The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,190

was. But assaulted by the images of his brutalized family and city, he didn’t care why the lake wanted what it must have already learned from his memories.

“Alizayd!” he screamed, the water muffling his words. “Alizayd al Qahtani!”

The pain vanished. His fingers closed around the hilt without him willing them to do so. His body suddenly felt distant. He was barely aware of being released, of being pushed through the water.

Kill the daeva.

Ali broke through the lake’s surface but did not gasp for breath; he did not need it. He climbed up the ship’s hull like a crab and then stood, water streaming from his clothes, his mouth, his eyes.

Kill the daeva. He heard the daeva speak. The air was wrong, empty and dry. He blinked, and something burned on his cheek. The world grew quieter, gray.

The daeva was before him. Part of his mind registered shock in the other man’s green eyes as he raised a blade to defend himself. But his movements were clumsy. Ali knocked his weapon away, and it flew into the dark lake. The djinn soldier in Ali saw his chance, the other man’s neck exposed . . .

The ring! The ring! Ali changed the direction of his blow, bringing it down toward the glowing green gem.

Ali swooned. The ring clattered away, and the sword fell from his hand, now more a rusty artifact than a weapon. Nahri’s screams filled the air.

“Kill the daeva,” he mumbled and collapsed, the blackness finally welcoming him.

Ali was dreaming.

He was back in the harem—in the pleasure gardens of his mother’s people—a small boy with his small sister, hiding in their usual spot under the willow tree. Its bowed branches and thick fronds made a cozy nook next to the canal, hidden from the sight of any interfering grown-ups.

“Do it again!” he begged. “Please, Zaynab!”

His sister sat up with a wicked smile. The water-filled bowl rested in the dust between her skinny crossed legs. She raised her palms over the water. “What will you give me?”

Ali thought fast, considering which of his few treasures he’d be willing to part with. Unlike Zaynab, he had no toys; no trinkets and amusements were given to boys groomed to be warriors. “I can get you a kitten,” he offered. “There’s lots near the Citadel.”

Zaynab’s eyes lit up. “Done.” She wiggled her fingers, a look of intense concentration brewing in her small face. The water shuddered, following the motion of her hands and then slowly rose as she spun her right hand, whirling like a liquid ribbon.

Ali’s mouth fell open in wonder, and Zaynab giggled before smashing the watery funnel down. “Show me how,” he said, reaching for the bowl.

“You can’t do it,” Zaynab said self-importantly. “You’re a boy. And a baby. You can’t do anything.”

“I’m not a baby!” Wajed uncle had even given him a spear shaft to carry around and scare off snakes. Babies couldn’t do that.

The screen of leaves was suddenly swept away and replaced with his mother’s angry face. She took one look at the bowl, and her eyes flashed with fear. “Zaynab!” She yanked his sister away by her ear. “How many times have I told you? You are never to—”

Ali scurried back, but his mother wasn’t interested in him. She never was. He waited until they had crossed the garden, Zaynab’s sobs growing distant, before he crept back toward the bowl. He stared at the still water, at the dark profile of his face surrounded by the pale sunlit leaves.

Ali raised his fingers and beckoned the water closer. He smiled when it began to dance.

He knew he wasn’t a baby.

The dream receded, swept back in the realm of childhood memories to be forgotten as a sharp bite of pain tugged at his elbow. Something growled in the very recesses of his mind, clawing and snapping to stay put. The tug came again, followed by a burst of heat, and the thing released.

“That’s the last of it, my king,” a female voice said. A light sheet fluttered over his body.

“Cover him well,” a man commanded. “I would spare him the sight as long as possible.”

Abba, he recognized as his memory came back to him in a shambles. The sound of his father’s voice was enough to drag him free of the fog of pain and confusion miring his body.

And then another voice. “Abba, I’m begging you.” Muntadhir. His brother was sobbing, pleading. “I’ll do anything you want, marry anyone you want. Just let the Nahid treat him, let Nisreen