The shock that blossomed across the man’s face was almost worth the whole experience. “That’s—that’s not what we were told.”
“Then your sources are out-of-date,” Nahri said, coldly repeating his words. “I will give you one more chance to explain what happened to the Daevas these relics belonged to.”
He buckled. “They were executed for treason, that’s all I know. And though they would have deserved it, I am certain the Banu Nahida would have never done anything as foul as giving them to the ifrit.”
“Then you’re a naive fool. How many?”
“How many what?”
Nahri took another step in his direction, and he recoiled. “How many Daevas did she execute? Our people, Saman. How many relics did you bring?”
His heart was racing so fast Nahri thought it might give out. “I don’t kn—”
“Then count.”
Saman was visibly shaking. But he obeyed, reaching for a handful of amulets. His lips moved wordlessly.
“Out loud,” Nahri commanded. “Come—you arrived boasting of how wonderful Manizheh is and presented her gift with such flourish. Surely you’re not ashamed to delve into it, to hold each one and call aloud the Daeva she killed.”
The majlis was as silent as a tomb. Saman glanced around, but no one was saving him here, and Nahri’s expression must have been lethal enough to make him swiftly return to counting.
“One, two …” The clink of the relics echoed across the vast chamber. “Three, four …”
It took several minutes for him to get through them all, and by the time Saman pronounced “two hundred and sixty-four,” Nahri’s rage had condensed, white-hot in her chest.
“Two hundred and sixty-four,” she repeated. “Tell me, ambassador, for I’m a bit new at politics, but I’m fairly certain if nearly three hundred people had been plotting a coup, Manizheh would have gotten wind of it earlier.”
Saman flushed but anger swept his face. He obviously didn’t enjoy being humiliated by a young woman in a court full of djinn. “I trust she did what was necessary.”
“I’m certain you do. Consider her message passed on.” She glanced at Wajed. “Qaid, the cells below the castle haven’t flooded yet, have they?”
He was glaring at the ambassador with open hostility. “Not entirely.”
“Good. Please take this man to one of them. See that he is fed and cared for.” She inclined her head at Saman. “Do those pitiful creatures Manizheh pulled from the grave need anything, or can they just continue decaying on the beach?”
Saman glowered at her. “They wait to return to Banu Manizheh.” He glanced at Jamshid and Hatset. “I suggest you heed her warning, Lady Hatset. There won’t be another one.”
Hatset’s eyes flashed. “And I suggest you leave before our Banu Nahida stabs you.”
The ambassador didn’t struggle when the soldiers grabbed him, but he planted his feet at the door. “Baga Nahid, please,” he begged, turning to Jamshid. “You are a sensible man. Go home. Take your sister. There may still be mercy.”
Jamshid’s gaze darted to hers, but he said nothing as Saman was dragged out. With a nod, Hatset dismissed the rest of the soldiers.
The queen’s bravado lasted only until the three of them were alone, and then she leaned back against her cushion and let out a shaky breath. “Zaynab,” she whispered.
Jamshid had shot to his feet. “I’m going back. I’ll talk to our mother, make her see reason. Surely this is an exaggeration. No Daeva would give another to be enslaved by the ifrit.”
Nahri walked over to the chest of relics. She picked one up, examining it in the shafts of light shining through the windows. Daevas wore their relics in amulets around the neck, and though the amulets were always brass, they came in a wild assortment of forms. The one she’d picked up was decorated with raised half-moons encircled by tiny inlaid rubies. Blood had dried in the grooves.
Who did you belong to? Was it one of the Daevas who’d stood up and bowed before Nahri when Ghassan humiliated her in the throne room? Or maybe one of the shy youths she’d teased in the Temple garden? A priest who’d dug through the dusty archives to retrieve her family’s books or the men who’d pressed homemade sweets on her when they’d visited the infirmary? Perhaps it had been a noblewoman who’d worn this amulet, one of the ones who’d kept Nahri silent company during her wedding, forming a quiet but firm line between their Banu Nahida and the gossiping djinn?
