Ali tried to wrench himself free and caught sight of Lubayd’s body, his glassy, unseeing eyes fixed on the sky above. With a choked cry of denial, Ali reached for his zulfiqar.
The ifrit’s fingers abruptly tightened on his throat. It clucked its tongue disapprovingly. “None of that now.”
“Prince Alizayd!”
As Ali grappled with the iron grip the demon had on his throat, he glimpsed a band of men running in the distance: the rest of the survivors from the Royal Guard.
“Prince?” the ifrit repeated. He shook his head, disappointed. “A shame. There’s another after you, and he’s got a temper even I won’t cross.” He sighed. “Hold on. This is most certainly going to hurt.”
There was no time to react. A searing bolt of heat raced over Ali, consuming them both in a swirl of fire and sickly green clouds. Thunder crashed in his ear, shaking his very bones. The beach vanished and the cries of his men fell away, replaced by the blur of rooftops and the roar of the wind.
And then it was gone. They crashed, and the ifrit released him. Ali landed hard, sprawled on a stone floor. Disoriented, he tried to stand, but nausea rose, swift and fierce inside his roiling stomach, and it was everything Ali could do not to vomit. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to catch his breath.
When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was the familiar doors of his father’s office. They’d been torn off their hinges, the room ransacked and set ablaze.
Ali was too late.
The ifrit who’d murdered Lubayd was striding away. Still dizzy, Ali tried to track his movement, the scene coming to him in pieces. A knot of young warriors dressed in the same mottled black uniforms of the Daevas on the beach surrounded another man, their commander perhaps. He stood with his back to Ali, barking out what sounded like orders in Divasti.
An enormous silver bow, horribly familiar, was strung across his broad shoulders.
Ali jerked his head in denial, sure he was dreaming.
“Have I got a prize for you,” the ifrit crowed to the Daeva commander, jerking a thumb back at Ali. “This is the prince your Banu Nahida is after, yes? The one we’re supposed to lock away?”
The Daeva commander whirled around, and Ali’s heart stopped. The cold green eyes from his nightmares, the black tattoo that declared his position to the world . . .
“It is not,” Darayavahoush e-Afshin said in a low, lethal voice. His eyes blazed, a flicker of fire-yellow beneath the green. “But he will do just fine.”
37
Dara
Dara had taken two steps toward Alizayd before he stopped himself, hardly believing the blood-covered Ayaanle man before him could be the self-righteous royal brat he’d sparred with in Daevabad years ago. He’d grown up, losing the childish hint to his features that had stayed Dara’s hand from ending that match in a more lethal manner. He also looked terrible, like something Vizaresh might have fished from the lake, half dead. His dishdasha hung in soaked rags, his limbs covered in bleeding gashes and bite marks.
His eyes, though—they were the Geziri gray Dara remembered. His father’s eyes, Zaydi al Qahtani’s eyes, and if Dara doubted it, the zulfiqar hanging at Alizayd’s waist was confirmation enough.
The prince had pushed himself to a sitting position. He seemed thoroughly disoriented, his dazed eyes sweeping over Dara in shock.
“But you’re dead,” he whispered, sounding stunned. “I killed you.”
Anger surged into Dara’s blood, and he clenched his hands into smoldering fists. “Remember that, do you?” He was struggling to hold on to his mortal form, aching to submit to the flames that wanted to consume him.
Nahri’s hands on his face. We’ll leave. We’ll travel the world. Dara had been close, so close to escaping all this.
And then Alizayd al Qahtani gave himself to the marid.
“Afshin?” the tentative voice of Laleh, his youngest recruit, broke through his haze. “Did you want me to lead my group to the harem?”
Dara exhaled. His soldiers. His duty. “Hold him,” he said flatly to Vizaresh. He would deal with Alizayd al Qahtani himself, but only after giving his warriors their orders. “And take that damned zulfiqar off him immediately.”
He turned around, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. Instead of the blackness of his closed lids, Dara saw through five sets of eyes, those of the smoky beasts he’d conjured from his blood and let loose with each group of warriors. He caught a reassuring glimpse of Manizheh—who’d insisted on separating from them immediately to head for the infirmary—riding atop the galloping karkadann he’d shaped for her.
