And were they secrets that were dangerous now? A flying lion everyone believed long gone had just checked up on them. Were some river spirits next?
You do not have time to puzzle all this out. Ali was sick, Nahri was powerless, and if Manizheh somehow found a way to follow them, Nahri didn’t intend to be an easily spotted target in an abandoned village.
She was ruthless in taking stock of their circumstances, banishing thoughts of Daevabad and slipping into the cold pragmatism that had always ruled her life. It almost felt good to do so. There was no conquered city, no calculating mother who should have been dead, no warrior with pleading green eyes. There was only surviving.
Their possessions were pathetic. Save for Ali’s weapons, they had nothing but the tattered, blood-soaked clothes upon their backs. Nahri usually spent her days in Daevabad wearing jewelry that could have bought a kingdom but had been wearing none in deference to the traditions of the Navasatem parade, which dictated plain dress. She’d been taken from Cairo barefoot and dressed in rags and had returned the same—an irony that would have made her laugh if it didn’t make her want to burst into tears.
Worse, she knew they looked like easy marks. Their clothing might be destroyed, but it was djinn cloth, strong and luxurious to any eye. Nahri and Ali were visibly well-nourished and groomed, and Ali’s glimmering zulfiqar looked exactly like what it was: a stunningly crafted weapon more suited for a warrior from an ancient epic than anything a human traveler would be carrying. Ali and Nahri looked like the wealthy nobles they were, dragged through the mud but clearly no local peasants.
Considering her options, Nahri studied the river. No boats had come by and the nearest village was a smudge of buildings in the distance. She’d probably manage the walk in half a day, but there was no way she could carry Ali that far.
Unless she didn’t walk. Nahri eyed the fallen palm, an idea forming in her head, and then she reached for Ali’s khanjar, thinking it would be a more manageable blade than his zulfiqar.
Her hand stilled on the dagger’s jeweled handle. This wasn’t Ali’s khanjar—it was his brother’s. And like everything Muntadhir had fancied, it was beautiful and ridiculously expensive. The handle was white jade, banded with worked gold and inlaid with a floral pattern of tiny alternating sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Nahri’s breath caught as she mentally calculated the value of the khanjar, already separating out the valuable gems in her mind. She had no doubt Muntadhir had given this to his little brother as a remembrance. It was perhaps cruel to contemplate bartering bits away without Ali’s permission.
But that wouldn’t stop her. Nahri was a survivor, and it was time to get to work.
It took her the entire morning, the hours melting by in a haze of grief and determination, her tears flowing as readily as her blood did when she gashed her fingers and wrists trying to pull together a makeshift skiff of lashed branches. It was just enough to keep Ali’s head and shoulders above the waist-high water, and then she waded in, mud sucking at her bare feet, the river pulling at her torn dress.
Her fingers were numb by midday, too useless to hold the raft. She used Ali’s belt to tie it to her waist, earning new bruises and welts. Unused to such enduring physical pain, to injuries that didn’t heal, her muscles burned, her entire body screaming at her to stop.
Nahri didn’t stop. She made sure each step was steady. For if she paused, if she slipped and was submerged, she wasn’t certain she’d have the strength to fight for another breath.
The sun was setting when she reached the first village, turning the Nile into a glistening crimson ribbon, the thick greenery at its banks a threatening cluster of spiky shadows. Nahri could only imagine how alarming she must appear, and it didn’t surprise her in the least when two young men who’d been pulling in fishing nets jumped up with surprised yelps.
But Nahri wasn’t after the help of men. Four women in black dresses were gathering water just beyond the boat, and she trudged straight for them.
“Peace be upon you, sisters,” she wheezed. Her lips were cracked, the taste of blood thick upon her tongue. Nahri held out her hand, revealing three of the tiny emeralds she’d pried from Muntadhir’s khanjar. “I need a ride to Cairo.”
