Across from her, Kartir was wringing his hands, the elderly priest paler than she’d ever seen. They’d met in a windowless inner chamber with high walls, torches throwing light on the icons of her ancestors that ringed the room. It felt as though even they were staring down disapprovingly at her.
“Shafit? You intend to work with shafit?” Kartir finally asked after she finished laying out her plans for the hospital. It sounded as though he were begging her to contradict him.
“I do,” Nahri replied. “I have already partnered with one. A physician with far more training and experience than I. She and her husband are incredible practitioners.”
“They are dirt-bloods,” one of the priestesses all but spat in Divasti. “The un-souled spawn of lecherous djinn and humans.”
Nahri was suddenly grateful neither Ali nor Zaynab shared their older brother’s fluency in the Daeva tongue. “They are as innocent in their creation as you and I.” Heat filled her voice. “You forget I was raised in the human world. I will not hear abuse thrown at those who share their blood.”
Kartir brought his hands together in a gesture of peace, glaring admonishingly at the priestess. “Nor shall I. Those sentiments do not have a place in the Temple. But, Banu Nahida . . . ,” he added, staring at her beseechingly, “please understand that what you suggest is impossible. You cannot use your abilities on a shafit. It is forbidden.” Fear filled his dark eyes. “It is said that Nahids lose their abilities upon touching a shafit.”
Nahri kept her face composed, but the words hurt. This from the gentle man who’d taught her about their religion, who’d placed Anahid’s original altar in her hands and put her doubts and fears to rest on more than one occasion—even he harbored the same prejudices as the rest of her people. As Dara had. As her husband did. As nearly everyone who was dear to her did, in fact.
“An incorrect assumption,” she said finally. “But I don’t intend to heal shafit myself,” she clarified, forcing the despicable words from her tongue. “We’d work and study alongside each other, that’s all.”
Another priest spoke up. “It is a violation of Suleiman’s code to interact with them in any way!”
Nahri was not unaware of Kaveh looking on, the grand wazir’s disapproval plain but unvoiced for now; she suspected he was waiting for the right time to strike. “It is not a violation of Suleiman’s code,” she argued, switching to Djinnistani for Ali and Zaynab’s benefit. “It is another interpretation.”
“Another interpretation?” Kartir repeated weakly.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice firm. “We are in Daevabad, my friends. A protected magical city, hidden from humans. What we do here, how we treat those with their blood, it has no bearing on the human world beyond our gates. Treating those already in our world with respect and kindness does not counteract Suleiman’s order that we leave humanity alone.”
“Does it not?” Kartir asked. “Would it not be condoning such future interactions?”
“No,” Nahri said flatly, continuing in Djinnistani. “Whether or not a djinn obeys the law outside our gates is a separate issue from how we treat those inside them.” Her voice rose. “Have any of you been to the shafit districts? There are children wading in sewage and mothers dying in childbirth. How can you call yourselves servants of the Creator and think such a thing is permissible?”
That seemed to land, Kartir looking slightly chastened. Ali was staring at her with open pride.
It didn’t go unnoticed, and Kaveh finally spoke. “The prince has put these things in your head,” he declared in Divasti. “My lady, he is a known radical. You mustn’t let his fanaticism about the shafit sway you.”
“I need no man to put ideas in my head,” Nahri retorted. “You speak out of turn, Kaveh e-Pramukh.”
He tented his hands. “I meant no disrespect, Banu Nahida.” But there was no apology in his voice; it was the way one would speak to a child, and it grated on her. “What you’re suggesting sounds lovely, it indicates a good heart—”
“It indicates a woman who learned her lesson when Ghassan lifted his protection from our tribe after Dara’s death,” Nahri said in Divasti. “It is kindness as much as pragmatism that moves me. We will never be safe in Daevabad unless we have peace with the shafit. You must see this. They are nearly as numerous in the city as we are. Relying on the djinn to keep us from each other’s throats is foolish. It leaves us weak and at their mercy.”
