She banged on the door again. “If I have to drag you out of bed—”
The door abruptly opened. Nahri nearly tumbled in, narrowly catching herself.
“Banu Nahida . . .” Muntadhir leaned heavily against the door frame. “Wife,” he clarified, lifting a jade wine cup to his lips. “Always so impatient.”
Nahri stared at him, completely lost for words. Muntadhir was half dressed, wearing what appeared to be a woman’s shawl wrapped around his waist and the dramatically peaked court cap of a Tukharistani noble.
A burst of laughter behind him caught her attention, and Nahri glanced past his shoulder to see two dazzling women lounging in similar states of disarray. One was smoking from a water pipe while the second—dressed in nothing but Muntadhir’s court turban wrapped in a way it was certainly not intended—rearranged game pieces.
Nahri inhaled, fighting the sudden desire to burn the room down. “Muntadhir,” she said, her jaw clenching, “do you not remember that we’re supposed to be visiting the Grand Temple today?”
“You know . . . I did remember, as a matter of fact.” Muntadhir drained his cup.
Nahri threw up her hands. “Then what is this? I can’t take you to my people’s holiest place while you’re drunk and wearing your courtesan’s scarf!”
“I’m not going.”
Nahri blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not going. I already told you: I think this plan to hire and treat shafit is madness.”
“But . . . but you agreed to come today. And your father told you to!” Her voice rose in alarm.
“Ah, there you are wrong,” Muntadhir declared, wagging a finger in her face. “He did not order such a thing specifically. He said you had our support.” He shrugged. “So tell your priests that you do.”
“They’re not going to believe me! And if you don’t show up, they’re going to think there’s a reason.” She shook her head. “I can’t risk another excuse for them to oppose me. They’ll take this an insult.”
Muntadhir snorted. “They’ll be relieved. You’re the only Daeva who wants to see a Qahtani in your temple.”
The other women laughed in the background again, one throwing dice, and Nahri flinched. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Do you really hate me so much?”
His disinterested expression slipped. “I don’t hate you, Nahri. But you’re going down a path I can’t support, with a partner who destroys everything he touches. I will not sit with my future subjects in a place they hold sacred and make promises I don’t believe in.”
“You could have told me that last week!”
Muntadhir inclined his head. “Last week, Alizayd had yet to threaten my cousin with hellfire in front of a mob of angry mixed-bloods.”
Nahri grabbed his wrist. “He did what?”
“I did try to warn you. Go ask your sheikh about it. Hell, ask him to go to the Temple with you. I’m sure it would be most entertaining.” Muntadhir removed his arm from her grasp and then shut the door in her face.
For a full breath, Nahri stood there stunned. Then she slammed her fists against the door. “MUNTADHIR!”
It stayed closed. As her fury grew, a few cracks appeared in the carved wood and the hinges began to smoke.
No. Nahri stepped back. She’d be damned if she was going to humiliate herself begging her drunken wretch of a husband to keep his word. But damn the bloody princes and their idiotic arguments!
She whirled around, charging down the hall. If Alizayd al Qahtani’s recklessness ruined her plans today, she was going to poison him.
The door to Ali’s apartment was closed when she arrived, and a soldier rose to his feet as she approached. Out of patience and with the palace’s magic whirling in her blood, Nahri had no sooner snapped her fingers then a corner brazier unfurled, tossing its fiery contents to the floor and snaking around the soldier’s ankle. It yanked him to the ground, and the door burst open before her.
She stepped in and then paused, for a moment not certain she’d entered the correct room. Ali’s apartment was in chaos. A half-dozen floor desks were being used by harassed-looking secretaries, and scrolls and record books were everywhere, as were people, pushing papers around and arguing in multiple languages.
Ali’s irate voice drifted to her from across the room. “—and I told you I’ve already awarded the contract. I don’t care who your boss’s uncle is; that’s not how I do things. The hospital’s plumbing is being installed by a guild without a history of hexing their competition.”
She made her way toward him, dodging several startled scribes. Ali noticed her approach at once and quickly straightened up . . . so swiftly, in fact, that he upset an ink bottle across his pale blue dishdasha.