Maybe these relics had belonged to scheming nobles. Or maybe they’d been patriots, or something in between. Either way, when Nahri looked at these relics, she didn’t see bloody pieces of brass. She saw people. Her people, flawed and broken and bigoted in their own way, but still hers.
And Manizheh had butchered them. To send a message.
Dara, please say you had no part in this. Nahri was dimly aware of Jamshid and Hatset arguing, but it wasn’t Shefala’s majlis that Nahri saw right now. It was Daevabad the day she first arrived, the mysterious island of magic growing nearer as the ferry cut through the lake. The ziggurats and temples, minarets and towers, all looming over the walls upon which her ancestors had carved their visage.
Welcome to Daevabad, Banu Nahida. How proud and excited Dara had been that day. Nahri realized only later how nervous he must also have been—that in his own way, he’d taken a shaky step on a bridge to peace they both learned too late hadn’t been steady enough for him.
Nahri replaced the relic and closed the chest. “Jamshid, you can’t go back.”
He stopped in mid-fight with the queen. “Why not?”
“He certainly can,” Hatset insisted. “If he doesn’t, Zaynab might die.”
Nahri softened her voice. “You said yourself that it was unlikely Manizheh had her. This is probably a bluff.”
“I don’t care. Not this time.” A piece of Hatset’s carefully composed expression cracked. “I have lost my husband to Manizheh and my son to the marid. I will not lose my daughter. If Manizheh is bluffing, she has called me true.”
“And I might be able to sway her,” Jamshid persisted. “Convince her to let Muntadhir and Zaynab—”
“Will you both just listen for a moment?” Nahri pleaded. “You think Manizheh doing this means she has the upper hand, that we are outmatched. But it doesn’t. It means she’s desperate. This isn’t the act of the woman I met on the roof of the palace. She’s killing Daevas she should be wooing. She’s lost her partner. She’s breaking. And if we give in now, she’s never going to stop. She needs to be removed, not rewarded.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Hatset asked. “You took Suleiman’s ring from my son, but you haven’t been able to restore anyone’s magic. Jamshid has yet to find the miracle you were hoping would be in the Nahid texts. And Alizayd …” Trembling, the queen gripped the edge of her divan. “There is no one else with his standing who could pull together the shafit, djinn, and Royal Guard. We’ve been avoiding what his loss means, and now it is here. We have no viable path toward retaking Daevabad.”
“So we submit to a woman who makes Ghassan look like a saint? That’s your solution?”
“We survive,” Hatset said. “We try and make sure our children, our families, and as many people as possible live through this, and hope there may come another day to fight.” She gave Nahri a baffled look. “I would think you of all people would understand this.”
Nahri did understand, but she wasn’t that person. Not anymore. Not everyone had a powerful relative arranging for them to survive or the luxury of deciding not to fight.
“I’ll go,” Jamshid said again, more quietly. “Let me talk to our mother, Nahri. I have experience with Daevabad’s politics. If I can’t—”
“Queen Hatset!” The doors burst open, an Ayaanle steward falling to her knees. “Forgive me, my lady. But it’s your father.”
NAHRI FINISHED HER EXAMINATION, BRUSHING HER fingers over Seif’s frail wrist and urging the bones underneath his paper-thin skin to knit back together.
>
“Why was he in the north tower?” Hatset demanded. “I warned you that he was having one of his spells. You need to keep a better eye on him when he’s like this!”
Musa let out a frustrated sound. “We’re trying, Auntie, but you know how he is, and he always finds a way out. He’s been muttering about angels, saying he hears them whispering around the castle.”
Nahri shifted on her heels, gently moving the old man’s skinny hip back into place. The break there was simpler than the one in his wrist, but there was only so much she could do to heal it. The vagaries of aging—atrophying bones and fading organs—could not be removed with the laying on of Nahid hands, perhaps the Creator’s quiet pushback against their abilities. Immortality was not supposed to be theirs to grant.
