturally around shade trees and freestanding gardens. A pleasant setting for the thriving merchant port Shefala was said to be.
Except it was virtually empty.
A plaza of teak benches with room for hundreds now sheltered only two women weaving on hand looms. Besides a fruit seller dozing in front of an open-air mosque and a handful of Agnivanshi traders, Ali saw no one. Granted, Musa was keeping them on an outer path that skirted the town’s edge, perhaps in an effort to keep news of Ali and Nahri contained, but the sounds Ali would have expected of a bustling entrepôt—chatter in a half dozen different languages, the banging of tools and shouts of children—were nowhere to be heard.
Nahri finally spoke. “Where is everyone?” she asked as they passed a fishpond beneath the canopy of a massive baobab tree.
“Gone or in the castle,” Musa explained. “For now, anyway. When word came of what happened to Daevabad, Queen Hatset ordered most of the women, children, and old folks away. We have some holdouts, as well as merchants and sailors from the other tribes who were passing through on magical means and got stuck. But the queen said she’d be better prepared to take a stand against Manizheh if she knew a thousand innocents couldn’t be wiped out in response.”
That sounds like Amma. Shefala’s stone castle came into view then, and Ali had to resist the urge to break into a run. Though traveling here had been his idea, part of Ali hadn’t allowed himself to envision seeing his mother, not wanting to be crushed if his plan fell apart.
He admired the castle as they drew nearer. Though far smaller than Daevabad’s palace, the castle was lovely, its lime-plastered coral walls shining in the sun. The human ruins had been incorporated wherever possible, an old minaret turned into a wind tower, a broken wall given over to flowers. It conveyed age with warmth, whereas Daevabad had seemed brutal, a palace stolen multiple times.
Musa stopped them at a set of grand doors, carved in a pattern of scrollwork and set with bronze ornaments. “I will take them to the majlis,” he told the female warrior. “Please tell the queen she has guests.” He lowered his voice, but Ali heard him add softly, “Would you see how my grandfather is doing as well?”
My grandfather. Ali followed Musa, gawking at everything and feeling out of place.
The majlis was elegant and majestic, a place fit for entertaining royalty, with high windows of ebony wood; checkered marble walls in dark silver and glittering white; and soft, imported Daeva rugs. Agnivanshi tapestries depicting musicians and dancers hung from the walls, and a white jade and carnelian screen from Tukharistan sectioned off cushioned sofas surrounding a tiled fountain that looked like it had been plucked from Qart Sahar. Fine ceremonial weapons were displayed above a carved ivory platform: a zulfiqar and an Ayaanle shield in a place of prominence.
Fiza and her men had gone immediately for the fruit and sweets left for guests, but Nahri hadn’t joined them, eyeing the room like she was expecting a rukh to jump out and eat her.
“Are you all right?” Ali asked.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Noting the symbolism.”
“The symbolism?”
She gestured to the crossed Ayaanle and Geziri weapons behind the raised stage of seat cushions. “The Geziri and Ayaanle, allied and powerful …” Her finger lowered to point at the Daeva rug. “My people underfoot.”
Ali tried to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Maybe they just liked the carpet?”
“You look displeased, Daeva,” Musa said. He’d followed them into the majlis. “Is something wrong?”
Nahri’s eyes flashed. “Yes. You’ve now referred to me as the ‘Nahid girl’ and ‘Daeva’ when I’m confident you know both my name and my title. So are you just being rude, or is this an Ayaanle custom I’m misinterpreting?”
“You’ll forgive me. We don’t have an established tradition for welcoming the daughters of mass murderers.”
Ali’s temper snapped. “Is there a tradition for getting punched in the majlis? Because between sabatoging my village’s well and insulting my friend—”
“Alu?”
Thoughts of brawling with his cousin fled Ali’s mind. Hatset stood at the door in widow’s ash gray, her adornments gone.
“Is it really you?” his mother whispered. Her golden eyes had locked on his, but she didn’t move. She looked as worried as Ali did that this might all be a mirage.
“Amma.” The choked word left his lips, and then Ali was across
