Her fingers pressed his skin. She could almost see the nerves of his spine in the blackness of her mind, brilliantly colored, dancing filaments protected by the bony ridges of vertebrae. She moved her fingers lower, tracing the bumpy scar tissue. And not just on the skin, but deeper as well: ruined muscles and frayed nerves.
She took a steadying breath. This much she could do without hurting him. It was only when she acted upon him that his body fought back. Were he anyone else, Nahri could urge those nerves to knit back together, could dissipate the scar tissue that had grown over the muscle, leaving him stiff and in pain. It was powerful magic that exhausted her—she might have needed a few sessions to heal him entirely—but he’d have been back on a horse, bow in hand, years ago.
Nahri concentrated on a small section of the flailing nerves. She steeled herself and then commanded them to reconnect.
Magic slammed into her, raw, protective, and powerful, like a blow to her very mind. Prepared, Nahri fought back, pinning a torn nerve back into place. Jamshid seized beneath her, a grunt escaping his clenched teeth. She ignored it, focusing on the next nerve.
She’d fixed three when he started groaning.
He bucked beneath her, pulling at his bindings. His skin burned under her fingertips, scorching to the touch, every pain receptor firing. Nahri held on, sweat pouring down her face. There were only five nerves left in this particular spot. She reached for another one, her hands shaking. It took strength to fight his body’s reaction and perform the magic, strength she was rapidly losing.
One more nerve melded back into place, glowing faintly in her mind’s eye. She seized the next.
The block fell from Jamshid’s mouth, his shriek cutting the air. Ash was powdering on his skin, and then with a burst of magic, the binds holding his hands erupted into flames.
“Jamshid?” A very unwelcome voice spoke from behind her. “Jamshid!”
Muntadhir rushed inside. The shock of the interruption threw her, and then whatever power was within Jamshid’s body took the opportunity to actually throw her, a surge of energy so fierce that Nahri stumbled back, her connection severed.
Jamshid fell still. Despite the pounding in her head, Nahri flew to her feet to check his pulse. It was fast, but it was there. He’d only passed out. She quickly smothered the flames around his wrists.
Enraged, she whirled on Muntadhir. “What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped. “I was making progress!”
Muntadhir looked aghast. “Progress? He was on fire!”
“He’s a djinn! He can handle a little fire!”
“He’s not even supposed to be here!” Muntadhir argued back. “Did you convince him to try this again?”
“Did I convince him?” Nahri seethed, fighting to control the emotions rising in her. “No, you fool. He’s doing this for you. If you weren’t so selfish, you’d see that!”
Muntadhir’s eyes flashed. His usual grace had deserted him, his movements jerky as he pulled the shawl over Jamshid. “Then you shouldn’t have let him. You’re being reckless, so eager to prove yourself that—”
“I was not being reckless.” It was one thing to fight with Muntadhir about politics and family; she would not have him throwing her doubts about her healing abilities in her face. “I knew what I was doing, and he was prepared. You’re the one who interrupted.”
“You were hurting him!”
“I was healing him!” Her temper broke. “Maybe if you’d shown this concern when your father was willing to let him die, he’d be in better shape!”
The words ripped from her, an accusation that for all their many fights, Nahri had never intended to let slip. She knew too well the fear Ghassan used to keep his people in line, the terror that clawed up in her own throat when she thought of his wrath.
And she knew damn well how Muntadhir felt about Jamshid.
Her husband jerked back like she’d slapped him. Shocked hurt—and a good deal of guilt—flashed across his face, spots of angry color rising in his cheeks.
Nahri instantly regretted her words. “Muntadhir, I only meant—”
He raised a hand, cutting her off as he pointed a shaking finger at Jamshid. “The only reason he’s hurt is because of Darayavahoush. Because of you. Because a lost little girl from Cairo thought she was living in some sort of fairy tale. And because for all her supposed cleverness, she couldn’t see that the dashing hero who saved her was actually its monster. Or maybe she just didn’t care.” His voice grew colder. “Maybe all he had to do was tell one of his sad stories and bat his pretty green eyes, and you were all too happy to do whatever he wanted.”