“Banu Nahida, p-peace be upon you,” he stammered, dabbing at the ink. “Er, aren’t you supposed to be at the Grand Temple?”
“I was supposed to be, yes.” She pushed away the edge of her chador to poke a finger at his chest. “With my husband. That is what my people and priests are expecting. And yet my husband is now in his cups, entertaining company that is definitely not me, and he’s saying you’re responsible. That you were shouting in the streets about how his cousin was going to burn in hell.” She jabbed him again. “Do the two of you not have a single grain of sense between you?”
Ali’s expression instantly grew stormy. “I didn’t say he was going to burn in hell,” he defended. “I suggested he repent before that happened.”
Nahri felt the floor shift beneath her feet. She closed her eyes for a minute, willing herself to be calm. “Alizayd. I spent weeks fighting with the priests to allow this visit. If he doesn’t come, they’ll view it as a slight. And if they view it as a slight—if they don’t think I have your family’s support—then how do you think they’re going to react when I announce I want to overturn centuries of tradition to work alongside shafit? I’m staking my reputation on this hospital. If it fails because you can’t keep your mouth shut, hellfire is going to be the least of your problems.”
She’d swear the air sparked as the threat left her lips, and she didn’t miss the speed at which several of the nearest djinn backed away.
Ali swallowed. “I’ll fix it. I swear. Go to the Temple and wait for him.”
Nahri was not feeling optimistic.
At her side, Jamshid shifted. “I wish you’d let me go talk to him.”
She shook her head. “This is between me and Muntadhir. And you shouldn’t be solving his problems for him all the time, Jamshid.”
He sighed, readjusting his cap. Like Nahri, he was in his Temple attire, bloody and ash-stained hospital smocks traded for silk chadors and coats. “Did you tell Nisreen the truth about why we were coming here?”
Nahri shifted on her feet. “No,” she confessed. Nisreen had stayed behind to oversee the infirmary, a thing for which Nahri was secretly relieved. She didn’t need another voice arguing against her. “We . . . we have not been seeing eye to eye on much lately.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy being left in the dark,” Jamshid observed mildly.
Nahri grimaced. She didn’t like the tension that had grown between her and her mentor, but neither did she know how to fix it.
Jamshid glanced at the gate. “Speaking of unhappy elders, I should probably tell you that my father is—”
The clattering of hooves cut him off. Nahri glanced up to see a rider in an ebony robe cantering toward them. Relief flared in her chest.
It lasted only a moment. Because that rider was not her husband.
Ali was at their side in seconds, looking, well, rather damn princely on a magnificent gray stallion. He was dressed in royal colors, the first time she’d ever seen him so, the gold-trimmed black robe smoking around his ankles, the brilliant blue, purple, and gold turban wrapped around his head. He’d shaved his scruffy beard into a semblance of order and was even wearing jewelry—a strand of pearls looping his neck, and a heavy silver ring crowned with one of the famed pink diamo
nds of Ta Ntry on his left thumb.
Nahri gawked at him. “You’re not Muntadhir.”
“I am not,” he agreed, sliding from the horse. He must have prepared in a hurry; he smelled of freshly burned agarwood, and there were drops of water still clinging to his neck. “My brother remains indisposed.”
Jamshid was looking at Ali with open hostility. “Are those his clothes?”
“He doesn’t seem to need them today.” Ali glanced back, peering in the direction from which he’d come. “Where is she?” he asked, seemingly to himself. “She was right behind me . . .”
Jamshid stepped between them. “Nahri, you can’t bring him into the Temple,” he warned, switching to Divasti. “People burn him in effigy in the Temple!”
Nahri didn’t get a chance to respond. Another rider had joined them, one even more surprising than Ali.
“Peace be upon you,” Zaynab said in a gallant tone as she dismounted. “A lovely day, isn’t it?’
Nahri’s mouth actually fell open. The Qahtani princess looked even more dazzling than her brother, in billowy gold riding pants beneath a brightly striped indigo tunic. She wore her black shayla lightly, under a headdress of glittering sapphires, her face partially obscured by a silver Geziri mask. Jewels winked from each of her fingers.
