The king hissed a reply and raised his hand, and Alizayd shut up, but Nahri wasn’t convinced. She didn’t want to go anywhere with the rude prince, and she certainly didn’t want to leave Dara’s side.
Dara, however, reluctantly nodded. “You should rest, Nahri. You’ll need your strength for the coming days.”
“And you won’t?”
“Oddly enough, I am perfectly well.” He squeezed her hand, sending a rush of warmth straight to her heart. “Go,” he urged. “I promise not to go to war without your permission,” he added with a sharp smile at the Qahtanis.
As Dara released her hand, she caught sight of the king’s careful gaze on the two of them. Ghassan nodded at her, and she followed the prince through an enormous set of doors.
Alizayd was halfway down the wide, arcaded corridor by the time she reached him. She jogged, trying to keep up with his long strides while casting curious glances at the rest of the palace. What she saw was well maintained, but she could sense the age of the ancient stone and crumbling facades.
A pair of servants bowed low as they passed, but the prince didn’t seem to notice. He kept his head down as they walked. He clearly hadn’t inherited his father’s diplomatic warmth, and the openly hostile way he had spoken to Dara made her nervous.
Nahri sneaked a look at him from the corner of her eye. Young was her first impression. His hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders hunched, Alizayd carried his lanky body as if he’d recently sprouted into his alarming height and was still getting used to it. He had a long, elegant face, one that might have even been handsome had it not been furrowed in a scowl. His chin was scruffy, more the hope of a beard than anything substantial. Besides the copper scimitar, a hooked dagger was tucked in his belt, and Nahri thought she caught sight of another small knife bound to his ankle.
He glanced over, probably in the hope of studying her in a similar fashion, but their eyes caught, and he quickly looked away. Nahri cringed as the silence between them grew more strained.
But he was the king’s son, and she was not easily deterred. “So,” she started in Arabic, remembering what Ghassan said about him studying the language. “Think your father’s going to kill us?”
She’d meant it as a poor joke to lighten the mood, but Alizayd’s face twisted in open displeasure. “No.”
The fact that he answered so easily—like he’d been mulling over the question himself—shocked her out of her feigned casualness. “You sound disappointed.”
Alizayd gave her a dark look. “Your Afshin is a monster. He deserves to lose his head a hundred times over for the crimes he’s committed.” Nahri startled, but before she could respond, the prince pulled open a door and beckoned her through. “Come.”
The sudden appearance of the late-afternoon light dazzled her eyes. The lilt of birdsong and monkey calls broke the quiet, occasionally cresting into the croak of a frog and the rustle of crickets. The air was warm and moist, so fragrant with the aroma of rose blossoms, rich soil, and wet wood that her nose stung.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, her amazement only grew. What stretched before them could hardly be called a garden. It was as vast and wild as the feral woods she and Dara had journeyed through, more like a jungle intent on devouring its garden roots. Dark vines sprawled from its depths like lapping tongues, swallowing the crumbling remains of fountains and ensnaring defenseless fruit trees. Flowers in near violent hues—a crimson that shone like blood, a speckled indigo like a starry night—bloomed across the ground. A pair of spiky date palms glittered in the sun before her, made entirely of glass, she realized, their plump fruit a golden jewel.
Something swooped overhead, and Nahri ducked as a four-winged bird—its feathers the variants of colors one would see in a setting sun—flew past. It vanished into the trees with a low growl that could have come from a lion ten times its size, and Nahri jumped.
“This is your garden?” she asked in disbelief. A tiled path stretched before them, broken by gnarled, thorned roots and shrouded by moss. Tiny glass globes filled with dancing flames floated over it, illuminating its twisting route into the garden’s dark heart.
Alizayd looked insulted. “I suppose my people don’t keep the gardens as immaculate as your ancestors did. We find ruling the city to be a more appropriate use of time than horticulture.”
Nahri was losing patience with this royal brat. “So Geziri hospitality doesn’t involve stabbing your guests, but does allow for threats and insults?” she asked with mock sweetness. “How fascinating.”