The creatures pulled hard on his consciousness, the magic wearing on him. He would need to give up his mortal form soon, even if it was only to recover.
“Break apart,” he said in Divasti. “You heard the Banu Nahida. Our first priority is finding the grand wazir and Ghassan’s body. Laleh, your group will search the harem. Gushtap, take yours to the pavilion on the roof that Kaveh mentioned.” He eyed them. “I expect you to remember yourselves. Do what’s necessary to secure the palace and keep our people safe, but no more.” He paused. “Such mercy does not extend to any survivors you spot from the Royal Guard. Kill them at once. Do not give them a chance to draw their blades. Do not give any man a chance to draw a blade.”
Gushtap opened his mouth, saying, “But most men wear weapons.”
Dara stared at him. “My order remains.”
The other warrior bowed his head. Dara waited until his soldiers had vanished before turning back around.
Vizaresh had taken Alizayd’s zulfiqar and was holding it near the prince’s throat, though the bleeding djinn didn’t look capable of putting up much of a fight; he didn’t even look like he could stand. The realization made Dara pause. It was one thing to cut down a hated enemy in combat; executing a wounded young man who could barely keep his eyes open was another matter.
He is dangerous. Rid yourself of him. Dara freed the short sword at his side. And then he abruptly stopped, taking in the sight of the soaked prince more carefully.
Bite marks. He whirled on Vizaresh. “You were supposed to be with my soldiers and your ghouls at the beach. Have they secured what remains of the Citadel?”
Vizaresh shook his head. “Your soldiers are dead,” he said bluntly. “And my ghouls are gone. There was no point in staying. The djinn were already retaking the beach.”
Dara stared at him in disbelief. He’d looked upon the ruins of the Citadel himself and sent his warriors in with a hundred ghouls. They should have been more than a match for whatever survivors remained. “That cannot be.” He narrowed his eyes and then lunged at Vizaresh. “Did you abandon them?” he snarled.
The ifrit raised his hands in mock surrender. “No, fool. You’ve this one to blame for killing your warriors,” he said, jerking his head in Alizayd’s direction. “He had command of the lake as if he were marid himself. I’d never seen anything like it.”
Dara reeled. He’d sent a dozen of his best to the beach. He’d sent Irtemiz to that beach.
And Alizayd al Qahtani had killed them all with marid magic.
He shoved Vizaresh aside.
Alizayd finally staggered up, lurching toward the ifrit as if to grab his zulfiqar.
He didn’t make it. Dara struck him across the face, hard enough that he heard bones crack. Alizayd fell sprawling to the floor, blood pouring from his shattered nose.
Too angry to hold his form, Dara let his magic loose. Fire swept down his limbs, claws and fangs bursting from his skin. He barely noticed.
Alizayd certainly did. He cried out in shock, crawling backward as Dara approached again. Good. Let Zaydi’s spawn die in terror. But it wouldn’t be with magic. No, Dara was going to put metal through this man’s throat and watch him bleed. He grabbed Alizayd by his torn collar, raising his blade.
“Wait.” Vizaresh’s voice was so softly urgent that it cut through the haze of Dara’s rage.
Dara stopped. “What?” he spat, turni
ng to look over his shoulder.
“Would you really kill the man who cut you down before your Nahri and slaughtered your young soldiers?” Vizaresh drawled.
“Yes!” Dara snapped. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Vizaresh stepped closer. “You’d give your enemy the very peace you’ve been denied?”
Smoke curled past Dara’s hands, heat rising in his face. “Are you looking to join him? I do not have patience for your damned riddles right now, Vizaresh!”
“No riddles, Darayavahoush.” Vizaresh pulled the metal chain out from under his bronze chest plate. “Merely another option.”
Dara’s eyes locked on the emerald rings that hung from the chain. He caught his breath.