Zaynab took her brother’s hand, turning a winning smile toward the Daevas who’d gathered to gawk. There was no denying the royal siblings made for an extraordinary sight, something Zaynab seemed to be relishing.
“What-what are you doing here?” Nahri managed to ask.
Zaynab shrugged. “Ali came running and said you needed Qahtanis to help sway your priests. Now you have some. Even better, you have me.” Her tone was sugar sweet. “If you’re not aware, the two of you”—she motioned between Ali and Nahri—“are rather abrasive.” Her gaze slid past Nahri. “Jamshid!” she said warmly. “How are you? How is your father?”
Some of the anger left Jamshid’s face at Zaynab’s aggressive goodwill. “We are well, Princess. Thank you for asking.” He darted a look at Nahri. “Actually, on the matter of my father . . . he is here.”
Nahri closed her eyes. This was all beginning to feel like a terrible dream. “Your father is back? Kaveh’s here?”
Jamshid nodded, swallowing. “He typically goes straight to the Temple after a journey, to thank the Creator for ensuring his safety.”
“What a lovely tradition,” Zaynab said cheerfully, aiming a sharp look at her brother. At the mention of Kaveh, Ali’s face had twisted like he’d sucked on a lemon. “Isn’t that right, Alizayd?”
Ali offered something that might have been a nod. “Yes. Lovely.”
“Shall we go?” Zaynab said, stepping between the men. “Jamshid, would you give me a tour? Ali and Nahri likely have many extremely boring things to discuss.”
“Your sister?” Nahri hissed as soon as Jamshid and Zaynab moved out of earshot.
Ali looked at her helplessly. “Kaveh?”
“That’s a surprise to me as well,” she said grimly. “He’s very orthodox. He will argue against this.”
“And he won’t like seeing me here,” Ali warned. “We . . . we do not have the most amicable history.”
“You and Kaveh?” she asked sarcastically. “I can’t imagine why not.” She sighed, glancing at the Temple Gates. For all her fears, bringing Alizayd al Qahtani into the Temple was not nearly as bad as saying she intended to work alongside shafit. “Leave your weapons in my litter.”
Ali’s hand went to the hilt of his zulfiqar like an overprotective mother might clutch a child. “Why?”
“We don’t allow weapons in the Temple. None,” she added, sensing this was a thing to be clear upon with the warrior prince before her.
“Fine,” he muttered, removing his zulfiqar and khanjar and placing them delicately inside Nahri’s litter. He freed a small knife from a holster around his ankle and then a spike from his sleeve. He turned back, the sunlight glinting off the copper relic in his ear. “Let’s go.”
Zaynab and Jamshid were already halfway down the main path, Zaynab’s lilting voice carrying back to them. The Temple grounds were crowded as usual, with local Daevabadis strolling the manicured grounds and extended families of pilgrims seated on rugs spread under shade trees. People had stopped to look at Zaynab, excitedly peeking and pointing in the princess’s direction.
The sight of Ali provoked a very different reaction. Nahri heard a couple of gasps, catching sight of narrowed eyes and open horror.
She ignored it. She straightened her shoulders and tipped her chin up. She would not show weakness today.
Ali gazed upon the Temple complex with visible appreciation, seeming not to notice the hostility around him. “This is beautiful,” he said admiringly as they passed a row of towering cedars. “These trees look like they’ve been here since Anahid’s time.” He knelt, running his fingers over one of the brightly colored stone disks that made up the Temple’s pathways. “And I’ve never seen anything like these.”
“They’re from the lake,” Nahri explained. “Supposedly the marid brought them up as tribute.”
“The marid?” He sounded startled as he straightened up, holding the stone. It was the bright orange of a setting sun, flecked with bits of crimson. “I didn’t realize . . .”
The stone in his hand abruptly brightened, shimmering as if under a pale sea.
Nahri knocked it out of his hand.
Ali’s eyes were wide. “I-I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Nahri dared a glance around them. People were watching, of course, but it didn’t seem anyone had noticed.
She heard Ali swallow. “Do the stones do that often?” he asked hopefully.
“Never, as far as I’m aware.” She gave him a sharp look. “Then again, considering the source of these stones . . .”