“I . . .” Alizayd looked taken aback. “I apologize,” he finally muttered. “That was rude.” He stared at his feet and motioned toward the path. “If you please . . .”
Nahri smiled, feeling vindicated, and they continued. The path turned into a stony bridge hanging low over a glimmering canal. She glanced down as they crossed. The water was the clearest she’d ever seen, gurgling over smooth rocks and shining pebbles.
Before long they came upon a squat stone building rising from the vines and crowded trees. It was painted a cheerful blue with columns the color of cherries. Steam seeped from the windows, and a small herb garden hugged its exterior. Two young girls knelt among the bushes, weeding and filling a thatched basket with delicate purple petals.
An older woman with lined skin and warm brown eyes emerged from the building as they approached. Shafit, Nahri guessed, noticing her round ears and sensing the familiarity of a fast heartbeat. The woman wore her graying hair in a simple bun and was dressed in some complicated garment wound about her torso.
“Peace be upon you, sister,” Alizayd greeted her when she bowed, in a far kinder tone than he had used with Nahri. “My father’s guest has had a long journey. Do you mind caring for her?”
The woman gazed at Nahri with undisguised curiosity. “It would be an honor, my prince.”
Alizayd briefly met her eyes. “My sister will join you soon, God willing.” She could not tell if he was joking when he added, “She is better company.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, turning abruptly on his heel.
An ifrit would be better company than you. At least Aeshma had briefly attempted to be charming. Nahri watched as Alizayd quickly returned the way they’d come, feeling more than a little uneasy, until the shafit woman gently took her arm and guided her into the steamy bathhouse.
In minutes, a dozen girls were attending to her; the servants were shafit of a dizzying array of ethnicities, speaking Djinnistani with snatches of Arabic and Circassian, Gujarati and Swahili, along with more languages she couldn’t identify. Some offered tea and sherbet while others carefully assessed her wild hair and dusty skin. She had no idea who they thought she was, and they were careful not to ask but treated her as if she were a princess.
I could get used to this, Nahri thought what felt like hours later as she lolled in a warm bath, the water thick with luxurious oils, and the steamy air smelling of rose petals. One girl massaged her scalp, working a lather into her hair while another massaged her hands. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.
She was far too drowsy to realize the room had gone silent before a clear voice jolted her out of her reverie.
“I see you have made yourself comfortable.”
Nahri’s eyes shot open. A girl sat on the bench opposite her bath, her legs delicately crossed underneath the most expensive-looking dress Nahri had ever seen.
She was stunning, with a beauty so unnaturally perfect Nahri knew in a moment not a drop of human blood ran through her veins. Her skin was dark and smooth, her lips full, and her hair carefully hidden under a simple ivory turban embellished with a single sapphire. Her gray-gold eyes and elongated features resembled the younger prince so sharply there could be no doubt who she was. Alizayd’s sister, the princess Zaynab.
Nahri crossed her arms and sank back under the bubbles, feeling exposed and plain. The other woman smiled, clearly enjoying her discomfort, and dipped a toe into the bath. Diamonds winked from a gold an
klet.
“You’ve got the whole palace in quite an excitement,” she continued. “They’re preparing a massive feast even now. If you listen, you can hear the drums from the Grand Temple. Your entire tribe is celebrating in the streets.”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . ,” Nahri stammered, uncertain what to say.
The princess stood with a grace that made Nahri want to weep with envy. Her gown fell in perfect waves to the floor; Nahri had never seen anything like it: a rose pink net as fine as a spider’s web, spun into a delicate floral pattern interlaced with seed pearls, and laid over a deep purple sheath. It didn’t look like something made by human hands, that was for certain.
“Nonsense,” Zaynab replied. “There’s no need to apologize. You are my father’s guest. It pleases me to see you content.” She beckoned toward a servant bearing a silver tray, plucking a powdery white confection from it and slipping it into her mouth without getting a speck of sugar on her painted lips. She glanced at the servant. “Have you offered any to the Banu Nahida?”
