They were too late.
There was no Daeva mob. No cordon of Royal Guard trying to establish order. Instead what had been a happy, lively neighborhood of workshops and new homes this morning had been reduced to smoldering husks. The air was choked with smoke, a gray haze obscuring much of the camp.
“No,” Ali begged softly as he slid from the horse. “God, no . . .”
Nahri jumped off after him. She could hear a baby crying, and sick with fear for Subha’s family, she lunged forward.
Ali caught her wrist. “Nahri . . .” His voice was heavy with emotion. “We’re alone. If people blame you, if they want revenge . . .”
“Then they want revenge.” Nahri glared at him. “Let me go—and don’t ever try to stop me again.”
He dropped her wrist as if it had burned him. “I’m sorry.”
“Good. Come on.”
They entered the camp silently.
Smoking workshops and tents loomed around them; one of the pumps Ali had installed had been smashed and was going wild, spraying water in a wide arc. The muddy road had been churned up by hooves and it sucked at her slippers as she passed smashed furniture and broken pots. And yet, it looked like most of the damage was confined to the main thoroughfare, a small mercy; perhaps the Daevas who attacked had been too frightened to get off their horses or venture into the narrow side lanes. Shafit, shocked and covered in dust and blood, were salvaging what they could from their ruined homes, while others simply sat in stunned disbelief.
A hush descended as more and more people recognized them. Ahead she saw a small group of shafit gathered around a prone form on the ground. A body.
Nahri stumbled. Burned beyond recognition, it looked like it might have been a young man, his gaping mouth trapped in a permanent scream.
“They burned him alive.”
Nahri whirled around to see Subha. The shafit physician was filthy, her clothes and skin coated in ash, a bloody apron tied around her waist. “A boy younger than you,” she spat at Ali. “A boy who could barely string two words together. I would know. I delivered him myself and unwrapped the cord that was around his neck . . .” She trailed off, looking anguished as she tore her gaze from the murdered youth. “Of course, that was after they set fire to our homes and smashed through our workshops. When they rode down those who would not answer their questions and beat those who didn’t speak quickly enough. And when that boy couldn’t answer, they decided he was their culprit. He did nothing.” Her voice broke as she raised an accusing finger at both of them. “We came here to help you. To build your hospital under your protection.”
“And we failed you.” There were tears in Ali’s eyes, though his voice didn’t shake. “I’m so sorry, Subha, from the depths of my soul.”
The doctor shook her head. “Your words won’t bring him back, Alizayd al Qahtani.”
Nahri couldn’t look away from the murdered boy. “Where are your injured?” she asked softly.
Subha jerked her head toward the remains of a makeshift tent, a tattered tarp all that protected the two dozen or so bloodied people lying in its shade. “Over there. Parimal is bringing more supplies.”
“I don’t need supplies.” Nahri approached the group. A boy lay alone on a dirty blanket closest to her. He seemed to be in shock; his lip was split and his jaw bloodied and bruised. He clutched a second, blood-soaked blanket to his abdomen.
Nahri knelt and pulled it away. He’d been stabbed, very nearly disemboweled. It was a miracle he wasn’t already dead. Purple swelling ballooned the skin, and she could smell torn intestine. Subha couldn’t help him, even with supplies.
But Nahri could. She took a deep breath, aware of the step she was about to take and what it would mean.
And then she laid her hands upon his body.
Heal. The skin immediately twisted beneath her fingertips, the swelling vanishing, the torn muscles and flesh rushing back together. The young man let out a strangled gasp, and she felt his racing heartbeat even out. Nahri opened her eyes, meeting Subha’s stunned expression.
She cleared her throat. “Who’s next?”
By the time the call to maghrib prayer echoed across Daevabad, Nahri had lost track of how many shafit she had healed. The injuries were brutal: broken bones, crushed limbs, and gruesome burns. From what Nahri could gather, the rampage had been short but savagely effective: a mob of riders racing through and throwing conjured balls of fire before seizing and murdering the young man they declared guilty.
