“Do not offer me this,” he begged. “Please.”
Ali’s warring desires must have been plain on his face, because a quiet remorse swept his father’s. “I suppose I’ve forgotten there are situations for which kindness is the most powerful weapon.”
Ali was shaking. “Abba . . .”
But his father was already leading him out. “My men will take you back to the hospital. Your conditions remain.”
“Wait, please—”
This time, the door closed softly in his face.
26
Nahri
Nahri crossed her arms, staring skeptically at the saddle that had been placed on the stack of cushions piled before her. “Absolutely not.”
“But it’s safe!” Jamshid persisted. Clutching the handholds set in the saddle’s frame, he hauled himself into the seat. “Look.” He gestured to the raised back. “It’s designed to compensate for the weakness in my lower body. I can bind my legs and use a crop to ride.”
She shook her head. “You’ll fall and break your neck. And a crop? You can’t control a horse with some stick alone.”
Jamshid eyed her. “My dear Banu Nahida . . . I say this with the utmost respect, but you are perhaps the last person in Daevabad I would take riding advice from.” Nahri scowled, and he laughed. “Come now . . . I thought you’d be pleased. I got the design from that shafit doctor of yours. We’re exchanging skills!” he teased. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No! I thought we might try some of her therapies so that in a few years you would be back on a horse without the need for a stick.”
“I’m pretty sure the Navasatem procession will be over by then.” Jamshid shifted in the saddle, looking pleased with himself. “This shall do nicely. Oh, what?” he asked when she glared at him. “You’re not my mother. I don’t need your permission.” He brought his hands together as if holding imaginary reins. “I’m your elder anyway.”
“I’m your Banu Nahida!” she argued back. “I could . . . I could . . .” She trailed off, thinking fast.
Jamshid—the former priest in training—turned to face her. “You could do what?” he asked politely, his eyes dancing. “I mean, what precisely could you do, according to the protocols of our faith?”
“Let him be.” Nisreen’s soft voice interrupted them, and Nahri glanced back to see her mentor standing at the curtain. Her eyes were locked on Jamshid, her face shining with warmth. “You should ride in the Navasatem procession if that’s what you desire. It does my heart good to see you like this—even if your current stallion leaves much to be desired,” she added, nodding to the stack of cushions.
Nahri sighed, but before she could respond, the sound of retching came from across the infirmary.
Jamshid glanced over. “It looks like Seyyida Mhaqal is sick again.”
“Then you better get over there,” Nahri replied. “If you have time to construct horses out of cushions, my brilliant apprentice, you have time to deal with fireworms.”
He made a face but slipped from the saddle, heading for the sick patient. He didn’t take his cane, and Nahri could not help but feel a quiet sense of triumph as he made his way steadily across the room. It might not be happening as quickly as Jamshid liked, but he was getting better.
She glanced at Nisreen, wanting to share her happiness. But Nisreen quickly dropped her gaze, collecting the glasswork Nahri had been using to prepare potions earlier.
Nahri moved to stop her. “I can do that. You shouldn’t have to clean up after me.”
“I don’t mind.”
But Nahri did. She pulled the pair of beakers from Nisreen’s hands and set them down, taking the other woman’s arm. “Come.”
Nisreen made a startled sound. “But—”
“No but. You and I need to talk.” She snatched up one of the bottles of soma that Razu had gifted her; it was proving a rather effective pain management technique. “Jamshid,” she called. “You’re in charge of the infirmary.”
His eyes went wide over the bucket he was trying to maneuver beneath Seyyida Mhaqal. Curly gold fireworms clung to his wrists. “I’m what?”
“We’ll be right outside.” She escorted Nisreen to the balcony, pulling her to a bench, and pressing the bottle of soma into her hands. “Drink.”
Nisreen looked indignant. “I beg your pardon?”
“Drink,” Nahri repeated. “You and I clearly have some things to say to each other, and this will make it easier.”
Nisreen took a delicate sip, making a face. “You have been spending too much time with djinn, to be acting thus.”
