He also knew it could be worse. Ali thanked God every day he’d landed with the djinn of Bir Nabat rather than in the hands of any of the dozens who’d tried to kill him since. But the ache when he thought of his family never quite went entirely away.
Then maybe you should start building one here. Ali rolled onto his back, basking in the warmth of the sun glowing against the tent. In the distance, he could hear children laughing and birds chirping. Bushra’s quiet interest played across his mind, and alone in his tent, Ali would not deny it sent a slight thrill through his body. Daevabad seemed a world away, his father apparently content to forget him. Would it truly be so terrible to allow himself to settle more permanently here, to quietly seize the kind of domestic life he would have never been allowed as Muntadhir’s Qaid?
Dread crept over him. Yes, it seemed to answer, swallowing the simple fantasies running through his mind’s eye. For in Ali’s experience, dreaming of a better future had only ever led to destruction.
3
Nahri
Well, one thing was clear: her Daeva elders did not share Nahri’s enthusiasm about the Nahid hospital.
Nisreen stared at her. “You slipped away from your guards? Again? Do you have any idea what Ghassan will do if he finds out?”
“Zaynab made me do it!” Nahri defended herself. Then—realizing it was perhaps a little ungrateful to blame her sister-in-law for an outing she rather enjoyed—she quickly added, “She said she takes such walks often and hasn’t been caught yet. And she promised to take the blame if we were.”
Kartir looked openly alarmed. The grand priest was normally more indulgent of Nahri’s . . . unorthodox ways, but this latest misadventure seemed to have shaken his calm. “And you trust her?” he asked, his wiry brows knitting in worry.
“On this, yes.” Nahri’s relationship with her sister-in-law was a prickly one, but she recognized a woman eager for a little bit of freedom when she saw one. “Now will the two of you stop fretting over everything? This is exciting! Can you imagine it? A Nahid hospital?”
Kartir and Nisreen shared a look. It was quick, but there was no denying the way the priest’s cheeks flushed in guilt.
Nahri was instantly suspicious. “You already know of this place? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
Kartir sighed. “Because what happened to that hospital is neither pleasant nor wise to discuss. I doubt anyone besides the king and a few devoted Daevabadi historians even know anything about it.”
Nahri frowned at the vague words. “Then how do you two?”
“Because Banu Manizheh learned of its existence—and of its fate,” Nisreen said quietly. “She was always poring over her family’s old books. She told us.”
“What do you mean, ‘its fate’?” When neither replied, Nahri’s impatience got the better of her. “Suleiman’s eye, must everything be a seceret here? I learned more from Razu in five minutes than I have from the two of you in five years!”
“Razu? Baga Rustam’s Razu?” Relief lit Kartir’s face. “Thank the Creator. I feared the worst when her tavern was burned.”
Nahri felt a pang of sorrow for the kind gambler who’d welcomed her so warmly. “I’m the Banu Nahida. I should have known ifrit slaves were being hunted down.”
Nisreen and Kartir exchanged another glance. “We thought it best,” Nisreen said finally. “You were still so deep in grief over Dara, and I didn’t want to burden you with the fate of his fellows.”
Nahri flinched at Dara’s name; she could not deny she had fallen apart in the weeks after his death. “It still wasn’t a decision you should have made on my behalf.” She eyed them. “I cannot be Banu Nahida in the Temple and infirmary and then be treated like a child when it comes to political matters you believe upsetting.”
“Political matters we think could get you killed,” Nisreen corrected bluntly. “There is more room for error in the Temple and infirmary.”
“And the hospital?” Nahri pressed. “What political reason could there be to have kept me in the dark about its existence?”
Kartir stared at his hands. “It’s not because of its existence, Banu Nahida. It’s because of what happened to it during the war.”
When he fell silent again, an idea struck Nahri. “If you can’t give me a better explanation that that, you’ll force me to find a way back. One of the freed djinn was a historian, and I’m sure he knows.”
