Nahri was numb. She balled her hands into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.
“Yes, you do,” Ghassan said flatly. “And truthfully had that put an end to the rebellion, prevented the far greater number of deaths and atrocities in the war to come . . . I’d have put a whip in his hand too. But it didn’t. Your ancestors were ill-tempered fools. Forget the slain innocents, they destroyed half of Tukharistan’s economy. A commercial grievance wrapped in moral outrage?” The king tutted. “By year’s end, every remaining Tukharistani clan had sworn loyalty to Zaydi al Qahtani.” He touched his turban again. “Fourteen hundred years later, their finest spinners send me a new one every year to mark the anniversary.”
He’s lying, she tried to tell herself. But she could not help but recall the perpetually haunted Afshin. How many times had she heard the dark references to his past, seen the regret in his eyes? Dara admitted to once believing that the shafit were little more than soulless deceptions, that blood-mixing would lead to another of Suleiman’s curses. He said he’d been banished from Daevabad when he was Ali’s age . . . punished for carrying out the orders of her Nahid ancestors.
He did it, she realized, and something shattered inside her, a piece of her heart that would never repair. She forced herself to look at Ghassan, struggling to stay expressionless. She would not show him how deep a wound he’d just struck.
She cleared her throat. “And the point of this tale?”
The king crossed his arms. “Your people have a history of making foolish decisions based on absolutes instead of reality. They’re still doing it today, rioting in the streets and rushing to their deaths for a demand no sensible person would expect me to grant.” Ghassan leaned forward, his face intent. “But in you, I see a pragmatist. A shrewd-eyed woman who would negotiate her own bride price. Who manipulated the son I sent to spy on her to the point where he sacrificed himself to protect her.” He spread his hands. “What happened was an accident. There is no need to derail the plans we had both set in place, no reason we cannot repair what was broken between us.” He eyed her. “So tell me your price.”
A price. She would have laughed. There it was. That’s all anything really came down to: a price. Looking out for herself and no one else. Love, tribal pride . . . they were worthless in her world. No, not just worthless, they were dangerous. They’d destroyed Dara.
But there was something else in what Ghassan had just said. The son who sacrificed himself . . . “Where’s Ali?” she demanded. “I want to know what the mar—”
“If the word ‘marid’ comes out of your mouth again, I will have every Daeva child in the city thrown into the lake before your eyes,” Ghassan warned, his voice cold. “And as for my son, he is gone. He will not be here to defend you again.”
Nahri drew back in horror, and he let out an irritated sigh. “I’m growing impatient, Banu Nahri. If my slandering one of the most murderous men in history bothers your conscience, let’s devise another tale.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s talk about you.” He tilted his face, studying her like she was a chessboard. “I can easily reveal you as shafit; there are a number of ways—none particularly pleasant—in which to do so. That alone would turn most of your tribesmen against you, but we might as well go further, give the masses something to gossip about.”
He tapped his chin. “Your disregard for your people’s fire cult is almost too easy, as are your failures in the infirmary. We’d need a scandal . . .” He paused, a calculating expression crossing his hawkish face. “Perhaps I spoke wrongly about what happened in the infirmary. Maybe it was Darayavahoush who found you in the arms of another man. A young man whose name makes Daeva blood boil . . .”
Nahri recoiled. “You would never.” It was obvious they were speaking plainly, so she didn’t pretend not to know of whom he spoke. “You think people are howling for Ali’s blood now? If they thought he—”
“Thought he what?” Ghassan gave her a condescending smile. “In what world do men and women pay the same price for passion? You’ll be the one blamed. Indeed, people will assume you particularly . . . talented to have seduced such a religious man.”
Nahri shot to her feet. Ghassan seized her wrist.
The seal flashed on his cheek, and her powers vanished. He tightened his grip, and she gasped, unaccustomed to how sharp the feeling of pain was without her healing abilities.