Twenty-three were dead, a number that likely would have been twice as high without her intervention, and the fact that a third of the camp had fled into the hospital, taking refuge behind the doors that the Daeva raiders hadn’t dared pass. “Why didn’t everyone do so?” Nahri had asked.
“The men said they rode in the name of the Nahids,” had been Subha’s blunt answer. “We weren’t sure a Nahid hospital was safe.”
Nahri hadn’t inquired further. And by the time she was done—her last patient a six-year-old with a skull fracture who’d been found in the arms of her dead father—Nahri was drained in every manner a person could be.
She sat back from the girl and took several deep breaths, trying to steady herself. But the acrid smell of smoke and blood turned her stomach. Her vision blurred, and she squinted, trying to see past a wave of dizziness.
Subha put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy,” she said as Nahri swayed. “You look ready to faint.” She pressed a waterskin into her hands. “Drink.”
Nahri took it gladly and drank, pouring some into her hands to splash onto her face. “We will catch and punish the men who did this,” she promised. “I swear.”
The other doctor didn’t even bother to feign a nod. “Maybe in another world.”
Too late, Nahri registered the sound of hoofbeats. There were a few alarmed cries, and Nahri dropped the waterskin as she whirled around, half fearing the mob had returned.
It was almost worse. It was Ghassan.
The king wasn’t alone, of course. The Qaid and a contingent of the Royal Guard, all very well armed, were behind him, as were Muntadhir and Kaveh. Her blood raged at the sight of the grand wazir. If Kaveh had a hand in the attack that had led to this awful reprisal, he would pay. Nahri would make damn sure of it. But she’d also be careful—she wasn’t going to shout accusations she couldn’t prove like Ali had and then have them used against her.
She straightened up. “Subha, your family is in the hospital?”
The other doctor nodded. “They’re with Razu.”
“Good.” Nahri wiped her hands on her smock. “Would you join them? I think it best you not draw the king’s attention right now.”
Subha hesitated. “And you?”
“I need to put some men in their place.”
But Ghassan didn’t even glance her way as Nahri ducked out of the tent and approached. He was off his horse and striding across the bloody cobblestones straight for his son, as if there was no one else in the street.
Ali seemed to notice a half-moment too late. Covered in blood and dust, he had not stopped moving since they arrived, doing whatever the shafit asked of him: cleaning debris, repairing tents, distributing blankets.
He raised his hands. “Abba—”
Ghassan struck him across the face with the metal hilt of his khanjar.
The crack echoed across the street, the camp going silent at the sound. Nahri heard Ali gasp, and then his father hit him again and he staggered back, blood streaming down his face.
“On your knees,” Ghassan snapped, pushing Ali to the ground when he didn’t move fast enough. He unsheathed his zulfiqar.
Horrified, Nahri ran toward them, but Muntadhir was faster, jumping from his horse and striding forward. “Abba, wait—”
“Do it.” Ali’s voice, wracked with anguish, cut his brother off. He spat blood and then glared at his father, his eyes blazing. “End this facade,” he choked, his voice breaking on the word. “Just do it!”
Ghassan’s han
d stayed on the zulfiqar. “You disobeyed me,” he accused. “I told you I would handle things. How dare you come here? How dare you risk your brother’s wife?”
“Because your way of handling things is to let people die! To let everyone who is not us spend so much time fighting each other that they can’t oppose you!”
The charge hung in the air like a lit match. People were staring in visible shock at the Qahtani men.
It looked as if it took Ghassan every bit of self-control he had to lower his zulfiqar. He spun around, turning his back on his son and motioning to the Royal Guard. “Take Prince Alizayd to the dungeon. Perhaps a few months sleeping with the corpses of those who’ve defied me will teach him to hold his tongue. And then tear the rest of this place down.”
Nahri stepped directly in his path. “Absolutely not.”
Ghassan gave her an annoyed look. “Stand down, Banu Nahri,” he said condescendingly. “I do not have the patience for one of your self-important speeches right now. Let your husband punish you as he sees fit.”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say.