Nahri stared at him, speechless, the words reverberating in her head. She’d seen Muntadhir drunk before, but Nahri had not known he could be so cruel.
She had not known he could cut her so deep.
She inhaled, shaking with hurt betrayal. This was why she had walls up, why she tried to hide away her heart. Because it was clear she couldn’t trust a damn soul in this city. Her blood boiled. And who was Muntadhir to say such things to her? Her? The Banu Nahida in her own infirmary?
The palace seemed to agree, her ancestors’ magic swirling in her blood. The flames in her firepit soared, licking out like they might seize him, this newest incarnation of the sand flies who’d stolen their home.
Then Nahri’s rage felt different. Purposeful. She could sense Muntadhir as though she were laying hands upon him. The rapid beat of his heart and the flush in his skin. The very delicate vessels in his throat. The bones and joints that could be commanded to break.
“I think you should leave, Emir.” It was Nisreen, standing at the edge of the curtain. When she’d gotten there, Nahri didn’t know, but the older Daeva woman had obviously heard enough to be gazing at Muntadhir with barely concealed contempt. “The Banu Nahida is in the middle of treating your companion, and it is better for him that they not be disturbed.”
Muntadhir’s mouth clamped into a stubborn line. He looked like he had more to say . . . and he was clearly unaware of how close Nahri had come to doing something she might not have been able to take back. But after another moment, he touched Jamshid’s hand, briefly sliding his fingers through the other man’s. Then, without looking at Nahri or Nisreen, he pushed to his feet, turned, and left.
Nahri exhaled, her entire body shivering as the dark urge left her. “I think . . . I think I could have just killed him.”
“He would have deserved it.” Nisreen crossed to check on Jamshid, and after another moment, Nahri joined her. His pulse was a little rapid and his skin still hot, but his breathing was slowly returning to normal. “Do not ever let that foul drunk touch you again.”
Nahri felt like she was about to be sick. “He’s my husband, Nisreen. We’re supposed to be working to bring peace between the tribes.” Her voice was weak, the words almost laughable.
Nisreen pulled over the ice-filled bucket that had been left next to the pallet, dampening a cloth in the cool water and placing it on Jamshid’s back. “I would not overly worry about the future of your marriage,” she muttered darkly.
Nahri stared at Jamshid. A wave of despair swept her as she remembered his pleading. She felt so utterly useless. It was all too much: the crush of her responsibilities and her constantly deflected dreams. The deadly dance she was forced to do with Ghassan and the pleading eyes of the Daevas who prayed to her to save them. Nahri had tried, she had. She’d married Muntadhir. But she had nothing left to give.
“I want to go home,” she whispered, her eyes growing wet. It was a completely nonsensical desire to have, a pathetically childish urge, and yet her heart ached with a longing for Cairo so strong it stole her breath.
“Nahri . . .” Embarrassed, Nahri tried to turn away, but Nisreen reached for her face, cupping her cheeks. “Child, look at me. This is your home.” She pulled her into a hug, stroking the back of her head, and Nahri couldn’t help but sink into her embrace, the tears finally spilling from her eyes. It was a type of physical affect
ion no one here gave her, and she took it gratefully.
So gratefully in fact that she didn’t question the fervor in Nisreen’s voice when she continued speaking. “I promise you, my lady. It is going to be all right. You will see.”
11
Ali
Ali smashed his zulfiqar into Wajed’s, spinning off the momentum to duck Aqisa’s blade as it passed over his head.
How did you expect Nahri to react? You gave her no warning and you arrived carrying Darayavahoush’s dagger. Did you think she’d invite you to talk about books over tea?
He brought his weapon up to block Wajed’s next strike.
I still can’t believe she thinks I wanted any of this. After all, Ali didn’t exactly ask to get kidnapped and shot by her precious Afshin. And he didn’t believe for a second that Nahri had gone these five years without learning about Qui-zi and Darayavahoush’s other innumerable crimes. How could she still defend him?
He pushed off the Qaid’s blade, whirling around to face Aqisa again, narrowly parrying her next blow.