“It is out of necessity,” Kaveh argued. “My lady, respectfully . . . you are very young. I have seen plenty of overtures of peace to both the djinn and the shafit in my life. They have never ended well.”
“That’s my choice to make.”
“And yet you’re asking our blessing,” Kartir pointed out gently. “Are you not?”
Nahri hesitated, her gaze drifting to the icons of her ancestors. The Temple whose construction Anahid had overseen, the people she’d knit back together after Suleiman cursed them.
“I am not,” she said, letting the words fall in Djinnistani as she gazed at the elders around her. “I am informing you as a matter of respect. It is my hospital. They are my abilities, and I do not require your permission. I am the Banu Nahida, and believe it or not, Kaveh,” she said, deliberately leaving out his title, “in my few years in Daevabad, I’ve learned the meaning and the history behind that title. You would not dare question my ancestors.”
Stunned silence met that. The grand wazir stared at her in shock, and a few of the priests drew back.
“Yet the Nahids ruled as a council,” Kartir pointed out, undeterred. “Your ancestors discussed things among themselves and with their priests and advisors. They did not rule as kings accountable to no one.” He looked at neither al Qahtani as he said this, but the implication was there.
“And they were overthrown, Kartir,” she replied. “And we have been fighting ever since. It’s time to try something new.”
“I think it is obvious where the Banu Nahida stands.” Kaveh’s voice was curt.
“And I.” Jamshid hadn’t spoken since they entered the room, but he did now, looking his father in the eye. “She has my support, Baba.”
Kaveh glanced at the two of them, his gaze inscrutable. “Then I suppose the matter has been decided. If you don’t mind . . .” He rose to his feet. “I have had quite a long journey.”
His words seemed to disband the meeting, and though Nahri was irked he’d been the one to do so, she was also relieved. She’d made her decision clear, and even if the priests didn’t like it, they hardly seemed willing to openly defy her.
Kartir spoke up one more time. “The procession. If you want our support in this, surely you can grant us your presence in that.”
Nahri bit back a groan. She should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. “Please don’t make me do that.”
Ali frowned. “Do what?”
“They want to dress me up like Anahid and put me in some parade for Navasatem.” She threw Kartir a desperate look. “It’s embarrassing.”
“It is fun,” he clarified with a smile. “The Daeva procession is a favorite part of Navasatem, and it’s been centuries since we’ve have a Nahid to join.”
“You had my mother.”
He eyed her. “Do the stories I’ve told you of Banu Manizheh make it seem like she was the type to take part in such a thing?” His face turned beseeching. “Please. Do it for your people.”
Nahri sighed, guilt nagging at her. “Fine. If you will support my hospital, I will dress in a costume and smile like a fool.” She feigned a glare. “You’re slyer than I would have thought.”
The elderly priest touched his heart. “The sacrifices one makes for their tribe,” he teased.
They left the sanctuary after that, making their way out of the Temple. Sunspots danced across Nahri’s vision as they emerged into the bright afternoon light.
Ali paused on the steps. “This place really is lovely,” he said, gazing at the lily-dappled reflecting pools. A breeze brought the scent
of the cedar trees lining the perimeter. “Thank you for allowing us to visit. The circumstances aside—it was an honor.” He cleared his throat. “And I’m sorry about those circumstances. I’m going to try to be more careful, I promise.”
“Yes. In turn, thank you for not strangling the grand wazir.” But then remembering the chaos of his apartment, Nahri added, a bit reluctantly, “And thank you for the work you’ve been doing with the hospital. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
Ali turned to look at her, a surprised grin lighting his face. “Was that a compliment?”
“No,” she said, forcing a grumpiness she didn’t feel into her voice. “It’s a simple statement of fact.”
They began crossing the garden. “So,” Ali continued, a playful edge in his voice, “what is this about dressing up in an Anahid costume?”
She looked up, eyeing him severely. “Don’t start, al Qahtani. Not when you’ve been admiring your reflection in every shiny surface we’ve passed since you got off your horse.”
Mortification swept the humor off his face. “Was it that obvious?” he whispered.
