“You needn’t thank me.” Kartir pressed his hands together. “I sincerely hope you won’t be a stranger here, Banu Nahida. Please know that whatever you need, we are at your disposal.” He bowed again and left.
Nahri emerged from the archway into a small pavilion. High on the third level of the ziggurat, it was little more than a nook hidden behind a stone wall and a screen of potted date palms. Kartir was probably right about the view, but Nahri had no desire to peek at the crowd again. She collapsed into one of the low cane chairs, trying to collect herself.
She let her right hand fall to her lap. “Naar,” she whispered, watching as a single flame swirled to life in her palm. She’d taken to conjuring it up more frequently, clinging to the reminder that she was capable of learning something in Daevabad.
“May I join you?” a soft voice asked.
Nahri closed her palm, extinguishing the flame. She turned around. Dara stood at the archway, looking uncharacteristically abashed.
She waved at the other chair. “All yours.”
He took the seat across from her, leaning forward on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I truly thought this was a good idea.”
“I’m sure you did.” Nahri sighed and then removed her veil, pulling off the heavy diadem holding her chador in place. She didn’t miss the way Dara’s gaze drifted to her face, nor did she care. He could deal with some distress—he certainly gave her enough.
He dropped his gaze. “You’ve an admirer in Kartir . . . aye, the tongue-lashing I just received.”
“Thoroughly deserved.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Nahri glanced at him. He seemed nervous, rubbing his palms on his knees.
She frowned. “Are you all right?”
He stilled. “I’m fine.” She saw him swallow. “So, what do you think of Jamshid?”
The question took her aback. “I . . . he’s very nice.” It was the truth, after all. “If his father’s anything like him, it’s hardly surprising he’s risen so high in Ghassan’s court. He seems very diplomatic.”
“They are both that.” Dara hesitated. “The Pramukhs are a respectable family, one with a long record of devotion to your own. I was a bit surprised to see them serving the Qahtanis, and Jamshid seems to have a regrettably sincere affection for Muntadhir, but . . . he’s a good man. Bright, kindhearted. A talented warrior.”
Nahri narrowed her eyes; Dara had never been subtle and he was speaking of Jamshid with far too much feigned indifference. “What are you trying not to say, Dara?”
He blushed. “Only that you seem well matched.”
“Well matched?”
“Yes.” She heard something catch in his throat. “He . . . he would be a good Daeva alternative if Ghassan presses on with his idiotic scheme to marry you to his son. You’re near in age, his family has loyalty to both yours and the Qahtanis—”
Nahri straightened up, indignant with rage. “And Jamshid e-Pramukh is the first name that comes to mind when you think of Daeva husbands for me?”
He had the decency to look ashamed. “Nahri—”
“No,” she cut in, her voice rising in anger. “How dare you? You think to introduce me as some wise Banu Nahida one moment and attempt to trick me into marriage with another man in the next? After what happened that night in the cave?”
He shook his head, a faint flush stealing over his face. “That should never have happened. You were a woman under my protection. I had no right to touch you that way.”
“I remember it as being mutual.” But as the words left her lips, Nahri recalled that she had kissed him first—twice—and the realization twisted her stomach into a knot of insecurity. “I . . . was I wrong?” she asked, mortification rising in her voice. “Did you not feel the same way?”
“No!” Dara fell to his knees before her, closing the space between them. “Please don’t think that.” He reached for one of her hands, holding fast when she tried to jerk away. “Just because I shouldn’t have done it doesn’t mean . . .” He swallowed. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to, Nahri.”
“Then what’s the problem? You’re unmarried, I’m unmarried. We’re both Daeva . . .”
“I’m not alive,” Dara cut in. He dropped her hand with a sigh, rising to his feet. “Nahri, I don’t know who freed my soul from slavery. I don’t know how. But I know that I died: I drowned, just like you saw. By now, my body is likely nothing but ash on the bottom of some ancient well.”