Love—for it was apparent even to Ali, who was typically oblivious to such things, that there had been a bit more than the usual Afshin-to-Nahid devotion between Nahri and that brutish demon of a man. What a useless, distracting emotion. How ridiculous to be flashed a pretty smile and lose all sense of—
Aqisa smashed him across the face with the flat part of her sword.
“Ow!” Ali hissed in pain and then lowered his zulfiqar. He touched his cheek, his fingers coming away bloody.
Aqisa snorted. “It isn’t wise to spar while distracted.”
“I wasn’t distracted,” he said heatedly.
Wajed lowered his weapon as well. “Yes, you were. I’ve been training you since you were waist high. I know what you look like when you’re not focusing. You, on the other hand . . .” He turned to Aqisa, his expression admiring. “You’re excellent with that zulfiqar. You should join the Royal Guard. You’d get your own.”
Aqisa snorted again. “I don’t take orders well.”
Wajed shrugged. “The offer remains.” He gestured to the opposite corner of the Citadel courtyard where Lubayd appeared to be holding court before an enthralled group of young recruits, no doubt telling some highly sensationalized tale of the trio’s adventures in Am Gezira. “Why don’t we take a break and join your loud friend for some coffee?”
Aqisa grinned and headed off, but Wajed held Ali back another moment.
“Are you all right?” he asked, lowering his voice. “I know you, Ali. You’re not just distracted, you’re holding back. I’ve seen you get the same look in your eyes when you’re training others.”
Ali pressed his mouth in a thin line. Wajed had struck closer to the truth than he liked. Ali was holding back, though not quite in the way the Qaid meant. And it wasn’t only memories of Nahri that were distracting him.
It was the lake. It had been pulling on him since he arrived at the Citadel, drawing Ali to the walls more times than he could count to press his hands against the cool stone, sensing the water on the other side. When he closed his eyes, the whispers he’d heard on the ferry rushed back: an incomprehensible buzz that made his heart pound with an urgency he didn’t understand. His marid abilities felt closer—wilder—than they had in years, as though with a single snap of his fingers, he could fill the Citadel’s courtyard with a blanket of fog.
None of which he could tell Wajed. Or frankly, anyone at all. “It’s nothing,” Ali insisted. “I’m just tired.”
Wajed eyed him. “Is this about your family?” When Ali grimaced, sympathy flooded the Qaid’s face. “You didn’t even give the palace a day, Ali. You should go home and try to talk to them.”
“I am home,” Ali replied. “My father wanted me raised in the Citadel, didn’t he?” As he spoke, his gaze caught a pair of guards heading out on duty. Both wore uniforms that had been heavily patched, and only one of them had a zulfiqar.
He shook his head, thinking of Muntadhir’s jewelry and the sumptuous platter of pastries. It was clear he wasn’t alone in noticing the discrepancy: he’d overheard plenty of grumbling comments since arriving at the Citadel. But while Ali suspected some of Daevabad’s economic woes could be traced to the Ayaanles’ quiet interfering—Musa had implied as much—he doubted his fellow soldiers knew to look so far. They’d only seen Daevabad’s feasting nobles and complacent palace denizens. They certainly didn’t seem to blame him; Ali had been warmly welcomed back with only a few teasing remarks about the reduced meals of lentils and bread he now shared with them.
Commotion at the main gate caught his attention, and Ali glanced over to see several soldiers scurrying toward the entrance . . . and then promptly backing away in a clumsy mob, a few men tripping over their feet as they dropped their gazes to the ground.
A single woman strode in. Tall, and with a willowy grace Ali recognized immediately, she wore an abaya the color of midnight, embroidered with clusters of diamonds that shone like stars. A long silver shayla had been drawn across her face, concealing all but her gray-gold eyes.
Angry gray-gold eyes. They locked on Ali’s face, and then she lifted her hand, gold bangles and pearl rings shimmering in the sunlight, to make a single rude beckoning motion before she abruptly turned around, marching straight back out.
Wajed looked at him. “Was that your sister?” Concern filled his voice. “I hope everything is well. She almost never leaves the palace.”