Nahri paused, savoring his embarrassment. “Only to anyone who looked your way.” She smiled sweetly. “So, everyone.”
Ali cringed, reaching out to touch his turban. “I never expected to wear this,” he said softly. “I couldn’t help but wonder how it looked.”
“Good luck with that excuse when Muntadhir learns you stole it.” Admittedly, Ali did cut a striking figure in the turban, the dazzling gold stripes picking up a warmth in his gray eyes. Still, Nahri didn’t like it on him. “It doesn’t suit you,” she said, as much to herself as to Ali.
“No,” he replied tonelessly. “I suppose of the two of us, Muntadhir looks more like what people expect of a Qahtani prince.”
She realized too late the double meaning of her words. “Oh, no, Ali. That’s not what I meant. Not at all.” Every time Nahri pinned her chador over her human-round ears, she had the same feelings about her appearance not matching expectations, and it made her sick to think she might have implied the same to someone else. “It’s just I hate that turban. I hate what it represents. The war, Qui-zi . . . it seems so rooted in the worst parts of our past.”
Ali stopped, turning to face her fully. “No, I don’t suppose a Banu Nahida who just defied a group of men with a collective millennium on her would think highly of such a tradition.” He smiled, shaking his head. “Your people are blessed to have you as their leader. I hope you know that.” He said the words warmly, with what seemed to be all the friendly sincerity in the world.
Nahri’s response was immediate. “Maybe one day your people will have me as their leader.”
She’d meant it as a challenge, and indeed, Ali jerked back, looking slightly startled. But then he broke into a slow grin, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.
“Well, then I guess I better get back to building your hospital.” He touched his heart and brow in the Geziri salute, clearly biting back a laugh. “Peace be upon you, Banu Nahida.”
Nahri didn’t reply—nor did Ali wait for her to do so. Instead he turned away, heading toward Zaynab, who was already waiting at the gate.
Nahri watched him go, suddenly aware of how many other Daevas were doing the same—and the quiet scrutiny with which she suspected many had just observed their interaction.
She let her expression turn severe and she stared at the crowd until people began hastily resuming their own activities. Nahri meant what she’d told the priests; she was going to do this her way, and a good Banu Nahida couldn’t show weakness.
So Nahri would make sure she had none.
22
Ali
Ali grinned as he pressed the pump handle with one hand. A rush of cold water splashed to the ground. “Your son’s new specialty,” he joked to the woman across from him.
Hatset’s golden eyes traced the spray of mud across his dishdasha. “When I envisioned a brighter future for you, baba, you looked distinctly . . . cleaner.”
“I like getting my hands dirty.” Ali straightened up, wiping his fingers on a rag tucked into his belt. “But what do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the line of bustling workshops in front of the hospital.
“I’m impressed,” his mother replied. “Then again, considering the fortune you’ve shaken out of my tribe since you returned to Daevabad, I’d hope to be impressed.”
Ali touched his heart in mock offense. “Ah, what happened to all your words about doing good for my city?” He winked. “Did you think it would be cheap?”
She shook her head, but she was smiling, her gaze lingering on a group of children sitting in the workcamp’s school. “It is worth the cost. I’m proud of you. A little exasperated, but still proud.”
They continued toward the hospital, and Ali nodded in greeting to a pair of carpenters hammering cabinetry. “It’s the shafit doing most of the work,” he replied. “I feel more like a glorified task manager than anything; my biggest problem is finding a job for everyone who wants to join us. It’s been astonishing to see what people have done with such an opportunity. And in only a few months!”
“A nice thing to watch your beliefs about the shafit made manifest, I take it?”
Ali nodded fervently. “Nothing would make me happier than seeing this place thrive. Let everyone with pretensions of blood purity see what the shafit have accomplished here.” He clasped his hands behind his back, toying with his prayer beads. “I wish I could get Abba to see this. We’d have more security investing in the shafit than beating them into obedience.”