NAHRI STRUGGLED TO STAY AWAKE AS THE DONKEY cart made its rumbling way into the city, night falling swiftly and cloaking the outskirts of Cairo in darkness. It made the journey easier. Not only because the narrow streets were relatively empty—the locals busy with evening meals, prayers, and the settling down of children—but because right now Nahri wasn’t sure her heart could take an unencumbered view of her old home, its familiar landmarks lit by the Egyptian sun. The entire experience was already surreal—the sweet smell of the sugarcane littering the floor of the cart and the snatches of Egyptian Arabic from passersby contrasting with the unconscious djinn prince burning in her arms.
Every bump sent a new jolt of pain into her bruised body, and Nahri could barely speak above a murmur when the cart’s driver—the husband of one of the women at the river—asked where next. It was all she could do not to fall apart. To say this was a lean plan was an understatement. And if it failed, she had no idea where to turn next.
Fighting despair and exhaustion in equal measure, Nahri opened her palm. “Naar,” she whispered to herself, hoping against hope as she said the word aloud, as Ali had once taught her. “Naar.”
There was not the slightest hint of heat, let alone the conjured flame she was aching to hold. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
They finally arrived, and Nahri shifted in the cart, her limbs protesting. “Can you help me carry him?” she asked.
The driver glanced back, looking confused. “Who?”
Nahri gestured in disbelief to Ali, less than an arm’s length from the driver’s face. “Him.”
The man jumped. “I … Weren’t you alone? I could have sworn you were alone.”
Apprehension darted down her spine. Nahri had been under the vague understanding that humans couldn’t see most djinn—especially not pure-blooded ones like Ali. But this man had helped lift Ali’s body into the cart when they’d started out. How could he have already forgotten that?
She fought for a response, not missing the fear blooming in his eyes. “No,” she said quickly. “He’s been here the entire time.”
The man swore under his breath, sliding from the donkey’s back. “I told my wife we had no business helping strangers coming from that accursed place, but did she listen?”
“The Nile is an accursed place now?”
He shot her a dark look. “You did not just come from the Nile, you came from the direction of … that ruin.”
Nahri was too curious not to ask. “Are you talking about the village to your south? What happened there?”
He shuddered, pulling Ali from the cart. “It is better not to discuss such things.” He hissed as his fingers brushed Ali’s wrist. “This man is burning up. If you brought fever into our village—”
“You know what? I think I can actually carry him the rest of the way myself,” Nahri said with false cheer. “Thanks!”
Grumbling, the driver dumped Ali into her arms and then turned away. Struggling to adjust to the weight of his body, Nahri managed to drape one of Ali’s arms around her neck, then made her laborious way toward the small shop at the end of the dark alley—the small shop upon which she was pinning all her hopes.
The bells still rang when she opened the door, and the familiar sound as well as the aroma of herbs and tonics nearly made her double over with emotion.
“We’re closed,” came a gruff voice from the back, the old man not bothering to look up from the glass vial he was filling. “Come back tomorrow.”
At his voice, Nahri promptly lost the battle with her tears.
“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
The elderly pharmacist dropped the glass vial. It shattered on the floor, but he didn’t appear to notice.
Yaqub
stared back at her, his brown eyes wide with astonishment. “Nahri?”
2
DARA
It was shocking, truly, how easy it was to kill people.
Dara stared at the devastated Geziri camp before him. Spread across the manicured grounds of the palace’s public garden, it had been a beautiful place, fit for the honored guests of a king. Towering date palms from their homeland were set in giant ceramic pots among the smaller fruit trees, and glittering mirrored lanterns hung over paths of amber pebbles. Though magic had been stripped from the camp like everywhere else in Daevabad, the silk tents gleamed in the sunlight, and the gentle burble of the water fountains carried through the silence. The aroma of flowers and frankincense contrasted sharply with the acrid smell of burnt coffee and sour meat, meals that had been ruined when the people eating them were all abruptly murdered. There was the heavier smell of blood, of course, clinging to the patches of copper vapor still lingering in the air.
But Dara was becoming so accustomed to the scent of blood that he’d stopped noticing it.
“How many?” he asked quietly.