“Give him to me,” Vizaresh whispered in Divasti. “You know his name, do you not? You can take the killing blow yourself and obey Manizheh, but let me take his soul first.” He drew nearer, his voice a low purr. “Take the vengeance you deserve. You’ve been denied the peace of death. Why should your enemy be granted it at your hands?”
Dara’s fingers shook on the knife, his breath coming fast. Manizheh was getting her revenge on Ghassan; why shouldn’t Dara have his? Was it any worse than what they were already doing? What he had already done?
Alizayd must have realized something was wrong. His gaze darted between Dara and the ifrit, finally dropping to the chain of slave rings.
His eyes went wide. Wild, sheer terror coursing through them. He jerked back with a gasp, trying to tear himself from Dara’s grip, but Dara easily held on, pinning him hard to the ground and pressing the blade to his throat.
Alizayd shouted, writhing against them. “Get off me!” he screamed, seemingly heedless of the knife against his neck. “Get off me, you—”
With a single brutal motion, Vizaresh grabbed the prince’s head and slammed his skull into the ground. Alizayd instantly fell silent, his dazed eyes rolling back.
Vizaresh let out an annoyed sigh. “I swear, these djinn make even more noise than humans, though I suppose that’s what happens when you live too close to those earth-blooded insects.” He reached for Alizayd’s hand, slipping the ring over his thumb.
“Stop,” Dara whispered.
The ifrit glared at him, his fingers still closed around the ring. “You said he wasn’t the prince you were after. I have not touched any of your people. You can give me this one.”
But if the cold way Vizaresh had smashed the young prince’s head into the floor—indeed, as one might swat a fly—had already pulled Dara back to himself, the angry possessiveness in the ifrit’s voice made him recoil. Was that how Qandisha had thought of him? A possession, a toy to enjoy, to toss to humans as a plaything, only to delight in the chaos it would cause?
Yes. We are the ancestors of the people who betrayed them. The daevas who chose to humble themselves before Suleiman, to let a human forever transform them. To the ifrit, his people—djinn and Daeva alike—were an anathema. An abomination.
And Dara had been a fool to ever forget that. However he’d been brought back to life, he was no ifrit. He would not allow them to enslave another djinn’s soul.
“No,” Dara said again, revulsion coursing through him. “Get that disgusting thing off him. Now,” he demanded when Vizaresh didn’t move. Instead of obeying, the ifrit jerked up, his attention caught by something behind them. Dara followed his gaze.
His heart stopped.
38
Nahri
“Are you sure this leads back to the outer wall?” Nahri whispered as she and Muntadhir crept through the twisting servants’ passage. Save for a bit of fire she’d conjured, it was entirely dark.
“I’ve told you twice,” Muntadhir replied snippily. “Which of us spent our entire life here again?”
“Which of us used this to sneak into random bedrooms?” Nahri muttered back, ignoring the annoyed look he threw her. “What, am I wrong?”
He rolled his eyes. “This passage ends soon, but we can take the next corridor all the way to the east end and access the outer steps there.”
Nahri nodded. “So, Suleiman’s seal . . . ,” she started, trying for a light tone. “How do we retrieve it? Do we have to carve it from your father’s face or—”
Muntadhir made a choking sound. “My God, Nahri, really?”
“You were the one who got all queasy when you first brought it up!”
He shook his head. “Are you going to stick a dagger in my back and run off the moment I tell you?”
“If you keep saying things like that, very possibly.” Nahri sighed. “Can we try being on the same side for one night?”
“Fine,” Muntadhir grumbled. “I suppose someone else should know, all things considered.” He took a deep breath. “It has nothing to do with his cheek; the mark shows up there once the ring is taken.”
“The ring? Suleiman’s seal is on a ring?” Nahri thought back to the jewels she’d seen adorning Ghassan over the past five years. Quietly assessing the valuables another person was wearing was a bit of her specialty. “Is it the ruby he wears on his thumb?” she guessed.
Muntadhir’s expression was grim. “It’s not on his hand,” he replied. “It’s in his heart. We have to cut it out and burn it. The ring re-forms from the ash.”