“Then it sounds as though you should stop pining over this Bir Nabat of yours and work on convincing your father to let you stay in Daevabad.” Hatset looked at him intently as they entered the hospital. “The kind of change you want takes time and patience, child. You consider yourself some sort of farmer now, don’t you? Do you toss seeds upon the ground only to abandon them in hopes they’ll grow untended?”
Ali held his tongue at that. And not just because of the workers bustling around them, but because in truth, with every passing day in Daevabad, he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted.
Hatset let out a surprised exclamation as they stepped into the main corridor. “Well, isn’t this lovely,” she said, admiring the vivid murals Elashia had painted on the walls: dazzling sandships darting through the dunes and the lush oases of Qart Sahar alongside images of its craggy bluffs and azure seas.
“You should see what happens when Nahri passes through,” Ali said. “The paintings come alive, the waves crashing over the beach, the trees blooming. The Nahid magic in this place is incredible.”
“Yes, it’s becoming more and more clear she’s cast quite the spell,” Hatset said lightly.
Ali leaned over one of the balustrades to check the day’s progress. At first glance, the hospital’s heart was barely recognizable from the wild, weed-strewn ruin Nahri had first shown him. The feral garden had been transformed into a small slice of paradise, along whose tiled paths visitors and patients might amble, enjoying the sweet-smelling water of the fountains and the coolness of the palms’ shade. The interior walls had been rebuilt, and woodworkers were putting together a glasswork roof that would maximize the amount of natural light allowed into the rooms. The main examination chamber was done, awaiting furnishings and cabinetry.
“Prince Alizayd!”
A voice caught his attention, and Ali glanced across the courtyard to see a group of shafit seamstresses seated among a pile of embroidered curtains. A woman who looked to be around his age had risen to her feet, a shy smile on her face.
She continued speaking when their gazes met, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Your Highness. But if you’re around later, we were thinking . . .” She gestured to the other women and several giggled. “We hoped you might be able to help us hang these curtains.”
“I . . . of course,” Ali replied, slightly puzzled by the request. “Let me know when you’re ready.”<
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She smiled again, and Ali could not help but note it was to a rather fetching effect. “We’ll be sure to hunt you down.” She resumed her seat, whispering to her companions.
“It’s fascinating,” his mother said dryly, “that in this entire magical complex full of building equipment, the only way to hang curtains is to rely on an unmarried, overly tall, handsome young prince.”
Ali quickly pulled his gaze from the young women. “I’m sure they meant nothing like that.”
Hatset snorted. “Not even you’re that naive.” She wound her arm through his as they kept walking. “But you know . . . it wouldn’t be the worst idea for you to burn a marriage mask with a nice shafit girl. Maybe then you’d actually visit your bed instead of working yourself to death.”
Embarassed heat swept his face so fast Ali felt he might actually burst into flames. “Amma . . .”
“What? Am I not permitted to want some happiness for my only son?”
He was already shaking his head. “You know I’m not allowed to marry.”
“No, what you’re not allowed is a gaudy ceremony with a noblewoman who could offer you political allies and heirs that might compete with Muntadhir’s—which is why I’m not suggesting that.” She studied him, her eyes soft. “But I worry about you, baba. You seem lonely. If you would like either Zaynab or me to make inquiries—”
“No,” Ali said, trying to keep the ache from his voice. His mother’s assessment wasn’t wrong—it was simply a part of his life he tried not to dwell on. Growing up as Muntadhir’s future Qaid, Ali had attempted to steel himself for what that future would look like—a violent, lonely life in the Citadel for Ali; wealth, a family, and the throne for Muntadhir. Ali had found it easier not to think about the things he’d be denied, the luxuries reserved for his brother.
But those were oaths he’d made as a child, too young to understand their cost. Not that it mattered now. Ali would never be Qaid, and he could not pretend resentment hadn’t worked its way into his heart. But there was nothing to be done about it. He’d meant what he said to Lubayd and Aqisa when they teased him about marriage: he would not make vows to an innocent woman if he didn’t think he could live up to them, and right now, he was barely capable of protecting himself.
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