“I welcomed you,” he said coldly, all jest gone. “I invited you into my family, and now my city is aflame and I will never look upon my youngest again. I am in no mood to suffer a foolish little girl. You will work with me to fix this, or I will make sure every Daeva man, woman, and child holds you responsible for Darayavahoush’s death. I will paint you as a whore and a traitor to your tribe.” He released her wrist. “And then I will give you over to that mob at my walls.”
She clutched her wrist. She had no doubt Ghassan spoke truthfully. Dara was dead, and Ali gone. There was no Afshin to fight for her, no prince to speak for her. Nahri was alone.
She dropped her gaze, for the first time finding it difficult to meet his eyes. “What do you want?”
They dressed her in the ceremonial garments of her family: a sky blue gown heavy with gold embroidery, white silk veiling her face. She was glad for the veil—she hoped it hid the shame burning in her cheeks.
Nahri barely looked at the contract as she signed it, the paper that bound her to the emir as soon as she reached her first quarter century. In another life, she might have eagerly devoured the detailed inventory, the dowry that made her one of the wealthiest women in the city, but today she didn’t care. Muntadhir’s signature below hers was an indecipherable scrawl—the king had literally forced his hand just before her future husband spat at her feet and stormed off.
They went to the massive audience hall next, the place in which she’d first laid eyes on the Qahtanis. Nahri could sense the size of the crowd before she entered, the anxious breathing and quickened heartbeats of thousands of pureblood djinn. She stared at her feet as she followed the king onto the green marble platform, stopping at the level just below him. Then she swallowed and lifted her gaze to a sea of stony faces.
Daeva faces. Ghassan had ordered a representative of every noble family, every trading company and craft guild, every priest and scholar—anyone of elite standing in the Daeva tribe—to come hear Nahri’s testimony. Despite dozens of arrests and public executions, her tribesmen continued to protest at the palace walls, demanding justice for Dara’s murder.
She was here to end that.
Nahri unfurled the scroll she’d been given. Her hands shook as she read out the charges she’d been ordered to say. She did not deviate from the script once nor did she allow herself to dwell on the words condemning the man she loved in the most vulgar of terms, the words destroying the reputation of the Afshin who’d sacrificed everything for his people. Her voice stayed flat. Nahri suspected her audience was savvy enough to realize what was going on, but she didn’t care. If Ghassan wanted a performance, he should have thought to ask for one.
Even so, there were tears in her eyes when she finished, and her voice was thick with emotion. Filled with shame, she dropped the scroll and forced herself to look at the crowd.
Nothing. There was no horror, no disbelief among the black-eyed Daevas before her. Indeed, the vast majority looked just as impassive as they had when she first walked in.
No, not impassive.
Defiant.
An old man stepped out from the crowd. Wearing the bright crimson robes of the Grand Temple, he made for a striking sight; an ash mark split his lined face and a tall, azure cap crowned his soot-covered head.
Kartir, Nahri recognized him, remembering the kindness he’d shown her back in the temple. She cringed now as he took another step toward her. Her stomach clenched; she expected some sort of denouncement.
But Kartir did no
thing of the sort. Instead, he brought his fingertips together in the traditional Daeva show of respect, dropped his gaze, and bowed.
The priests behind him immediately followed suit, and the motion rippled out across the crowd as the entire audience of Daevas bowed in her direction. No one said a word. Nahri drew in her breath, and then from just behind her, she heard a heart begin to beat faster.
She stilled, certain she was imagining things and then glanced back. Ghassan al Qahtani met her gaze, an unreadable expression in his eyes. The sun brightened in the window behind him, reflecting off the dazzling gems in his throne, and she realized what he sat upon.
A shedu. The throne was carved in the shape of the winged lion that was her family’s symbol.
Ghassan sat upon a Nahid throne.
And he didn’t look pleased. She suspected the impromptu display of Daeva unity was not what he intended. She felt for him—truly. It was frustrating when someone upended your well-laid plans.
It’s why you never stopped plotting alternatives.
His face turned colder, and so Nahri smiled, the first time she’d done so since Dara’s death. It was the smile she’d given the basha, the smile she’d given to hundreds of arrogant men throughout the years just before she swindled them for all they were worth.