The girl gasped and dropped the tray. It clattered to the ground, and a pastry rolled into the scented water. The servant’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “The Banu Nahida?”
“Apparently so.” Zaynab gave Nahri a conspiratorial smile, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Manizheh’s own daughter, bewitched to look human. Exciting, isn’t it?” She gestured at the tray. “Better clean that quickly, girl. You’ve gossip to spread.” She turned back to Nahri with a shrug. “Nothing interesting ever happens around here.”
The studied casualness with which the princess revealed her identity left Nahri momentarily speechless with anger.
She’s testing me. Nahri checked her temper and reminded herself of Dara’s story about her origins. I was raised a simple human servant, saved by the Afshin and brought to a magical world I barely understand. React like that girl would.
Nahri forced an embarrassed smile, realizing this was only the first of many games she’d be playing in the palace. “Oh, I don’t know how interesting I am.” She gazed at Zaynab in open admiration. “I’ve never met a princess before. You’re so beautiful, my lady.”
Zaynab’s eyes lightened with pleasure. “Thank you, but please . . . call me Zaynab. We’re to be companions here, aren’t we?”
God protect me from such a fate. “Of course,” she agreed. “If you will call me Nahri.”
“Nahri it is.” Zaynab smiled and gestured her forth. “Come! You must be famished. I will have food brought to the gardens.”
She was more thirsty than famished; the heat of the bath had sucked every last bit of moisture from her skin. She glanced around, but her destroyed clothes were nowhere to be seen, and she had little desire to reveal more of herself before the frighteningly striking princess.
“Oh, come, there’s no reason to be shy.” Zaynab laughed, accurately guessing her thoughts. Mercifully, one of the servants reappeared at the same time, bearing a silken, sky blue robe. Nahri slipped into it and then followed Zaynab out of the bathhouse and along a stone path through the wild garden. The collar of Zaynab’s dress dropped low enough to expose the back of her elegant neck, and Nahri could not help but study the golden clasps of the two necklaces she wore. They looked delicate. Fragile.
Stop, she chided herself.
“Alizayd fears he has already offended you,” Zaynab said as she led Nahri to a wooden pavilion that seemed to appear from out of nowhere, perched over a clear pool. “I apologize. He has the unfortunate tendency to say exactly what’s on his mind.”
The pavilion was lined with a thick embroidered carpet and plush cushions. Nahri sank into them without instruction. “I thought honesty a virtue.”
“Not always.” Zaynab sat down across from her, elegantly folding herself onto a cushion. “He did tell me about your journey, however. What a grand adventure that must have been!” The princess smiled. “I could not resist the urge to peek in my father’s court to see the Afshin before I came here. God forgive me, but that’s a beautiful man. Even more handsome than the legends say.” She shrugged. “Although I guess that’s to be expected from a slave.”
“Why would you say that?” Nahri asked, the question coming out sharper than she intended.
Zaynab frowned. “Do you not know?” When Nahri said nothing, she continued. “Well, that’s part of the curse, is it not? To make them more alluring to their human masters?”
Dara hadn’t told her that, and the thought of the handsome daeva forced to obey the whims of a slew of enthralled masters was not something Nahri wished to dwell upon. She bit her lip, wordlessly watching as a handful of servants joined them on the pavilion, each bearing a silver platter loaded with food. The one closest to her, a stout woman with biceps as thick as Nahri’s legs, staggered from the weight of her platter and nearly dropped it in Nahri’s lap when she set it down.
“God be praised,” Nahri whispered. There was enough food in front of her to break the fasts of an entire Cairo neighborhood. Piles of saffron-hued rice glistening with buttery fat and studded with dried fruit, mounds of creamy vegetables, stacks of fried almond-colored patties. There were sheets of flatbread as long as her arms and small clay bowls filled with more varieties of nuts, herbed cheeses, and fruit than she could identify. But it all paled compared to the platter in front of her, the one which nearly toppled the servant carrying it: a whole pink fish resting in a bed of bright herbs, two stuffed pigeons, and a copper pot of meatballs in a thick yoghurt sauce.