He cleared his throat, silencing her. “Can we not talk about that here?”
He had a point. “Fine. But don’t touch anything else.” Nahri paused, recalling just who she was about to bring into the Temple. “And maybe don’t say anything. At all.”
A disgruntled expression crossed his face, but he remained silent as they caught up with Jamshid and Zaynab at the Temple’s entrance.
Zaynab’s eyes were shining. “An extraordinary place,” she enthused. “Jamshid has been giving me a wonderful tour. Did you know he was once a novitiate here, Ali?”
Ali nodded. “Muntadhir told me you had trained for the priesthood.” He looked curious. “What made you leave it for the Guard?”
Jamshid’s face was stony. “I wanted to be more proactive in defending my people.”
Zaynab swiftly took her brother’s arm. “Why don’t we go inside?”
As Jamshid led them into the Temple, the healer in Nahri could not help but note that he seemed to be leaning on his cane a bit less. Perhaps the session Muntadhir had interrupted had done some good after all.
“These are our shrines,” Jamshid explained, “dedicated to our most honored ancestors.” He glanced back at Ali. “I do believe your people killed a number of them.”
“A favor they returned more than once, as I recall,” Ali replied acidly.
“Maybe we could rehash the war later,” Nahri suggested, walking faster. “The longer I am away from the infirmary, the higher the chance of an emergency occurring.”
But at her side, Ali suddenly went still. She turned to look at him and saw his gaze was locked on the last shrine. It drew the eye, of course; it was the most popular in the Temple, garlanded with flowers and offerings.
Nahri heard his breath catch. “Is that—”
“Darayavahoush’s?” Kaveh’s voice rang out from behind them, and then the grand wazir was striding up, still dressed in his traveling cloak. “It is, indeed.” He brought his hands up in blessing. “Darayavahoush e-Afshin, the last great defender of the Daeva people and guardian to the Nahids. May he rest in the shade of the Creator.”
Nahri saw Jamshid flinch out of the
corner of her eye, but he was quiet, obviously loyal to his tribe first in the face of their visitors.
“Grand Wazir,” she greeted diplomatically. “May the fires burn brightly for you.”
“And for you, Banu Nahida,” Kaveh replied. “Princess Zaynab, peace be upon you. An honor and a surprise to see you here.” He turned to Ali, the warmth vanishing from his face. “Prince Alizayd,” he said flatly. “You returned from Am Gezira.”
Ali didn’t seem to notice the rudeness. His gaze hadn’t left Dara’s shrine, and it looked like he was struggling to keep his composure. His eyes flickered to the bow at the back, and then Nahri saw him stiffen. She couldn’t blame him—she’d seen Jamshid react the same way to the replica of the weapon that had nearly taken his life.
And then Ali stepped closer, his gaze falling to the base of Dara’s statue. Nahri’s heart sank. No. Not today.
Ali picked up an object from among the pile of tokens. Charred and blackened though it was, its reptilian features were instantly recognizable.
Zaynab softly gasped, the skeleton perhaps too much even for her. “Is that a crocodile?” she asked, her voice laced with anger.
Nahri held her breath. Ali twitched, and she silently cursed whoever had left it. This was it. He was going to explode, he was going to say something so offensive that the priests would want him tossed out, and her plans for the shafit were going to be over before she’d even proposed them.
“I take it this is meant for me?” Ali asked after a moment of silence.
Kaveh spoke first. “I do believe that was the intent.” At his side, Jamshid looked ashamed.
“Ali . . . ,” Nahri began.
But he was already putting it back. Not on the ground, but at the feet of Dara’s stone horse—its hooves stomping the carved sand flies she had no doubt the sharp-eyed prince noticed.
He brought his fingers together. “Then to Darayavahoush e-Afshin,” he said, only the faintest hint of sarcasm in his exaggerated politeness. “The best and most terrifying warrior this crocodile has ever fought.” He turned back around, flashing an almost frightening smile at Kaveh. “Come, Grand Wazir,” he said, throwing his arm around the other man and pulling him close. “It has been too long since we’ve shared each other’s company, and I know our brilliant Banu Nahida is eager to tell you her plans.”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 33