Nahri always smiled at her marks.
Epilogue
Kaveh e-Pramukh ran the last ten steps to the infirmary. He shoved open the heavy doors, his entire body shaking.
His son lay inside on a fiery bed of smoking cedar.
The sight stole the air from his lungs. Forbidden care until Kaveh—in the words of the king, “sorted out what was going on with your traitorous tribe of fire-worshipping fanatics”—Jamshid was still in the uniform he’d been wearing when he rushed out of their house that terrible night, his white waist-wrap now entirely black with blood. He lay twisted on his side, his body contorted and held up by pillows to avoid pressure on the arrow wounds in his back. A thin layer of ash covered his skin, dotting his black hair. Though his chest rose and fell in the flickering light of the infirmary’s wall torches, the rest of his body was still. Too still.
But not alone. Slumped in a chair at his bedside was Emir Muntadhir, his black robe rumpled and streaked with ash, his gray eyes heavy with grief. One of Jamshid’s unmoving hands was between his own.
Kaveh approached, and the emir startled. “Grand Wazir . . .” He dropped Jamshid’s hand, though not before Kaveh noticed how closely he’d laced their fingers together. “Forgive me, I—”
“Bizhan e-Oshrusan,” Kaveh breathed.
Muntadhir frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s the name your father wants. Bizhan e-Oshrusan. He was one of the Daeva soldiers on your expedition; it was he who left the supplies on the beach. I have evidence and a witness who will testify to such a thing.” Kaveh’s voice broke. “Now please . . . let me see my son.”
Muntadhir immediately stepped away, relief and guilt lighting his face. “Of course.”
Kaveh was at Jamshid’s side in a second. And then he was numb. Because it was impossible that he should be standing here while his child lay broken before him.
Muntadhir was still there. “He . . .” Kaveh heard Muntadhir’s voice catch. “He didn’t even hesitate. He jumped in front of me the moment the arrows started flying.”
Is that supposed to bring me comfort? Kaveh brushed the ash from his son’s closed eyes, his fingers trembling from rage as much as grief. It should be you in a bloody uniform, and Jamshid weeping in royal finery. He suddenly felt capable of strangling the young man beside him, the man he’d watched break his son’s heart time and time again, whenever the rumors surrounding them grew a bit too pitched—or whenever something new and pretty caught his eye.
But Kaveh couldn’t say that. The charges he wanted to fling at Muntadhir would likely end with Kaveh being declared the Afshin’s accomplice and one of the arrows in Jamshid’s back shoved into his heart. Ghassan al Qahtani’s eldest son was untouchable—Kaveh and his tribe had just learned all too well how coldly the king dealt with people who threatened his family.
It was a lesson Kaveh would never forget.
But right now, he needed Muntadhir gone—every second he lingered was another Jamshid suffered. He cleared his throat. “My emir, would you please give that name to your father? I would not wish to delay my son’s treatment any further.”
“But of course,” Muntadhir said, flustered. “I . . . I’m sorry, Kaveh. Please let me know if anything changes with his condition.”
Oh, I suspect you’ll know. Kaveh waited until he heard the door shut.
In the firelight, piles of fresh timber and crates of glass ceiling tiles threw wild shadows across the ruined room. Nahri’s patients had been moved while the infirmary was under repair, and she was safely away—in a meeting with the priests at the Grand Temple that Kaveh knew would go long. He’d chosen the time deliberately; he didn’t want to implicate her in what he was about to do.
From his belt, he pulled free a small iron blade. It was more scalpel than knife, its handle wrapped in layers of protective linen. Kaveh cut a careful slit in Jamshid’s bloody tunic, ripping a gash large enough to reveal the small black tattoo that marked the inside of his son’s left shoulder blade.
At first appearance, the tattoo was unremarkable: three swirling glyphs, their lines stark and unadorned. Plenty of Daeva men—especially in Zariaspa, the Pramukhs’ wild corner of Daevastana—still partook in the old tradition of marking their skin with the proud symbols of their lineage and caste. A way to honor their heritage, it was one part superstition, one part fashion, the pictograms themselves so ancient that no one could really decipher them. Beloved but useless.
