my king. None who would speak to us anyway, though it was fairly chaotic when we arrived.” He hesitated and then added, “A rather large number of Daevas were gathering to demand whoever did this be found and held accountable.”
Alarm sparked in Ali. “The shafit in that camp are under our protection. There are hundreds of women and children there.”
“They have no business being there,” Kaveh retorted. “This is your fault. You whispered your poisonous opinions into my Banu Nahida’s ear, and now a Daeva man is dead.”
Suspicion gripped Ali. Kaveh had made his opposition to Nahri working with the shafit clear at the Grand Temple. But surely he couldn’t be so hateful as to plot something like this …
Aware of how tenuous the situation was, Ali switched to Geziriyya so that the Daevas couldn’t understand him. “Abba, I know that woman,” he said softly. “Kaveh knows that woman. He arranged for her to come visit my bedroom when I first moved back into the palace.” Ghassan’s eyes flickered to his, his face not betraying a hint of emotion, and Ali pressed on. “Muntadhir, surely you recognize her. You were there too. If she were to remove her veil, I know you would remember her.”
Muntadhir stared at him, seeming to contemplate the situation.
And then a ruthless calm swept his face. “I have made very clear how I feel about your judgment regarding the shafit.” He abruptly squared his shoulders, calculated outrage twisting his face. “And I am not going to ask this poor woman to disrobe because you think she’s a prostitute!”
His final words—uttered in Djinnistani rather than Geziriyya—cracked across the room. Kaveh gasped, and the woman let out a shrill cry.
Ali whirled around, seeing horror in the faces of the growing number of people who’d been drawn by the woman’s wails. “I-I didn’t say that,” he stammered, stunned by Muntadhir’s betrayal. “I only meant—”
“How dare you?” Kaveh accused. “Have you no shame, Prince Alizayd? Do you hate the Daevas so much that you’d dishonor a weeping woman while her husband’s blood still stains her hands?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
Muntadhir deftly brushed past him to kneel at the woman’s side. “We will find and punish whoever did this,” he promised, sincerity in every line of his handsome face. He glanced back at Ghassan. “Kaveh is right, Abba. I have tried to warn you and Nahri both. The shafit are dangerous, and something like this was bound to happen. Ali is delusional. His fanaticism has been infecting everyone around him.”
Ali gaped at him. “Dhiru …”
“Alizayd, leave us,” Ghassan said curtly. “You and your companions are confined to the palace until I say otherwise.” His eyes flashed. “Understand? Directly to your apartment; I will not have you further enflame this situation.”
Before Ali could protest, his brother grabbed him, dragging him toward the doors. “Abba, don’t!” he cried. “You heard Wajed, there’s a mob growing. Those people are innocent!”
Ghassan didn’t even look at him. “It will be handled.”
Muntadhir shoved him out, pushing Ali hard enough to knock him off balance. “Is there any situation you can’t make worse?” he snapped in Geziriyya.
“You lied,” Ali accused, shaking with emotion. “I know you—”
“You know nothing about me.” Muntadhir’s voice was low and venomous. “You have no idea what this position has cost me. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it to some shafit-obsessed zealot who can’t hold his tongue.”
He slammed the door in Ali’s face.
Ali staggered back, fury in his heart. He wanted to rip open the door and drag his brother through it. He had never before felt such a physical need to hit someone.
The delicate water table—a new, rather lovely addition to the corridor, a beautifully conjured construct featuring painted crystal birds that appeared to f lit as they bathed in the still waters of a mosaic pool—promptly exploded, the water sizzling into mist.
Ali barely noticed. It will be handled, his father had said. What did that mean? Ali thought of his workers and their families facing a Daeva mob, of Subha and her little daughter. He wasn’t supposed to be reckless, not anymore. But how could he let violence befall the people he’d sworn to protect? He knew his father’s politics; Ghassan wasn’t going to risk the fallout of letting the Royal Guard loose on mourning Daevas just to protect the shafit.
But there was someone else those Daevas might listen to. Nerves fluttered in Ali’s chest. Muntadhir would kill him, if Ghassan didn’t first.
It doesn’t matter. Not now. Ali