have my choices stripped away.” Nahri tried to sound firm, as if it didn’t feel like she was also snuffing out something in her heart, something small and fragile and new. “I won’t marry him. Not like this. And I will never abandon Daevabad.” She drew her shayla close before turning back in the direction of her rooms. “Talk to your son, my queen. I’ve made my decision.”
26
ALI
Ali was a groggy mess by the time he finally woke up the next morning. He groaned into his pillow; silk sheets tangled around his body.
Wait … a pillow? Silk sheets? A mattress?
Ta Ntry. He inhaled, smelling myrrh along with the ocean’s tang on the fresh air. Ali rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. He felt unusually foggy-headed, sleep clinging determinedly to him as he tried to recall what had led to his being in this bed. The last thing he remembered was eating dinner with his mother and then being escorted to a dim room that some people—God, Ali had been so tired he couldn’t even remember their faces—assured him was his.
He squinted in the darkness now. It was a pleasant room, three large windows lit with the deep purple of approaching dawn. Water for washing had been left beside a crisp pale blue robe with an unnecessary amount of maroon embroidery on the sleeves and collar, cut in Ayaanle fashion. A matching cap rested beside it.
Sluggishly rising to his feet—what was wrong with him this morning?—Ali made his way to the tin basin, mumbling a prayer of intention. His reflection rippled in the water.
As did a pair of flat black eyes, round as plates.
Ali recoiled. He shoved the basin away, and water sloshed out, splashing to the floor.
What in God’s name was that? After a moment—and now fully awake—he edged closer again, peering over the basin.
There was nothing. His heart pounding, Ali dipped his hand in the cool water, running his fingers along the basin’s smooth bottom. He wanted so desperately to believe that the sharklike eyes might have been a figment of his imagination, a sleepy remnant of a dream.
Except this was Ali’s life, and being spied upon by some unseen water spirit seemed more likely.
There was also nothing he could do if indeed one of Sobek’s curious cousins had just stolen a peek at him. Instead, Ali finished his ablutions and dressed. A prayer mat had been left on an embossed wooden chest, but with a glance at the sky, Ali estimated he had enough time to walk to the village’s open mosque. He knew it would feel good to pray underneath the vanishing stars and in the quiet company of those who also preferred to perform fajr at the mosque.
A soldier just outside Ali’s door jumped to attention when he opened it.
“Prince Alizayd,” the guard greeted him, touching his heart and brow in the Geziri salute. “Peace be upon you.”
“And upon you peace,” Ali said. He frowned, studying the man’s lowered gaze. “Wait … Sameer?” He laughed, clapping the other man’s shoulder. “Is it really you?”
The guard smiled bashfully. “I wasn’t sure you would remember me.”
“Of course I remember you! I remember everyone in my cadet class—especially the boys who warned me that others had slipped a baby crocodile under my blanket. How are you? How did you get all the way out here?”
“I am well, praise God. I was transferred to Dadan after I finished training at the Citadel,” Sameer explained, naming one of the northernmost garrisons in Am Gezira. “The Qaid came through on his way to Ta Ntry and ordered us all to accompany him.”
Well, that accounted for the dozens of Geziri warriors milling about. “I’m glad to see you,” Ali replied. “It’s good to know others from our class survived.”
Sameer’s expression grew somber. “I still can’t believe what happened to the Citadel.” He flushed. “Forgive me, I know you were there—”
“It’s fine. I know I’m not the only person who lost friends that night.” But Ali changed the subject, trying to stay ahead of his emotions. “I’m headed to the masjid for fajr if you’d like to join me.”
Happy surprise filled Sameer’s eyes. “I would be honored, Your Highness—I mean, Your Majesty,” he corrected. “I apologize; the men and I weren’t certain which to use.”
Taken aback, Ali realized that neither was he. The kingly title probably shouldn’t have been a surprise—he was the last Qahtani prince and already bore Suleiman’s seal on his face. There was a ceremony, of course, to make it