The first thing he did on his return was send half the salary he had received from Hanife that week to Elahyiah’s parents’ address in Tirhan. He’d left Bomani before Hanife had him pay it back. He did not know if Elahyiah ever received it. He still had a few friends in Tirhan, though, and they told him his wife and children were safe with Elahyiah’s family. It was enough to know that his resourceful wife had done what he could not—bring their family home. But it was no thanks to his words or deeds. He knew that, and the knowledge threatened to devour him. All he had left now was God.

Outside, he heard the call to prayer start at the center of the city. It had been some time since he was back in Chenja proper, and the first time he had been back as a man and not a criminal. What remained of Hanife’s money had rented him a proper house in a decent part of town. His uncle, Abdul-Nasser, lived not far from here, and though his uncle was a bit scattered in the head, he was a good ally to have as Rhys settled in his new life.

Rhys had started work at the local madrassa, teaching the Kitab to young children. Despite some disapproving noises from the madrassa’s elders, his request that girls be allowed to attend classes as well was approved. He would teach nothing to boys, he said, that he would not teach his own girls. His girls… the ones he let die, and the ones Elahyiah had taken from him. He could hate her for it, he knew, or release her. A man who could not fix himself, who did not know his own path, was not fit to be a husband. He knew that.

He had come home to find his path.

The end of the war had meant the end of many things in Chenja. There was an opportunity for change here, and he intended to be part of it.

He uncovered his pistol box from a stack of belongings that had come with him from his temporary apartment. He imagined going upstairs, past Mehry and Nasrin’s room, where they would be playing with a collection of dolls and toy bakkies he had bought for them in Heidia, one of the ports of call on his journey home. He had never been the best of magicians.

But instead, he had the dolls and toy bakkies here, in a sad pile beside his pistol box. The two things could not exist together. He knew that. Had known it back in Tirhan, but fought it.

He put the pistol box into his pile of things to sell.

Someone knocked at the door. The Mhorian woman who came in to cook and clean for him, Rahel, answered it.