“Absolutely not,” Nisreen cut in quickly, but then she sighed, sounding resigned. “The hospital was the first place to fall when Zaydi al Qahtani took Daevabad. The Nahids inside didn’t even have a chance to flee back to the palace. The shafit revolted the moment Zaydi’s army breached the city walls. They stormed the hospital and murdered every Nahid inside. Every single one, Banu Nahri. From elderly pharmacists to apprentices barely out of childhood.”
Kartir spoke up, his voice grave as the blood left Nahri’s face. “It was said to have been quite brutal. The Geziris had their zulfiqars, of course, but the shafit fought with Rumi fire.”
“Rumi fire?” Nahri asked. The term sounded slightly familiar.
“It’s a human invention,” Nisreen explained. “A substance that sticks like tar and burns even Daeva skin. ‘Fire for the fire worshippers,’ the shafit were said to have shouted.” She dropped her gaze, looking sick. “Some still use it. It’s how the djinn thieves who murdered my parents set our family’s temple ablaze.”
Guilt swept through Nahri, hard and fast. “Oh, Nisreen, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” Nisreen replied. “In truth, I suspect what happened at the Nahid hospital was far worse. I didn’t read the accounts Banu Manizheh did, but she barely spoke for weeks after finding them.”
“There were some indications that it was an act of revenge,” Kartir added carefully. “The violence . . . it seemed purposeful.”
Nisreen scoffed. “The djinn do not need a reason to be violent. It is their nature.”
The priest shook his head. “Let’s not pretend our tribe doesn’t have blood on its hands, Lady Nisreen. That is not the lesson I would impart to a young Nahid.” A shadow passed across his face. “Banu Manizheh used to speak like that. It was not good for her soul.”
Nisreen’s eyes narrowed. “She had reason to speak as she did, and you know it.”
There was a knock on the door. Nisreen instantly fell silent. They might be in the Temple, but one still needed to be wary of speaking ill of the Qahtanis in Daevabad.
But the man who poked his head in was anything but a spy. “Banu Nahida?” Jamshid tented his fingers together in respect. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the palace sent a litter for you.”
Nahri scowled. “Because Creator forbid I spend one unauthorized moment in my own temple.” She stood up, glancing at Nisreen. “Are you coming?”
Nisreen shook her head. “I have some matters to finish here.” She gave Nahri a stern look. “Please resist the urge to take another side trip, I beg you.”
Nahri rolled her eyes. “I bet my own mother would have been less controlling than you.”
Nisreen touched her wrist as she passed, an act technically forbidden in the Temple. Her eyes were soft. “But she’s not here, child, so it’s up to us to protect you.”
The genuine worry in her face cut through some of Nahri’s annoyance. For their many arguments, Nisreen was the closest thing Nahri had to family in Daevabad, and she knew her mentor cared dearly for her. “Fine,” she grumbled, bringing her hands together in blessing. “May the fires burn brightly for you both.”
“And for you, Banu Nahida,” they replied.
“Side trip?” Jamshid asked once the door was closed. “You have the look of someone freshly scolded.”
“A new, rather grisly lesson in Daevabad’s history.” Nahri made a face. “Just once, I’d like to learn of an event that was nothing but our ancestors conjuring rainbows and dancing in the street together.”
“It’s a bit more difficult to hold a grudge over t
he good days.”
Nahri wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s true.” She set aside thoughts of the hospital, turning to face him. In the dim light of the corridor, the shadows under Jamshid’s eyes were well-pronounced and the planes of his cheekbones and nose stood out sharply. Five years after Dara’s attack had nearly killed him, Jamshid was still recovering—at a gruelingly slow pace no one could understand. He was a shadow of the healthy archer Nahri had first seen deftly shooting arrows from upon the back of a charging elephant. “How are you feeling?”
“As though you ask me that question every day, and the answer is always the same?”
“I’m your Banu Nahida,” she said as they emerged into the Temple’s main prayer hall. It was a vast space, designed to fit thousands of worshippers with rows of decorated columns holding up the distant ceiling and shrines dedicated to the most lionized figures in their tribe’s long history lining the walls. “It’s my duty.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her, pausing to look at the bustling temple. “It’s crowded here today.”