Her gaze fell upon an oval dish piled with spiced rice, dried limes, and glistening chicken pieces. “Is that . . . kabsa?” She was pulling the dish toward her, helping herself before Zaynab could answer. Starving, exhausted, and having subsisted on stale manna and lentil soup for weeks, Nahri didn’t particularly care if she came off as uncouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste of the roasted chicken.
She caught sight of the princess’s amused expression as she eagerly scooped up more of the spiced rice. “Are you such a fan of Geziri cuisine, then?” Zaynab smiled, the expression not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ve never known a Daeva to eat meat.”
Nahri remembered Dara saying that, but shrugged it off. “I ate meat in Cairo.” She coughed, a lump in her throat from swallowing so quickly. “Do you have any water?” she choked out to one of the servants.
Across from her, Zaynab delicately pecked at a bowl of glistening black cherries. She nodded toward a glass carafe. “There is wine.”
Nahri hesitated, still a little leery of alcohol. But as she started to cough again, she decided a few sips wouldn’t hurt. “Please . . . thank you,” she added as a servant poured a generous goblet and handed it over. She took a long sip. It was far drier than the date wine Dara conjured up, crisp and cool. And rather refreshing; sweet without being overly so, with a delicate hint of some sort of berry.
“That’s delicious,” Nahri marveled.
Zaynab smiled again. “I’m glad you like it.”
Nahri kept eating, taking a few sips of wine every now and then to clear her throat. She was vaguely aware of Zaynab droning on about the history of the gardens; the sun had grown hot, but a gentle breeze blew over the cool water. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint sound of glass wind chimes. She blinked and leaned heavily into the soft cushions, a strange heaviness creeping over her limbs.
“Are you all right, Nahri?”
“Mmm?” She looked up.
Zaynab gestured toward Nahri’s goblet. “You may wish to ease up on that. I hear it’s rather potent.”
Nahri blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open. “Potent?”
“Supposedly. I wouldn’t know myself.” She shook her head. “The lectures I would get from my little brother if he caught me drinking wine . . .”
Nahri looked at her goblet. It was full—she realized now just how careful the servants had been to keep it full—and she had no idea how much she’d consumed.
Her head swam. “I . . .” Her voice came out in a
n embarrassing slur.
Zaynab gave her a mortified look, pressing a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry!” she apologized, her voice sugar sweet. “I should have guessed your . . . upbringing would not have exposed you to such things. Oh, Banu Nahida, do be careful,” she warned as Nahri fell forward on her palms. “Why don’t you rest?”
Nahri felt herself being helped into an impossibly soft mound of cushions. A servant started to fan her with a large paddle of palm fronds while another spread a thin canopy to block the sun.
“I . . . I can’t,” she tried to protest. She yawned, her vision going fuzzy. “I should find Dara . . .”
Zaynab laughed lightly. “I’m sure my father can handle him.”
Somewhere in a back corner of her mind, Zaynab’s confident laugh nagged at Nahri. A warning tried to break through the fog of her thoughts, raise her from the creeping exhaustion.
It failed. Her head fell back, and her eyes fluttered shut.
Nahri shivered awake, something cold and wet pressed against her forehead. She opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light. She was in a dark room, lying on an unfamiliar couch, a light quilt drawn up to her chest.
The palace, she remembered, the feast. The goblets Zaynab kept pressing on her . . . the odd heaviness that overtook her body . . .
She immediately drew up. Her head was not pleased at the swiftness of the movement and promptly protested with a pounding ache at the base of her skull. Nahri winced.
“Shhh, it’s all right.” A shadow separated itself from a murky corner. A woman, Nahri realized. A Daeva woman, her eyes as dark as Nahri’s and an ash mark upon her brow. Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her face was lined with what looked like equal measures of hard work and age. She approached with a steaming metal cup. “Drink this. It will help.”
“I don’t understand,” Nahri muttered, rubbing her aching head. “I was eating and then . . .”
The City of Brass Page 28