Ali cleared his throat. “I . . . I may have come to the Citadel without stopping to see her and my mother.”
Ali hadn’t known Daevabad’s Qaid—a massively built man who wore two centuries of war scars with pride—could go so pale. “You haven’t gone to see your mother?” He drew back as if to physically distance himself from what was about to happen to Ali. “You better not tell her I let you stay here.”
“Traitor.” Ali scowled but couldn’t deny the trickle of fear he felt as he moved to follow his sister.
Zaynab was already seated in the litter by the time he climbed inside. He pulled the curtain closed. “Ukhti, you really didn’t—”
His sister slapped him across the face.
“You ungrateful ass,” she seethed, yanking her shayla away from her face. “Five years I spend trying to save your life and you can’t be bothered to come see me? Then when I finally track you down, you think to greet me with a lecture on propriety?” She raised her hand again—a fist this time. “You self-righteous—”
Ali ducked her fist and then reached out and gripped her shoulders. “That’s not what this is, Zaynab! I swear!” He let her go.
“Then what is it, brat?” Her eyes narrowed in hurt. “Because I’ve half a mind to order my bearers to toss you in a trash pit!”
“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” Ali rushed on. He reached for her hands. “I owe you my life, Zaynab. And Muntadhir said—”
“Muntadhir said what?” Zaynab interrupted. Her expression had softened, but anger still simmered in her voice. “Did you care to ask my opinion? Think for a moment that maybe I was perfectly capable of making a decision without my older brother’s permission?”
“No,” Ali confessed. All he’d been thinking about was getting away from the palace before he hurt someone else. And of course, in doing so, he had hurt someone else. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I wasn’t thinking and . . .” Zaynab yelped, and Ali abruptly released her hands, realizing he’d been squeezing them. “Sorry,” he whispered again.
Zaynab was staring at him, worried alarm replacing the anger in her face as her eyes swept his bloody face and filthy robe. She picked up his hand, running her thumb over his ragged fingernails.
Ali flushed, embarrassed at their state. “I’m trying to stop biting them. It’s a nervous tic.”
“A nervous tic,” she repeated. Her voice was trembling now. “You look terrible, akhi.” One of her hands lifted to his cheek, touching the ruined flesh where Suleiman’s scar had been carved.
Ali attempt
ed and failed to force a weak smile. “Am Gezira wasn’t as welcoming as I’d hoped.”
Zaynab flinched. “I thought I’d never see you again. Every time I had a messenger, I feared they were coming to say that you . . . that you . . .” She seemed unable to finish the words, tears brimming in her eyes.
Ali pulled her into a hug. Zaynab clutched him, letting out a choked sob.
“I was so worried about you,” she wept. “I’m sorry, Ali. I begged him. I begged Abba every day. If I’d been able to convince him . . .”
“Oh, Zaynab, none of this is your fault.” Ali held his sister close. “How could you think that? You are a blessing; your letters and supplies . . . you have no idea how much I needed them. And I’m okay.” He pulled back to look at her. “Things were getting better there. And I’m here now, alive and already irritating you.” He managed a small smile this time.
She shook her head. “Things aren’t okay, Ali. Amma . . . she’s so angry.”
Ali rolled his eyes “I haven’t been back that long. How mad could she be?”
“She’s not angry at you,” Zaynab retorted. “Well . . . she is, but that’s not what I’m talking about. She’s angry at Abba. She came back to Daevabad in a rage when she learned what happened to you. She told Abba that she was going to drive him into debt.”
Ali could only imagine how that conversation had gone. “We’ll talk to her,” he assured her. “I’ll find a way to fix things. And forget all that for now. Tell me how you are.” He didn’t imagine any of this was easy for Zaynab, being the only one of them still on speaking terms with all of her squabbling relatives.
Zaynab’s composure cracked for a moment, but then a serene smile lit her face. “Everything’s fine,” she said smoothly. “God be praised.”
Ali didn’t believe that for a moment. “Zaynab . . .”
“Truly,” she insisted, though a little of the spark had left her eyes. “You know me . . . the spoiled princess without a care.”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 19