Nahri followed his gaze. The temple was indeed packed, and it seemed like many were travelers: ascetics in worn robes and wide-eyed pilgrim families jostling for space with the usual Daevabadi sophisticates.
“Your father wasn’t joking when he said people would start arriving months before Navasatem.”
Jamshid nodded. “It’s our most important holiday. Another century of freedom from Suleiman’s imprisonment . . . a month of celebrating life and honoring our ancestors.”
“It’s an excuse to shop and drink.”
“It’s an excuse to shop and drink,” Jamshid agreed. “But it’s supposed to be an extraordinary spectacle. Competitions and parties of every kind, merchants bringing all the newest and most exciting wares from across the world. Parades, fireworks . . .”
Nahri groaned. “The infirmary is going to be so busy.” The djinn took merrymaking seriously and the risks of overindulgence far less. “Do you think your father will be back by then?” Kaveh had left recently to visit the Pramukhs’ ancestral estate in Zariaspa, ranting about a union dispute among his herb growers and a particularly pernicious plague of ravenous frogs that had besieged their silver-mint plants.
“Most certainly,” Jamshid replied. “He’ll be back to help the king with the final preparations.”
They kept walking, passing the enormous fire altar. It was beautiful, and Nahri always paused for a moment to admire it, even when she wasn’t conducting ceremonies. Central to the Daeva faith, the striking altars had persisted through the centuries and consisted of a basin of purified water with a brazierlike structure rising in its middle. Inside burned a fire of cedarwood, extinguished only upon a devotee’s death. The brazier was carefully swept of ash at dawn each day, marking the sun’s return, and the glass oil lamps that bobbed in the basin were relit to keep the water at a constant simmer.
A long line of worshippers waited to receive blessings from the priest; Nahri caught the eye of a little girl in a yellow felt dress fidgeting next to her father. She winked and the girl beamed, tugging her father’s hand and pointing excitedly.
At her side, Jamshid misstepped. He stumbled, letting out a hiss of pain, but waved Nahri off when she moved to take his arm.
“I can do it,” he insisted. He tapped the cane. “I’m hoping to be done with this come Navasatem.”
“An admirable goal,” Nahri said gently, worry rising in her as she studied the stubborn set of his features. “But take care not to exhaust yourself. Your body needs time to heal.”
Jamshid made a face. “I suppose being cursed has its drawbacks.”
She immediately stopped, turning to look at him. “You’re not cursed.”
“Do you have a better explanation for why my body reacts so badly to Nahid healing?”
No. Nahri bit her lip. Her skills had come a long way, but her inability to heal Jamshid gnawed at her confidence. “Jamshid . . . I’m still new at this, and Nisreen isn’t a Nahid. It’s far more likely there’s some magical or medical reason that your recovery is taking so long. Blame me,” she added. “Not yourself.”
“I would not dare.” They were nearing the shrines that lined the Temple wall. “Though on that note . . . I would like to have another session soon if possible.”
“Are you certain? The last time we tried . . .” Nahri trailed off, trying to find a diplomatic way to point out that the last time she’d healed him, he’d barely lasted five minutes before he was screaming in agony and clawing at his skin.
“I know.” He kept his gaze averted, as if he was struggling to keep both the hope and despair from his face; unlike many in Daevabad, Jamshid had never struck Nahri as a good liar. “But I’d like to try.” His voice dropped. “The emir . . . his father forced him to appoint another captain to his personal guard.”
“Oh, Jamshid, it’s just a position,” Nahri replied. “Surely you know you’re Muntadhir’s closest companion regardless. He never stops singing your praises.”
Jamshid shook his head, stubborn. “I should be protecting him.”
“You almost died protecting him.”
They came into view of Dara’s shrine at that rather inopportune time, and Nahri felt Jamshid tense. Dara’s shrine was among the most popular; roses garlanded his brass statue, that of a Daeva warrior on horseback, standing proudly upright in his stirrups to aim an arrow at his pursuers, and offerings littered the floor around the statue’s base. No blades were allowed in the temple, so small ceramic tokens depicting a variety of ceremonial weapons—mostly arrows—had been brought instead.
