The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,80

off his mounting agitation.

“I can’t talk about this right now, Amma.” He ran his hands over his face, pulling at his beard.

Hatset stilled. “What is that on your wrist?”

Ali glanced down, his heart skipping as he realized the sleeve of his damn robe had fallen back once more. He kicked himself. After his encounter with Nahri, he’d sworn he’d find something new to wear. But uniforms at the Citadel had been scarce, and he hated to inconvenience the already struggling men.

Hatset was on her feet and at his side before Ali could respond; he hadn’t actually realized his mother could move so quickly. She grabbed his arm. Ali tried to pull back, but not wanting to hurt her—and underestimating her strength—he was not fast enough to block her before she’d shoved the sleeve back to his shoulder.

She gasped, pressing the bumpy edge of the scar that wrapped his wrist. “Where did you get this?” she asked, alarm rising in her voice.

Ali panicked. “Am-Am Gezira,” he stammered. “It’s nothing. An old injury.”

Her gaze trailed his body again. “You haven’t been to the hammam …,” she said, echoing her earlier words. “Nor taken off this filthy robe.” Her eyes darted to his. “Alu … are there more of these scars on your body?”

Ali’s stomach dropped. She’d asked the question far too knowingly.

“Take it off.” His mother was pulling the robe from his shoulders before he could move. Underneath, he wore a sleeveless tunic and a waist-wrap that came to his calves.

Hatset inhaled. She grabbed his arms, examining the scars that crossed his skin. Her fingers lingered at the ragged line crocodile teeth had torn just below his collarbone, and then she picked up his hand, touching the seared impression of a large fishing hook. Horror filled her eyes. “Alizayd, how did you get these?”

Ali trembled, torn between the promise he’d made to his father not to speak of that night and his desperate desire to know what had happened to him beneath the lake’s dark water. Ghassan had implied that the Ayaanle had an ancient tie to the marid—that they’d used them to aid in the conquest of Daevabad—and during his darkest days, Ali had been terribly tempted to find someone from his mother’s homeland and beg for information.

He said no one could know. Abba said no one could ever know.

Hatset must have seen the indecision warring in his expression. “Alu, look at me.” She took his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I know you don’t trust me. I know we have our differences. But this? This goes beyond all that. I need you to tell me the truth. Where did you get these scars?”

He stared into her warm gold eyes—the eyes that had comforted Ali since he was a child skinning his elbows while climbing trees in the harem—and the truth tumbled out. “The lake,” he said, his voice the barest of whispers. “I fell in the lake.”

“The lake?” she repeated. “Daevabad’s lake?” Her eyes went wide. “Your fight with the Afshin. I heard he knocked you overboard, but that you caught yourself before you reached the water.”

Ali shook his head. “Not quite,” he replied, his throat catching.

She took a deep breath. “Oh, baba … here I am discussing politics …” She held on to his hands. “Tell me what happened.”

Ali shook his head. “I don’t remember much. Darayavahoush shot me. I lost my balance and fell in the water. There was something in it, some sort of presence tearing at me, tearing through my mind, and when it saw the Afshin …” He shuddered. “Whatever it was, it was so angry, Amma. It said it needed my name.”

“Your name?” Hatset’s voice rose. “Did you give it?”

He nodded, ashamed. “It forced these visions upon me. Daevabad destroyed, all of you murdered …” His voice broke. “It made me see them again and again, all while it attached itself to me, biting and ripping at my skin. Zaynab and Muntadhir were screaming for me to save them, to give my name and I … I broke.” He could barely say the last words.

Hatset pulled him into a hug. “You didn’t break, child,” she insisted, stroking his back. “You couldn’t have fought them.”

Nerves fluttered in his stomach. “You know what it was, then?”

His mother nodded, pulling back to touch the hooked scar in his palm. “I’m Ayaanle. I know what leaves these marks.”

The word lay unsaid between them another moment, and then Ali couldn’t bear it. “It was