A fierce denial rose in Nahri’s chest, foolish and impractical. “I don’t care,” she insisted. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
He shook his head. “It matters to me.” His tone turned imploring. “Nahri, you know what people are saying here. They think you’re a pureblood, the daughter of one of the greatest healers in history.”
“So?”
She could see the apology in his face before he answered. “So you’ll need children. You deserve children. A whole brood of little Nahids as likely to pick your pocket as heal an injury. And I . . .” His voice broke. “Nahri . . . I don’t bleed. I don’t breathe . . . I can’t imagine that I could ever give you children. It would be reckless and selfish of me to even try. The survival of your family is too important.”
She blinked, thoroughly taken aback by his reasoning. The survival of her family? That’s what this was about?
Of course. That’s what everything here is about. The abilities that had once kept a roof over her head had become a curse, this connection with long-dead relatives she’d never known a plague on her life. Nahri had been kidnapped and chased halfway across the world for being a Nahid. She was all but imprisoned in the palace because of it, Nisreen controlling her days, the king shaping her future, and now the man that she—
That you what? That you love? Are you such a fool?
Nahri abruptly stood, as angry with herself as she was with Dara. She was done showing weakness before this man. “Well, if that’s all that matters, surely Muntadhir will do,” she declared, a savage edge creeping into her voice. “The Qahtanis seem fertile enough, and the dowry will probably make me the richest woman in Daevabad.”
She might as well have struck him. Dara recoiled, and she turned on her heel. “I’m going back to the palace.”
“Nahri . . . Nahri, wait.” He was between her and the exit in a heartbeat; she’d forgotten how fast he could move. “Please. Don’t leave like this. Just let me explain . . .”
“To hell with your explanations,” she snapped. “That’s what you always say. That’s what today was supposed to be, remember? You promising to tell me about your past, not parading me in front of a bunch of priests and trying to convince me to marry another man.” Nahri pushed past him. “Just leave me alone.”
He grabbed her wrist. “You want to know about my past?” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. His fingers scalded her skin and he jerked back, letting her go. “Fine, Nahri, here’s my story: I was banished from Daevabad when I was barely older than your Ali, exiled from my home for following orders your family gave me. That’s why I survived the war. That’s why I wasn’t in Daevabad to save my family from being slaughtered when the djinn broke through the gates.”
His eyes blazed. “I spent the rest of my life—my short life, I assure you—fighting the very family you’re so eager to join, the people who would have seen our entire tribe wiped out. And then the ifrit found me.” He held up his hand, the slave ring sparkling in the sunlight. “I never had anything like this . . . anything like you.” His voice cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I enjoy imagining your life with another?”
His rushed confession—the horror behind his words—dulled her anger, the utter misery in his face moving her despite her own hurt. But . . . it still didn’t excuse his actions.
“You . . . you could have told me all this, Dara.” Her voice shook slightly as she said his name. “We could have tried to fix things together, instead of you plotting out my life with strangers!”
Dara shook his head. Grief still shadowed his eyes, but he spoke firmly. “There’s nothing to fix, Nahri. This is what I am. It’s a conclusion I suspect you’d have come to soon enough anyway. I wanted you to have another choice in hand when you did.” Something bitter stole into his expression. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the Pramukhs will provide you with dowry enough.”
The words were her own, but they cut deep when turned back on her. “And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it? Regardless of your feelings, I’m still the dirt-blood-raised thief. The con artist after the biggest score.” She gathered the edges of her chador, her hands shaking with anger and something else, something deeper than anger that she didn’t want to admit to. She’d be damned if she was going to cry in front of him. “Never mind that I might have done those things to survive . . . and that I might have fought for you just as hard.” She drew herself up, and he dropped his gaze under her glare. “I don’t need you to plan my future here, Dara. I don’t need anyone to.”
This time when she left, he didn’t try to stop her.
23
Ali
“This is extraordinary,” Nahri said as she raised the telescope higher, aiming it at the swollen moon. “I can actually see where the shadow overtakes it. And its surface is all pocked . . . I wonder what could cause such a thing.”