Jamshid’s tattoo was not useless. It had been burned into his skin by his mother just hours after his birth and for years had been the surest safeguard of his life. Of his anonymity.
Now it was killing him.
Please, Creator, I beg you: let this work. Kaveh lay the scalpel at the tip of the first swirling glyph. The ebony-marked flesh hissed at the touch of the iron, the magic protesting. His heart racing, Kaveh cut away a sliver of skin.
Jamshid drew in a sharp breath. Kaveh stilled as a few drops of black blood blossomed at the cut. They dripped away.
And then the skin below stitched itself back together.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a woman’s voice behind him demanded. Nisreen. She was at Kaveh’s side in seconds, pushing him away from Jamshid, and pulling the torn flaps of his uniform back over the tattoo. “Have you lost your mind?”
Kaveh shook his head, his eyes welling with tears. “I can’t let him suffer like this.”
“And revealing him will end that suffering?” Nisreen’s eyes scanned the dark room. “Kaveh . . . ,” she warned in a low whisper. “We have no idea what will happen if you remove that mark. His body has never healed itself. There’s been an arrow lodged in his spine for a week; there’s no telling how the magic might respond to such an injury. You could kill him.”
“He could die if I don’t!” Kaveh wiped his eyes with his other hand. “He’s not your child, you don’t understand. I have to do something.”
“He’s not going to die,” Nisreen assured him. “He’s endured this long.” She pressed down on Kaveh’s wrist, lowering the knife. “They’re not like us, Kaveh,” she said softly. “He has his mother’s blood—he’ll survive this. But if you remove that mark, if he heals on his own . . .” She shook her head. “Ghassan will have him tortured for information—he’ll never believe his innocence. The Qahtanis will rip through our tribe for answers; there will be soldiers tearing through every grassy knoll, every home in Daevastana.” Her eyes flashed. “You will destroy everything that we’ve worked for.”
“It’s already gone,” Kaveh argued, his voice bitter. “The Afshin is dead, Banu Nahri will have a Qahtani baby in her belly in a year, and we’ve not even heard from—”
N
isreen took the knife from his hand and replaced it with something hard and small. It stung his palm. Iron, he realized, as he held it up in the light to examine it. A ring.
A battered iron ring with an emerald that shone as if it were on fire.
Kaveh immediately closed his fingers over the ring. It scorched his skin. “By the Creator,” he breathed. “How did you—”
She shook her head. “Don’t ask. But don’t despair. We need you, Kaveh.” She nodded at Jamshid. “He needs you. You need to get back into Ghassan’s good graces, to make him trust you enough that you can return to Zariaspa.”
He gripped the Afshin’s ring as it grew hotter. “Dara tried to kill my son, Nisreen.” His voice cracked.
“Your son was on the wrong side.” Kaveh flinched, and Nisreen continued. “He won’t be again. We’ll make sure of it.” She sighed. “Did you find someone to take the blame for the supplies?”
He offered a mute nod. “Bizhan e-Oshrusan. He asked only that we make arrangements for his parents. He . . .” Kaveh cleared his throat. “He understood that he was not to be taken alive.”
Nisreen’s face was somber. “May the Creator reward his sacrifice.”
There was silence between them. Jamshid stirred in his sleep, the motion threatening to upend Kaveh all over again.
But it was also the reminder he needed. For there was still a way to save his son. And for that Kaveh would do anything; he’d grovel before the king, cross the world, face the ifrit.
He’d burn down Daevabad itself.
The ring seemed to pulse in Kaveh’s hand, a thing alive with a beating heart. “Does Nahri know?” he asked softly, raising his hand. “About this, I mean?”
Nisreen shook her head. “No.” A protective edge entered her voice. “She has enough to worry about right now. She needs no distractions, no false hope. And truthfully . . . she’s safest not knowing. If we’re caught, her innocence might be her only defense.”
The City of Brass Page 50