An enormous silver bow hung on the wall behind the statue, and as Nahri gazed at it, a lump rose in her throat. She’d spent a lot of time staring at that bow, though never in the company of a man—a friend—she knew had every right to hate the Afshin who’d wielded it.
But Jamshid wasn’t looking at the bow. He was instead squinting at the statue’s foot. “Is that a crocodile?” he asked, pointing to a small charred skeleton.
Nahri pressed her lips together. “Looks like it. Alizayd the Afshin-slayer.” She said the title softly, hating everything about it.
Jamshid looked disgusted. “That’s obscene. I am no fan of Alizayd’s, but the same sentiment that calls the Ayaanle crocodiles calls us fire worshippers.”
“Not everyone shares your tolerance,” she replied. “I’ve seen the skeletons here before. I suppose some people think Dara would enjoy having his murderer burned before him.”
“He probably would,” Jamshid said darkly. He glanced at her, his expression shifting. “Do you do that often? Come here, I mean?”
Nahri hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Dara was a raw nerve within her, even five years after his death—an emotional bramble that only grew more tangled when she tried to cut through it. Her memories of the grumbling, handsome warrior she’d grown to care for on their journey to Daevabad warred with the knowledge that he was also a war criminal, his hands drenched with the blood of Qui-zi’s innocents. Dara had stolen his way into her heart and then he’d shattered it, so desperate to save her despite her own wishes that he’d been willing to risk plunging their world into war.
“No,” she finally replied, checking the tremor in her voice. Unlike Jamshid, Nahri was accomplished at hiding her emotions. “I try not to. This isn’t a shrine to the Dara I knew.”
Jamshid’s gaze flickered from the shrine to her. “What do you mean?”
Nahri considered the statue, the warrior caught in action. “He wasn’t a legendary Afshin to me. Not originally. Qui-zi, the war, his rebellion . . . he didn’t tell me about any of that.” She paused. It had been here in the Temple that she and Dara had come closest to speaking aloud of what had grown between them, a fight that had dragged them apart and offered Nahri the first true glimpse of how much the war had stolen from Dara—and how much the loss had warped him. “I don’t think he wanted me to know. In the end . . .” Her voice softened. “I don’t think that
was the man he wanted to be.” She flushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be burdening you of all people with this.”
“You can burden me,” Jamshid said quietly. “It’s hard to watch the way this city ruins the ones we love.” He sighed and then turned away, leaning on his cane. “We should head back.”
Lost in thought, Nahri said nothing as they left the Temple and crossed its manicured grounds to the waiting palanquin. The sun blinked past the distant mountains, vanishing into the green horizon, and from deep inside the temple, a drum began to beat. Across the city, the djinn call to prayer answered it in waves. In marking the departure of the sun, the djinn and Daeva faithful were briefly united.
Once inside the palanquin, she relaxed into the cushions, the rocking motion lulling her toward sleep as they made their way through the Daeva Quarter.
“Tired?” Jamshid asked as she yawned.
“Always. And I had a patient who went late last night. An Agnivanshi weaver who inhaled the vapors she uses to make her carpets fly.” Nahri rubbed her temples. “Never a dull day.”
Jamshid shook his head, looking amused. “I can help when we get back.”
“That would be appreciated. I’ll have the kitchens send us up some dinner.”
He groaned. “Not your strange human food.”
“I like my strange human food,” Nahri defended. One of the palace cooks was an old man from Egypt, a shafit with a knack for knowing when to prepare the comforting dishes of her former home. “And anyway—”
From beyond the palanquin, a woman’s cry pierced the air. “Let him go! Please! I beg you. We did nothing wrong!”
Nahri shot upright. The palanquin lurched to a stop, and she yanked back its brocade curtain. They were still in the Daeva Quarter, on a quiet street that ran past some of the city’s oldest and finest homes. In front of the largest, a dozen members of the Royal Guard were rooting through a pile of furnishings. Two Daeva men and a boy who couldn’t be out of his teens had been bound and gagged, pushed into kneeling positions on the street.
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