whether he was speaking to his father or the dark urge in his mind.
“And now I’m going to invite you to act in your own,” Ghassan said, seemingly unaware of the deadly thoughts swirling within his son. “I’m sending you back to Am Gezira after Navasatem.”
Whatever Ali had expected … it was not that. “What?” he repeated faintly.
“I’m sending you back. You will formally renounce your titles and find a way to thoroughly sabotage your relationship with the Ayaanle, but you will otherwise return with my blessing. You may marry a local woman and tend to your crops and your canals with whatever children God grants you.”
“Is this a trick?” Ali was too stunned to even be diplomatic.
“No,” Ghassan said bluntly. “It is the last resort of a man who does not wish to execute his son.” He looked almost imploringly at Ali. “I know not how to get you to bend, Alizayd. I have threatened you, I have killed your shafit allies, banished your mother, sent you to be hunted by assassins … and still you defy me. I am hoping your heart proves weaker than your sense of righteousness … or perhaps wiser.”
Before Ali could stop himself, he saw Bir Nabat in his mind. His students and his fields, himself laughing over coffee with Lubayd and Aqisa.
A wife. A family. A life—one away from Daevabad’s blood-soaked history and marid-haunted lake.
Ali felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “And if I refuse?”
Ghassan looked exasperated. “It is not an offer, Alizayd. You are going. For God’s sake …” A desperate note entered his voice. “Will you let me give at least one of my children some happiness? You wanted to go back, didn’t you?”
He had. Desperately. Part of Ali still did. But he’d be leaving his home to a king he no longer believed deserved to rule it.
“Do not offer me this,” he begged. “Please.”
Ali’s warring desires must have been plain on his face, because a quiet remorse swept his father’s. “I suppose I’ve forgotten there are situations for which kindness is the most powerful weapon.”
Ali was shaking. “Abba …”
But his father was already leading him out. “My men will take you back to the hospital. Your conditions remain.”
“Wait, please—”
This time, the door closed softly in his face.
Nahri crossed her arms, staring skeptically at the saddle that had been placed on the stack of cushions piled before her. “Absolutely not.”
“But it’s safe!” Jamshid persisted. Clutching the handholds set in the saddle’s frame, he hauled himself into the seat. “Look.” He gestured to the raised back. “It’s designed to compensate for the weakness in my lower body. I can bind my legs and use a crop to ride.”
She shook her head. “You’ll fall and break your neck. And a crop? You can’t control a horse with some stick alone.”
Jamshid eyed her. “My dear Banu Nahida … I say this with the utmost respect, but you are perhaps the last person in Daevabad I would take riding advice from.” Nahri scowled, and he laughed. “Come now … I thought you’d be pleased. I got the design from that shafit doctor of yours. We’re exchanging skills!” he teased. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No! I thought we might try some of her therapies so that in a few years you would be back on a horse without the need for a stick.”
“I’m pretty sure the Navasatem procession will be over by then.” Jamshid shifted in the saddle, looking pleased with himself. “This shall do nicely. Oh, what?” he asked when she glared at him. “You’re not my mother. I don’t need your permission.” He brought his hands together as if holding imaginary reins. “I’m your elder anyway.”
“I’m your Banu Nahida!” she argued back. “I could … I could …” She trailed off, thinking fast.
Jamshid—the former priest in training—turned to face her. “You could do what?” he asked politely, his eyes dancing. “I mean, what precisely could you do, according to the protocols of our faith?”
“Let him be.” Nisreen’s soft voice interrupted them, and Nahri glanced back to see her mentor standing at the curtain. Her eyes were locked on Jamshid, her face shining with warmth. “You should ride in the Navasatem procession if that’s what you desire. It does my heart good to see you like this—even if your current stallion leaves much to be desired,” she added, nodding to the stack of cushions.
Nahri sighed, but before she could respond, the sound of retching came from across the infirmary.
Jamshid glanced over. “It looks