Nahri stopped dead in her tracks. “We have to do what?”
“Please don’t make me repeat it.” Muntadhir looked ill. “The ring re-forms, you put it on your hand, and that’s that. My father said it can take a few days to recover from the magic. And then you’re trapped in Daevabad forever,” he added darkly. “Now do you see why I was in no hurry to be king?”
“What do you mean, you’re trapped in Daevabad?” Nahri asked, her mind racing.
“I didn’t ask.” When she stared at him in disbelief, he threw up his hands. “Nahri, I don’t think I was older than eight when he told me all of this. I was more preoccupied with trying not to be sick in terror than with interrogating him about the exact strings attached to wearing a ring I was supposed to pull from his bloody corpse. What he told me was that the ring can’t leave the city. So unless someone is willing to leave their heart behind . . .”
“How poetic,” she muttered as they continued moving down the dim passageway.
He stopped outside the grimy, barely visible contours of a door. “We’re here.”
Nahri hovered at his shoulder as he gently eased it open. They stepped into the darkness.
Her face fell. A Geziri woman in a steward’s robe lay dead on the stone floor, blood running from her ears.
“The poison has been through here,” she said softly. This wasn’t the first body they’d found. Though they’d been able to warn a handful of Geziri nobles, they were finding far more dead than alive: soldiers with their zulfiqars still sheathed, a scholar with scrolls scattered around her, and—most heartbreaking—a pair of young boys in feast clothing, clutching unlit sparklers in their hands, tendrils of the hazy copper vapor still clinging to their small feet.
Muntadhir closed the woman’s eyes. “I’m going to give Kaveh to the karkadann,” he whispered savagely. “I swear on my father’s name.”
Nahri shivered; she couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s keep going.”
They’d no sooner stood up than Nahri heard footsteps. At least three people were approaching from around the bend. With no time to duck back inside the passage, they swiftly pressed into a darkened niche in the wall. Shadows rushed over them, a protective response from the palace, just as several figures came around the bend.
Her heart dropped. Daevas, all of them. Young and unfamiliar, they were clad in uniforms of mottled gray and black. They were also quite well-armed, looking more than capable of taking on the emir and his wife. It was a conclusion Muntadhir must have come to as well, for he made no move to confront them and stayed quiet until they had vanished.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I think your tribe is conducting a coup.”
Nahri swallowed. “It does seem that
way,” she said shakily.
Muntadhir looked down at her. “Still on my side?”
Her gaze fell on the murdered woman. “I’m on the side that doesn’t unleash things like that.”
They kept walking, following the deserted corridor. Nahri’s heart was racing, and she didn’t dare speak, especially since it was now clear there were enemies creeping through the palace. An occasional scream or abruptly cut-off warning broke the air, carried through the echoing halls of the labyrinthine royal complex.
A strange buzz swept her skin, and Nahri shivered. It was an oddly familiar feeling, but she couldn’t place it. She moved her hand to one of her daggers as they continued. She could hear the beat of her heart in her head, a steady pounding. Like the tap-tap-tap of a warning.
Muntadhir threw out his arm. There was a muffled cry in the distance.
“Get off me!”
He gasped. “Nahri, that sounds like—”
But she was already running. There was the sound of arguing, another voice, but she barely heard it. She threw up her arm as they rounded the corner; the sudden light was blinding after so much time stealing through the dark.
But the light wasn’t coming from torches or conjured flames. It was coming from two ifrit who had Ali pinned to the ground.
Nahri jerked to a halt, stifling a scream. Ali was a bloody wreck, lying too still beneath a large ifrit inexplicably dressed in the same uniform as the Daeva soldiers and holding a knife to the prince’s throat. A skinnier ifrit in a bronze chest plate was clutching Ali’s hand, holding the prince’s wrist at what must have been a painful angle.
Both ifrit turned to stare at the royal couple. Nahri gasped when she spotted the green gem gleaming on one of Ali’s fingers.
A ring. An emerald slave ring.
The ifrit dressed in Daeva clothing opened his mouth, his eyes flashing brighter. “Nah—”
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