The steward standing next to him was shaking so badly it was a miracle the man was still standing. “At least a thousand, m-my lord. They were travelers from southern Am Gezira, here for Navasatem.”
Travelers. Dara’s gaze dropped from the tents and the trees—the dreamy setting for a fairy-tale feast—to the carpets so soaked with blood it was running in tiny streams into the surrounding garden. The Geziri travelers—many of whom he assumed had never been to Daevabad, who must have so recently gazed upon the city’s famed markets and palaces with wonder—had died swiftly but not instantly. There had been enough time for many to run, only to die clutching their heads on the pebbled paths. More had died holding each other, and dozens had died in what must have been a panicked stampede to escape a small plaza set up with handicrafts. The vapor Manizheh conjured had not discriminated between young and old, or woman from man, instead killing all with equal brusqueness. Young women with embroidery, old men stringing lutes, children holding sticky sweets.
“Burn them,” Dara commanded, his voice low. He had not been able to raise his voice today, as though if he gave any opening to the part of him that wanted to scream, the part of him that wanted to throw himself in the lake, he would be undone. “Along with any other Geziri bodies found in the palace.”
The steward hesitated. He was a Daeva man, a Creator-fearing one if the ash mark on his brow was anything to judge by. “Should we … should we make some effort to learn their identities? It doesn’t seem right to—”
“No.” At Dara’s curt response, the steward flinched, and Dara tried to explain. “It is better if the true toll is not known in case we need to adjust the number.”
The other man paled. “There are children.”
Dara cleared his throat, swallowing the lump rising there. He looked directly at the steward, letting his eyes brook no further discussion. “Find one of their clerics and have him pray over them. Then burn them.”
The steward swayed on his feet. “As you command.” He bowed and then scurried away.
Dara let his gaze fall on the dead again. It was utterly silent in the bloody garden, the close air feeling like a tomb. The palace walls loomed high overhead, their height tripled by his magic. Dara had done the same for the entire Daeva Quarter, taking advantage of the pandemonium to thoroughly seal his tribe off from the rest of the city. He’d done more magic than he ever had before, not even caring he’d had to stay in his fiery form to conserve his strength.
And looking at the murdered Geziris, he was glad. For if their kin on the other side of the city had somehow survived the vapor, Dara doubted even the loss of magic would keep them from coming for vengeance.
Devil, a voice whispered in his mind as he returned to the palace. It sounded like Nahri. Murderer.
Scourge.
He shoved the voice away. Dara was the weapon of the Nahids, and weapons didn’t have feelings.
The halls were desolate, his steps ringing on the ancient stones—many of which had cracked during the quake that had shaken the city when its magic was ripped away. The djinn who hadn’t managed to escape the royal complex, along with any Daevas caught protecting them, had been rounded up and herded into the ruined library. Many were inconsequential—bloodied scholars and civil servants, wailing harem companions, and terrified shafit servants—but among the mix, Kaveh had pointed out a few dozen nobles: men and women who would make for useful hostages, should their tribesmen start feeling mutinous. There was also a handful of surviving Geziris, the few besides Muntadhir who’d managed to remove their relic in time.
Dara kept walking. These are the corridors you said would be filled with celebration, aren’t they? Music and joy: the victory you promised your young warriors who now lie slaughtered on the beach, their bodies left to rot. The warriors who trusted you.
Dara squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t stop the heat crackling down his limbs. He exhaled, smoky embers escaping his mouth, and opened his eyes to see fire swirling in his palms. Had the Qahtani emir not accused him of belonging to hell? Perhaps his current appearance was an apt one.
He could hear the cries of the infirmary’s injured long before he passed through the thick wooden doors. Inside was organized chaos. Manizheh might not have her healing magic, but she commanded a forceful presence and had pulled together a team to help her, including the followers she’d brought from their camp in northern Daevastana, servants who’d worked with Nahri in the infirmary, a few seamstresses who were taking their talents to flesh, and a midwife she’d plucked from the harem.