The ground below her feet gave a single, angry jolt. There were a few cries of surprise as some of the horses were startled and reared. Filthy and fed up, Nahri barely noticed. Energy was crackling down her limbs, the city pulsing angrily in her blood. She had not come to this place—to the hospital they’d rebuilt on the bones of their slaughtered ancestors—to be brushed aside. She had not publicly broken her people’s most deeply held taboo to be told to “stand down.”
“No,” she said flatly. “You won’t be tearing this place down. No one’s touching my hospital and no one’s dragging my partner off to rot in the dungeon.”
Ghassan looked incredulous—and then his face hardened in a way that had once turned her blood to ice. “I beg your pardon?”
A whisper rustled through the group behind them, and then Kaveh came forward, looking aghast.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he implored. “They are saying you healed a shafit here with your own hands. Tell me they’re lying.”
“I healed about fifty,” she corrected coldly. Before he could respond, Nahri raised her scalpel and cut a deep gash into her palm. Barely three drops had fallen to the dust before the wound closed. “And yet seemingly the Creator has not seen fit to take my abilities.”
Kaveh looked horrified. “But at the Temple, you promised—”
“A promise like that means nothing when people are dying. My tribe committed a heinous crime—one whose source you and I will definitely be discussing. For now, I did what I could to rectify it.” She shook her head in disgust. “Do you understand? What happened was a tragedy that you let spin out of control. A few criminals attack an innocent couple and that justifies a war in the streets? Is that who we are?” She gave Ghassan a defiant look but chose her next words carefully. “What happened to the king who was ready to move us past all this?”
It was both a challenge and an opportunity, and Nahri prayed they’d seize on the latter. She couldn’t read Kaveh’s expression; she suddenly wondered if she’d ever read anything about him correctly.
But Ghassan . . . his expression was one of open appraisal. As though he was seeing her for the first time.
Nahri met his stare. “I have dealt with you fairly at every turn, King Ghassan,” she said, lowering her voice. “I renounced my Afshin. I married your son. I bow my head while you sit on a shedu throne. But if you try to take this from me, I will rip this city and your family apart.”
Ghassan narrowed his eyes and drew nearer; it took every ounce of courage Nahri had not to step back.
“You cannot be so foolish as to threaten me,” he said, softly enough that only she could hear. “I could reveal you as shafit right here.”
Nahri didn’t drop her gaze. And then in a single, petrifying moment, she decided to call his bluff. Nahri could read a mark, djinn king or not, and she was still willing to bet Ghassan al Qahtani would rather be known as the king who united their tribes than the one who destroyed the last Nahid.
“Then do it,” she challenged, keeping her voice equally low. “Let us see who the Daevas believe now. Who your children believe. I’ve kept my word. Do this and it will be you acting in bad faith, not I.”
Perhaps moved to interfere by the deadly expression brewing on his father’s face, Muntadhir approached. He looked sick, his horrified eyes tracing the blood-spattered street and smoldering buildings. “Abba, it’s been a long day. Let me take her back to the palace.”
“That sounds like an excellent suggestion.” Ghassan didn’t take his eyes off her. “You’re correct, Banu Nahida,” he continued, his voice diplomatic. “You have acted in good faith, and I’m certain your actions here were only intended to save lives.” He shrugged. “Perhaps one day the Daevas will even forget you completely disobeyed Suleiman’s code to do so.”
Nahri refused to flinch. “My hospital?”
“You may keep your little project, but you won’t be returning to it until it’s completed.” Ghassan shot a glance at Ali, still kneeling on the ground. “Nor will you be leaving it unless it is at my command. A contingent of the Guard—and not ones your mother has managed to pay off—will arrest you if you try.” He looked between Ali and Nahri. “I think it’s best we put some distance into this . . . partnership. Should you need to discuss the work, you may communicate through a messenger . . . one I assure you will be very much in my service.”