She eased a small pillow beneath him to alleviate the pressure. “You’re going to need to find a way to keep him in bed.” This wasn’t the first time Nahri had met Seif Shefala, a charming, sly old man who’d managed to win her over even if his mind remained a decade in the past. “I’m sorry, my queen, but I don’t think he’ll be able to walk again, even short distances. And his wrist …”
Hatset looked shattered. “He was transcribing his great-grandmother’s poems. The oral history of our family. It was the only thing that would bring him back to himself.”
Musa touched Hatset’s hand. “He can dictate to us when he’s feeling better. We’ll record them. And we’ll make sure one of the family is at his side.”
Nahri heard the unspoken until the end. Because even with the best care, she wasn’t sure Hatset’s father would see another monsoon. And though she’d heard enough to know he’d lived a long, full life, that wouldn’t make his passing any less devastating for his loved ones.
“Thank you, nephew,” Hatset said softly. “Would you mind calling a meeting with the rest of the family? We should talk.”
Musa left, and then it was just the three of them. By the time Nahri had finished healing Seif, the old man was starting to stir, a grimace passing over his face.
She rose to her feet. “I’m going to prepare a potion for his swelling. It will help with the pain when I’m not with him.”
“Thank you,” Hatset replied, her gaze on her father. “Banu Nahida,” she called when Nahri was at the door.
Nahri glanced back, and the weary, haunted expression on the queen’s face stopped her cold. She’d never seen Hatset look so defeated.
“Issa offered to give the funeral prayers for Alizayd this morning.” The queen didn’t look at Nahri as she spoke. “I don’t think he realized how I would react. I think he was genuinely trying to be kind.”
“Ali’s not dead.” The words rushed out of Nahri, a fierce denial. “He’s coming back.”
Hatset glanced at her, and for the first time Nahri saw a true hint of desperation in the queen’s aching gold eyes. “Your people believe you are blessed. Do you know his fate somehow? For certain?”
Nahri couldn’t lie to her. Not to a daughter whose father was dying. A mother who’d done everything to keep her children safe, only to have them ripped away by monsters. “No.” Her own voice broke. “But I made him swear it, and I think he’s afraid of me.”
Hatset gave her an anguished, heartbroken smile. “He definitely is.” She paused, some of the emotion leaving her face. “You may stay in Ta Ntry, Banu Nahri. For what you’ve done for my family, for my father, for my son, you will always have a place in my home.”
Nahri probably should have been grateful, but she knew a catch when she heard it. “And Jamshid?”
“Jamshid is going back to Daevabad. I’ve made my decision. He’s made his decision.” Hatset sounded almost sorry. “And if you try to stop him, I will have you locked in a cell.”
I’d like to see you keep me there. But Nahri bowed her head. “I should get started on that medication.”
Only when she was alone in the corridor did Nahri let her mask fall, pressing a fist to her mouth to keep herself from screaming.
My brother is going to die. Jamshid’s story about poisoning Ali came back to her. He’s not going to be able to convince Manizheh to turn away from violence, so he’s going to do something stupid and brave to try and stop her, and then he’s going to die. It didn’t matter that Jamshid was Manizheh’s son; Nahri had seen the limits of their mother’s maternal affection.
Despair consumed her as Nahri hugged her arms against the chill in the corridor, turning everything she knew over in her mind, desperate to find a solution that did not involve losing yet another person she loved.
I should go drown those firebirds. She’d be putting them out of their misery and removing Jamshid’s ability to leave. Nahri shivered again, her steamy breath clouding.
And then she stopped.
It should not be this cold in Shefala.
A finger of ice brushed her spine as Nahri glanced down the corridor. She was alone, and there was an unnatural stillness to the air, a quiet so intense it felt physical. Smothering. It was the middle of the afternoon—there should have been a whole cacophony of various noises, and yet the castle was so silent it felt like Nahri was its only inhabitant. She reached out with her magic, the sixth sense little denied.
There was nothing. No beating hearts beyond the walls, no coughs or billowing lungs. No people. Instead, a biting wind, like the breath of an errant cloud, swept over the nape of her neck.
Nahri broke, sprinting for her room. She yanked open the door, lunged through the entrance …
And stepped directly onto an icy cliff.