Ali shrugged. He, Nahri, Muntadhir, and Zaynab were stargazing from an observation post high atop the palace wall overlooking the lake. Well, Ali and Nahri were stargazing. Neither of his siblings had yet to touch the telescope; they were lounging on cushioned sofas, enjoying the attentions of their servants and the platters of food sent up from the kitchens.
He glanced back, watching as Muntadhir pressed a glass of wine on a giggling handmaid, and Zaynab examined her newly hennaed hands. “Maybe we should ask my sister,” he said drily. “I’m sure she paid attention to the scholar while he was explaining.”
Nahri laughed. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh in days, and the sound warmed his heart. “I take it your siblings don’t share your enthusiasm for human science?”
“They would, if human science involved lying around like pampered . . .” Ali stopped, remembering his objective in befriending Nahri. He quickly backtracked. “Though Muntadhir is certainly entitled to some rest; he did just return from hunting ifrit.”
“Perhaps.” She sounded unimpressed, and Ali shot Muntadhir’s back an annoyed look before following Nahri to the parapet. He watched as she lifted the telescope to her eye again. “What’s it like to have siblings?” she asked.
He was surprised by the question. “I’m the youngest, so I don’t actually know what it’s like not to have them.”
“But you all seem very different. It must be challenging at times.”
“I suppose.” His brother had only just returned to Daevabad this morning, and Ali couldn’t deny the relief he felt upon seeing him. “I’d die for either of them,” he said softly. “In a heartbeat.” Nahri glanced at him, and he smiled. “Makes the squabbles more interesting.”
She didn’t return his smile; her dark eyes looked troubled.
He frowned. “Have I said something wrong?”
“No.” She sighed. “It’s been a long week . . . several long weeks, actually.” Her gaze remained fixed on the distant stars. “It must be nice to have a family.”
The quiet sadness in her voice struck him deep, and he didn’t know whether it was her sorrow or his father’s order that moved him to say what he did next. “You . . . you could, you know,” he stammered. “Have a family, I mean. Here. With us.”
Nahri stilled. When she glanced at him, her expression was carefully blank.
“Forgive me, my lords . . .” A wide-eyed shafit girl peeked up from the edge of the stairs. “But I was sent to retrieve the Banu Nahida.”
“What is it, Dunoor?” Nahri spoke to the girl, but her gaze remained on Ali, something unreadable in her dark eyes.
The servant brought her palms together and bowed. “I’m sorry, mistress, I do not know. But Nisreen said it’s most urgent.”
“Of course it is,” Nahri muttered, an edge of fear creeping into her voice. She handed the telescope back to him. “Thank you for the evening, Prince Alizayd.”
“Nahri . . .”
She gave him a forced smile. “Sometimes I speak without thinking.” She touched her heart. “Peace be upon you.” She offered a brusque salaam to his siblings and then followed Dunoor down the stairs.
Zaynab threw her head back with a dramatic sigh as soon as Nahri was out of earshot. “Does the end of our intellectual family farce mean that I can leave as well?”
Ali was offended. “What is wrong with the two of you?” he demanded. “Not only were you rude to our guest, but you’re turning away an opportunity to gaze upon God’s finest works, an opportunity only a fraction of those in existence will ever be blessed to—”
“Oh, calm down, Sheikh.” Zaynab shivered. “It’s cold up here.”
“Cold? We’re djinn! You are literally created from fire.”
“It’s fine, Zaynab,” Muntadhir cut in. “Go. I’ll keep him company.”
“Your sacrifice is appreciated,” Zaynab replied. She gave Muntadhir’s cheek an affectionate pat. “Don’t get into too much trouble celebrating your return tonight. If you’re late to court in the morning, Abba is going to have you drowned in wine.”
Muntadhir touched his heart with an exaggerated motion. “Thoroughly warned.”
Zaynab left. His brother stood, shaking his head as he joined Ali at the parapet’s edge. “You two fight like children.”