Muntadhir grabbed her hand, pulling her away. “Understood,” he said quickly, perhaps seeing the defiance still bright in her eyes. “Nahri, let’s—”
“I’m not done,” Ghassan cut in, his voice freezing her blood. But his attention was back on Ali. “The Banu Nahida may have acted in good faith, but you did not. You disobeyed me, Alizayd, and I am not unaware as to who’s been whispering in your ear and putting gold in your hands. That ends today.”
Ali shot to his feet, his eyes burning. “Excuse me?”
Ghassan stared back at his son. “You’ve made clear your life means nothing to you, but you can’t act so heedlessly and not expect to hurt others.” His expression sharpened. “So you can be the one to tell your sister she’ll never see her mother again.” He turned on his heel, striding back to his horse. “Kaveh, arrange a ship. Queen Hatset will be leaving for Ta Ntry tomorrow.”
24
Dara
The lake Dara had ravaged six months ago was already recovering. The gash he’d torn into its bed was barely visible, hidden beneath a sinuous net of sea-green waterweeds that reached out and twisted across opposite ends to knit together like lace. The surrounding trees were blackened, skeletal things, and the beach itself was dusted with ash and littered with the tiny bones of various aquatic creatures. But the water was returning, cool, blue, and smooth as glass, even if it only came to his knees.
“Did you think it would not heal?”
Dara shuddered at the sound of the marid’s raspy voice. Though they’d been told to return here, he hadn’t been certain what they’d find.
“I thought it might take more time,” Dara confessed, clasping his hands behind his back as he gazed at the horizon.
“Water is unstoppable. Eternal. It always returns. We return.” The marid fixed its dead eyes on him. It was still in the form of its murdered human acolyte, the body now reduced to salt-bleached bones and rotting gristle in the places where it wasn’t armored with shell and scales. “Water brings down mountains and nurtures new life. Fire burns out.”
Dara returned his gaze, unimpressed. “You know, I grew up on stories where the marid appeared as fetching mermaids or terrifying sea dragons. This decaying corpse is quite the disappointment.”
“You could offer yourself to me,” the marid replied smoothly, its coat of shells clacking together in the biting wind. “Give me your name, daeva, and I’ll show you anything you wish. Your lost world and slain family. Your Nahid girl.”
A finger of ice brushed his spine. “What do you know of
any Nahid girl?”
“She was in the mind and memories of the daeva we took.”
“The daeva you took . . .” Dara’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the boy you used to murder me?” His mouth twisted. “Alizayd al Qahtani is no daeva.”
The marid seemed to still, even the shells and bones falling silent. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“He is a djinn. At least, that is what his fool tribe call themselves.”
“I see,” the marid said, after another moment of considered silence. “No matter. Djinn, daeva . . . you are all the same, shortsighted and as destructive as the element that smolders in your hearts.” It ran its bony hands through the water, making tiny ripples dance. “You will leave my home soon, yes?”
“That is the plan. But if you try to deceive me, I assume you understand what I’ll do.” Dara pinned the marid with his gaze.
“You’ve made your intent clear.” A pair of tiny silver fish darted between its hands. “We will return you to your city, Darayavahoush e-Afshin. I pray you content yourself with spilling blood there and never return to our waters.”
Dara refused to let the words land. “And the lake? You will be able to re-create the enchantment I asked about?”
The marid cocked its head. “We will bring down your stone tower. And then understand we are done. We will bear no more responsibility for what your people do.”
Dara nodded. “Good.” He turned away, the wet sand sucking at his boots as he headed back to the camp they’d pitched on a grassy bluff set back from the water. At Dara’s suggestion, they had packed up and left their mountain encampment less than a week after Mardoniye’s death. Though the mist of copper vapor had been fading by then, its very existence had provoked questions among his men that he couldn’t answer. So they’d moved, biding the final weeks before Navasatem here.
And now the generation celebrations began in three days. In three days, they would enter this water and be transported back to Daevabad. In three days, he would be home. In three days, he would see Nahri.
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