She took one look at the impossible landscape before her: snow-draped mountains and jagged black rocks set against a pale sky—where her bed should have been—and abruptly turned around, reaching for the door.
It was gone. All that was there now was a smooth expanse of ice, a gleaming wall that stretched in every direction.
Before Nahri could panic, her mind unable to process what in God’s name had just happened, she was thrown into shadow. A creature had landed behind her, large enough to block the cloud-veiled sun. Nahri spun, slipping on the ice.
A shedu stared back at her.
37
ALI
Growing up, Ali had heard stories of hell that painted it as a misery of blazing fires and scorching winds. A place that would have been crowded and loud, with the souls of evildoers and their awful cries.
He was beginning to fear that was wrong. But there could be no term more apt than hell to describe the silent, empty realm beneath the sea in which he was trapped.
There was no day, no night. No sky. Only a heavy encroaching blackness that loomed overhead, so solid and foreboding that Ali couldn’t look up without getting dizzy and feeling like he was about to be crushed. The only light came from the glow of the eerie teal water that flooded the ground, revealing the ruins of what appeared to have once been a city even larger than Daevabad—one seemingly destroyed and abandoned eons ago. A lost city, at the bottom of the world, in which Ali was the only inhabitant and time had no meaning.
He limped through yet another narrow pass, pushing past the towering, barnacle-encrusted walls. “Fiza!” he cried, his parched throat protesting. “Fiza!”
His voice echoed back, her name bouncing in fading waves. There was no response. There had been no response, no other sound since Ali woke up alone on the flooded sand, covered in bloody gashes, with one ankle badly twisted and what felt like a cracked rib stabbing him in the side. Some of the gashes had begun to heal—at least the ones that didn’t pull open when he walked, turning the blood-crusted wounds into his only way of measuring time. With every breath and step, his ankle and rib protested, and yet Ali didn’t stop walking, desperate to find a way out of this place. To give up would be to invite madness.
Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe Tiamat had taken one look at Ali, seen that he’d given away Suleiman’s seal, and then tossed him here to suffer. And he would suffer. He was a djinn. It would take him weeks to starve to death, and it would be wret
ched.
The narrow pass widened, and Ali gasped as the water that had been sloshing around his ankles was suddenly at his throat. He submerged, getting a mouthful of salty liquid before he recovered enough to swim, new muscles aching in response. His zulfiqar floated in its sheath, banging against his hip. He had given up trying to keep the blade dry.
In the heavy silence, his every splash sounded thunderous as he passed stone reliefs of bizarre creatures: bulls with wings and the faces of bearded men, lion-headed warriors with maces and whips. And not just creatures, but faded scenes of gardens and warring armies, peculiar round ships and careful hunters. The reliefs had fascinated Ali at first, with their lines of undecipherable script and mysterious images. He’d wondered who’d carved them, if this city had belonged to the marid or to mortals.
Now he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was escape. To drink water that didn’t taste like the sea and enjoy a minute free of pain.
“Fiza,” he yelled again. The thought of his friend tossed into this awful labyrinth, pushed him on. “Fiza!”
The pool ended in crumbling steps that led to a flat expanse of flooded ground, an arena perhaps, with the seats of an enormous amphitheater melting into the darkness. Ali staggered onto the sand and fell to his knees. The water was low enough here that he could lie down without it passing over his face, and dear God, did he need a rest.
Please let Fiza be alive, he begged. Let us get out of here.
Let this all matter.
Ali shivered in the damp chill, curling in on himself. He just wanted to be dry. Warm. He’d never felt more like a fire-blooded djinn than he did in this awful, lightless place of water and ruin. He ached to hold a flame, to whisper the word in his mind and see fire blossom between his fingers.
And then, as though his magic hadn’t been stripped away when he’d been pushed into Daevabad’s lake, heat sparked in his hand.
Ali scrambled up, staring in shock at the conjured flames dancing in his palm. His magic. His djinn magic; the abilities that had nourished him since he was a child, the ones that weren’t tainted with his possession on the lake or some horrible family secret. He was on his feet the next second, pain be damned as he yanked his zulfiqar from its sheath.
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