“See? Aren’t you happy you got that off your chest?” Nahri asked. “Tell me I’ve ruined my reputation. That the priests are saying I’ve strayed and Kaveh is calling me a traitor.” Her voice grew slightly desperate. “None of you can meet my eyes nor want to talk to me, so surely that’s what’s being said.”
“Banu Nahri . . .” Nisreen sighed—and then took another swig of the soma. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You laid hands on dozens of shafit in broad daylight. You broke Suleiman’s code.”
“To save lives,” Nahri said, defending herself fiercely. “The lives of innocent people attacked by members of our tribe.”
Nisreen shook her head. “It is not always as simple as that.”
“Then you think I’m wrong?” Nahri asked, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. “Is that why you’ve barely been speaking to me?”
“No, child, I don’t think you’re wrong.” Nisreen touched Nahri’s hand. “I think you’re brilliant and courageous and your heart is in the right place. If I hold my tongue, it’s because you share your mother’s stubborn streak and I would rather serve quietly at your side than lose you altogether.”
“You make me sound like Ghassan,” Nahri replied, stung.
Nisreen passed over the bottle. “You did ask.”
Nahri took a long drink of the soma, wincing as it burned down her throat. “I think I went too far with him,” she confessed; Ghassan’s cold eyes as he gazed at her in the ravaged workcamp were a thing not easily forgotten. “The king, I mean. I challenged him. I had to do it, but . . .” She paused, remembering his threat to reveal her as a shafit. “I don’t think he’s going to let it pass unpunished.”
Nisreen’s expression darkened. “Did he threaten you?”
“He doesn’t need to. Not directly. Though I suspect he sent Hatset away in warning to me, as well as to Ali. A reminder of the place of queens and princesses in his court, no matter how powerful their family.” Nahri’s lips thinned in distaste. “Right now, he and I hold each other in check, but should things shift . . .” She took another swig of the soma, her head beginning to swim. “I’m so tired of this, Nisreen. All this plotting and scheming just to keep breathing. It feels like I’m treading water . . . and, God, do I want to rest.”
That lay between them for a few long moments. Nahri stared at the garden, the setting sun throwing it in shadow. The air smelled rich, the soil wet from the day’s unexpected rain. The soma in her veins tingled pleasantly.
A tickle at her wrist drew her attention, and Nahri glanced down to see a morning glory’s tender vine nudging her arm. She opened her palm, one of the bright pink flowers blooming in her hand.
“The palace magic has been responding to you more often,” Nisreen said softly. “Since that day.”
“It probably likes me picking fights with the Qahtanis.”
“I would not be surprised.” Nisreen sighed. “But on that . . . things will get better here. I promise. Your hospital is nearly complete. And though I don’t agree with your involving the shafit, you’ve brought back something vital, something incredibly important to our people.” She lowered her voice. “And for what you’ve done for Jamshid, you should be blessed. It was the right thing to take him under your wing.”
Nahri let go of the flower, still glum. “I hope so.”
Nisreen touched her cheek. “It was.” Her eyes turned intent.
“I’m proud of you, Nahri. Perhaps in all our disagreements, that’s not a thing I’ve made clear, but I am. You’re a good Banu Nahida. A good . . . what is your human word? Doctor?” She smiled. “I think your ancestors would be proud too. A little horrified . . . but proud.”
Nahri blinked, her eyes suddenly damp. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Happy Navasatem,” the other woman offered dryly.
“Happy Navasatem,” Nahri repeated, raising the bottle. “To the start of a new generation,” she added, trying to stifle the slight slur in her voice.
Nisreen pulled the bottle from her hands. “I think that’s enough.”
Nahri let her take it, working up the courage to ask her next question. “You said I was stubborn . . . do you—do you think I’m being too proud?”
“I don’t understand.”
Nahri stared at her hands, feeling self-conscious. “If I had any sense, I’d be patching things up with Muntadhir. I’d be returning to Muntadhir. I’d find a way to give Ghassan the grandchild he wants.”