“She is spoiled and vain.”
“Yes, and you’re self-righteous and insufferable.” His brother shrugged. “I’ve heard it enough times from both of you.” He leaned against the wall. “But forget that. What’s going on with this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the telescope.
“I told you before . . .” Ali toyed with the telescope’s dial, trying to sharpen the image. “You fix the location of a star and then—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Zaydi, I’m not talking about the telescope. I’m talking about this new Banu Nahida. Why are the two of you whispering like girlhood friends?”
Ali glanced up, surprised by the question. “Did Abba not tell you?”
“He told me you were spying on her and trying to turn her to our side.” Ali frowned, disliking the baldness of the statement, and Muntadhir gave him a shrewd look. “But I know you, Zaydi. You like this girl.”
“So what if I do?” He was enjoying his time with Nahri, he couldn’t help it. She was as intellectually curious as he was, and her life in the human world made for fascinating conversation. “My earlier suspicions about her were wrong.”
His brother let out an exaggerated gasp. “Were you replaced with a shapeshifter while I was gone?”
“What do you mean?”
Muntadhir pushed up to sit on the wide edge of the stone parapet separating them from the distant lake. “You’ve befriended a Daeva and admitted to being wrong about something?” Muntadhir tapped his foot against the telescope. “Give me that, I want to make sure the world has not turned upside down.”
“Don’t do that,” Ali said, quickly stepping back with the delicate instrument. “And I’m not that bad.”
“No, but you trust far too easily, Zaydi. You always have.” His brother gave him a meaningful look. “Especially the people who look human.”
Ali put the telescope back on its stand and turned his full attention to Muntadhir. “I take it Abba told you the entirety of our conversation?”
“He said he thought you were going to throw yourself off the wall.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it.” Ali shuddered, recalling the confrontation with his father. “Abba told me what you did,” he said softly. “That you defended me. That you were the one who convinced him to give me another chance.” He glanced at his brother. “If you hadn’t talked to me in the tomb . . .
” Ali trailed off. He knew he’d have done something reckless if Muntadhir hadn’t stopped him. “Thank you, akhi. Truly. If there’s any way I can ever repay you . . .”
Muntadhir waved him off. “You don’t have to thank me, Zaydi.” He scoffed. “I knew you weren’t Tanzeem. You’ve just got more money than sense when it comes to shafit. Let me guess, that fanatic gave you some wretched story about hungry orphans?”
Ali grimaced, a thread of old loyalty to Anas pulling at him. “Something like that.”
Muntadhir laughed. “Do you remember when you gave your grandfather’s ring to the old crone who used to pace the palace gates? By the Most High, you had shafit beggars trailing you for months.” He shook his head, giving Ali an affectionate smile. “You barely came up to my shoulder back then. I was convinced your mother would throw you in the lake.”
“I think I still have scars from the beating she gave me.”
Muntadhir’s face turned serious, his gray eyes briefly unreadable. “You’re lucky you’re the favorite, you know.”
“Whose favorite? My mother’s?” Ali shook his head. “Hardly. The last thing she said to me was that I spoke her language like a savage, and even that was years ago.”
“Not your mother’s,” Muntadhir pressed. “Abba’s.”
“Abba’s?” Ali laughed. “You’ve had too much wine if you think that. You’re his emir, his firstborn. I’m just the idiot second son he doesn’t trust.”
Muntadhir shook his head. “Not at all . . . well, all right, you are that, but you’re also the devout zulfiqari a Geziri son is supposed to be, uncorrupted by Daevabad’s delicious delights.” His brother smiled, but this time the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “By the Most High, if I’d given money to the Tanzeem, they’d still be picking smoldering bits of me out of the carpets.”
There was an edge to Muntadhir’s voice that made Ali uncomfortable. And even though he knew his brother was wrong, he decided to change the subject. “I was starting to fear that’s how the Afshin would send you back to Daevabad.”
The City of Brass Page 39