Dara spotted her across the room now, dismayed to see she’d replaced the quilted armor he’d insisted she wear during the attack with lighter clothes she must have pillaged: a man’s tunic and a blood-soaked apron stuffed with tools. Her silvering black hair was gathered in a hasty bun, strands of it falling in her face as she bent over a crying Daeva girl.
Dara joined her, prostrating himself and pressing his brow to the ground. The show of obedience was intentional. In the face of an incomplete conquest and a frightened city stripped of its magic, the strains in their relationship were petty concerns. He would not dare undermine her in public—people needed to believe her rule was absolute.
“Banu Nahida,” he intoned.
“Afshin.” There was relief in her voice. “Rise. I think we can put off the bowing for the time being.”
He did as she commanded but kept his tone formal. “I have done what I can to seal off the Daeva Quarter and the palace from the rest of the city. I cannot imagine the djinn have the resources to scale such high walls anytime soon, and if they try, I have archers and Vizaresh awaiting them.”
“Good.” Her attention shifted to a man across the room. “Did you find the saw?” she called out.
The Daeva servant hurried over. “Yes, Banu Nahida.”
“A saw?” Dara asked.
Manizheh inclined her head toward her patient. The girl was young, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain of her wound: a grisly bite in the meat of her arm. The surrounding flesh was crimson and badly engorged.
“She’s a simurgh trainer in the royal menagerie,” Manizheh explained softly. “When the firebirds panic, they emit a venom in their saliva. Apparently the arena’s karkadann escaped when its magical gate fell away, and in the chaos, one of her birds bit her.”
Dara’s heart dropped. “What will you do?”
“If I had my abilities, I could draw the poison out before it reached her heart. Without magic, there’s only one thing I can do.”
The meaning of the saw became horribly clear, and whatever was between them, Manizheh seemed to have some mercy left for him. “She is the last patient I need to stabilize, and then I would like to catch up with you and Kaveh.” She nodded to a pair of doors. “He’s waiting in the other room.”
Dara bowed haltingly. “Yes, Banu Nahida.”
He weaved his w
ay through the crowded infirmary. It was packed with the injured, and Dara didn’t miss that they were all Daevas. He doubted it meant casualties were confined to his tribe—on the contrary, he suspected that in the cold calculus of their world, it meant only after the Daevas were helped would Manizheh turn her attention to the rest of the djinn.
We are never going to have peace, he despaired as he pushed through the doors she had indicated. Not after this. Consumed by his thoughts, Dara only realized where Manizheh had sent him when the door fell shut behind him.
He was in Nahri’s room.
Compared to the rest of the conquered palace, Nahri’s room was quiet and untouched. Dara was alone, Kaveh nowhere to be seen. The apartment was pretty and well appointed and at first glance could have belonged to any Daeva noblewoman. A silver fire altar smoldered in a prayer niche, perfuming the air with cedar, and a pair of delicate gold earrings and a ruby ring had been left on a small painted table.
Looking closer, though, Dara saw signs of the woman he’d known, the woman he’d loved and betrayed. Books were stacked in a precarious tower beside the bed, and what appeared to be small, almost crude items—a reed bent to resemble a boat, a dried garland of jasmine blossoms, a carved wooden bangle—were set with reverence on the windowsill. An ivory hair comb and an abandoned cotton shawl lay on the table beside him, and it was everything Dara could do not to pick them up and touch the things Nahri had touched so recently, to see if her scent lingered.
She cannot be dead. She simply cannot be. Losing the battle with his aching heart, Dara ventured farther into the room, feeling like an intruder as he ran his fingers over the finely carved mahogany bedposts. He could still remember doing so six years ago. How full of himself he’d been that night, righteously indignant after learning the Qahtanis intended to force Nahri to marry Muntadhir. Dara had not doubted for a moment when he had slipped into her bedchamber that what he was doing was right, that Nahri would greet him with a relieved smile, take his hand, and escape Daevabad at his side. That he was saving her from a terrible fate she could not possibly want.
The Empire of Gold Page 3