Nisreen hesitated. “That strikes me as a terrible reason to bring a child into this world.”
“It’s the pragmatic one. And that’s what I’m supposed to be,” Nahri pointed out, bitterness stealing into her voice. “Pragmatic. Heartless. That’s how you survive in this place. It’s how I’ve survived everything.”
Nisreen’s voice was soft. “But what do you want, Nahri? What does your heart want?”
Nahri laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. “I don’t know.” She looked at Nisreen. “When I try to imagine my future here, Nisreen, I see nothing. I feel like the very act of envisioning the things that make me happy will destroy them.”
Nisreen was looking at her with open sympathy. “Oh, Banu Nahida, don’t think like that. Listen, Navasatem begins tomorrow. Enjoy it. Enjoy your hospital and the parade. Ghassan will be too busy overseeing everything to scheme.” She paused. “Try not to fret over your future with the Qahtanis. Let’s get through the next few days, and we can sit and discuss all this after.” Her voice caught. “I promise you . . . things are going to be different very soon.”
Nahri managed a nod, Nisreen’s calm words dissipating some of the fear that gripped her heart. They always did; Nisreen had been a steadying presence at Nahri’s side since her first day in Daevabad. She’d saved her from the various plots of the harem and guided Nahri’s trembling hands through countless procedures. She’d rinsed Dara’s ashes from Nahri’s tear-streaked face and quietly told her what to expect on her wedding night.
And yet it suddenly struck Nahri that for all the times she’d unburdened herself to Nisreen, there was still so little she knew about her mentor. “Nisreen, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Are you happy here?”
Nisreen looked surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .” Nahri wrung her hands. “Do you ever regret staying in Daevabad after my mother healed you?” Her voice gentled. “I know you lost your parents in the attack on your village. But you could have returned home and had your own family instead of serving mine.”
Nisreen grew very still, her gaze contemplative. “I would be lying if I said there weren’t times I feared I’d taken the wrong path. That I never dreamed of something else, never mourned the other lives I might have lived. I don’t think that’s an uncertainty anyone loses.” She took a sip of the soma. “But I’ve led an astonishing life here. I’ve worked alongside Nahid healers, witnessing the most miraculous, incredible things magic is capable of. I’ve saved lives and consoled the dying.” She smiled again, taking Nahri’s hand. “I’ve taught the next generation.” Her eyes grew wondrous, seeming to gaze into a distance Nahri couldn’t see. “And there are even greater things to come.”
“Does that mean you plan to stay?” Nahri asked, a mix of jest and hope in her voice. “Because I could really use another Daeva at my side.”
Nisreen squeezed Nahri’s hand. “I will always be at your side.”
Sitting stiffly with Muntadhir in the massive throne room, Nahri watched the oil in the tall glass cylinder burn low.
A hush had descended upon the crowd below, an expectant and excited buzz. Though court had been held as usual, the day’s business was done with a wink, the petitions getting silly as was apparently the custom on the last day of a generation. The throne room was packed, eager crowds spilling out into the entrance gardens.
Nahri was struggling to share their excitement. For one, she’d drunk a little too much soma last night and her head was still swimming. But worse was being in the throne room itself. It was here she’d been forced to denounce Dara, and the more she learned about her people, the more obvious the room’s Daeva design became. The open pavilion and manicured gardens so similar to those of the Grand Temple; the elegant columns carved with Nahids riding shedu, archers sporting ash marks, and dancers pouring wine. The green marble floor cut through with canals of rushing ice water brought to mind the green plains and cold mountains of Daevastana, not Am Gezira’s golden sands. And then there was the throne itself, the magnificent, bejeweled seat carved to imitate the mighty shedu her ancestors had once tamed.
To be a Nahid in the throne room was to have her family’s stolen heritage thrust in her face while she was forced to bow down before the thieves. And it was a humiliation she hated.
She could feel Ghassan’s gaze on her now, and she tried to bring a happier expression to her face. It was tiring to play the part of the joyful royal wife when she hadn’t spoken to her husband in weeks and she was fairly certain her father-in-law was contemplating assassinating her.
Standing at Ghassan’s side was Kaveh. Ever diplomatic, the grand wazir had greeted her warmly when she arrived. Nahri had smiled back, even as she considered trying to brew up one of her ancestors’ truth serums to slip into his wine. Nahri wasn’t certain if Ali’s accusations about Kaveh’s complicity in the workcamp attack were true, but her instincts told her there was more ruthless cunning behind Kaveh’s politely loyal mask than she had previously suspected. Not that she knew what to do about it. Nahri meant what she’d said to Subha: she was determined to find some justice for the camp’s victims. But under virtual imprisonment in the palace infirmary—Ghassan would not even let her go to the Temple to speak to her people—she wasn’t sure how to accomplish that.
She looked around the chamber once more. Ali was missing, an absence that concerned her. Per Ghassan’s orders, they hadn’t seen each other since that day, though they’d been exchanging letters through the king’s messenger fairly often. In a petty move, they’d resorted to writing out their words in Egyptian Arabic, but Ali’s messages were all business: hospital updates and construction news. As far as anyone could tell, he’d been brought into line, chastened by his mother’s banishment and his own confinement in the hospital.
Nahri didn’t believe that for a minute.
There was a flicker of light, and then a cheer broke out across the room, drawing her attention back to the now extinguished cylinder.
Ghassan rose to his feet. “I call to a close the twenty-ninth generation of Suleiman’s Blessing!”
A roar of approval greeted his words, cheers and ululations ringing across the chamber. Sparks flew as people clapped—an already drunk few cackling as they sent up glittering conjured fireworks.
Ghassan lifted his hand. “Go home, my people. Sleep at least one night before we all lose ourselves in merriment.” He smiled—for once it looked a little forced—and turned away.
Nahri stood—or tried to. Her aching head protested and she winced, her hand going to her temple.
Muntadhir caught her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding at least half concerned.
“Fine,” she muttered, though she let him help her.
He hesitated. “Preparations for the parade tomorrow are going well?”
Nahri blinked. “They are . . .”
“Good.” He bit his lip. “Nahri . . . I expect the next few days will be a whirlwind for us both, but if possible, I would like to take you up on your offer to visit the Grand Temple.”
She crossed her arms. “So you can stand me up again?”
“I won’t, I promise. I shouldn’t have before.” She raised a skeptical brow at the half apology and he made an annoyed sound in his throat. “All right, Jamshid has been harassing me to make peace with you, and this seems like a good first step.”
Nahri considered that, her conversation with Nisreen running through her mind. She wasn’t sure how she wanted to proceed with Muntadhir, but visiting the Temple with her husband didn’t mean she had to jump back into bed with him. “All right.”
A whisper of magic fluttered through the throne room, setting the hairs on the back of her neck on end. The air suddenly warmed, movement near the floor drawing her gaze.
Her eyes went wide. The water in the nearest fountain, a pretty stone octagon covered in starlike mirrored tiles, was boiling.
There was a startled cry behind her. She whirled around to see djinn hastily backing away from the trench fountains lining the perimeter walls. Water was boiling in those fountains as well, the enchanted ice floating in their depths steaming away so quickly that a white haze rose from the floor.
It lasted only seconds. There was a whistling, cracking sound as the scorching water let out enormous clouds of steam and then abruptly drained away, vanishing into jagged gashes at the bottom of the fountains.
Muntadhir had drawn closer. “Please tell me that was you,” he whispered.
“No,” she replied, her voice shaking. In fact, the familiar warmth of the palace magic seemed briefly gone. “But the palace does that sometimes, doesn’t it?”
Muntadhir looked uneasy. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Magic is unpredictable, after all.”
Nervous laughter was breaking out across the throne room, the odd moment already dismissed by the majority of the festive crowd. Ghassan was gone, but Nahri spotted Kaveh standing beside the throne. He was staring at the smoking fountain closest to him.
The Kingdom of Copper Page 41