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 its monster.
Nahri closed her eyes, quietly obeying the whispered commands of the servants painting her face. Muntadhir’s cruel taunt played ceaselessly in her mind; she’d been thinking about his words for days now, the accusation all the more haunting because for the life of her, Nahri could not help but fear it contained a kernel of truth.
One of her maids approached with a selection of ornate hair combs shaped like various birds. “Which would you like, my lady?”
Nahri stared at the jeweled combs, too glum to even silently assess their value. Her braids were already undone, her black curls spilling wildly to her waist. She touched her hair, twisting one lock around a finger. “It’s fine like this.”
Two of her maids exchanged nervous looks, and from the corner of the room where she’d been watching Nahri dress with open concern, Nisreen coughed.
“My lady, with all respect … between your hair and the dress, you do not quite appear to be going to a ceremonial event,” her mentor said delicately.
No, I probably look like I’m about to visit my husband’s bed, which is ironic because I’m damn well never doing that again. Nahri had again chosen to wear the sleeveless linen gown with the elaborate beaded collar that reminded her of Egypt. The prospect of interacting with the Qahtanis left her anxious and she wanted to cling to something familiar.
And she didn’t really care what anyone else thought about it. “I’m going like this. It’s a Geziri feast, and there won’t be any men in the women’s section to see me either way.”
Nisreen sighed, perhaps recognizing defeat. “I take it I am still to come up with some sort of emergency so that you can leave early?”
“Please.” Nahri couldn’t entirely snub the feast, but she could make sure she spent as little time there as possible. “Did you happen to notice if Jamshid left?”
“He did. He insisted on helping me restock the apothecary shelves and then departed. I told him he needed another day to recover, but—”
“But he wants to be at Muntadhir’s side.” Nahri waited until the maids had left to finish the sentence. “Muntadhir doesn’t deserve him.”
“I don’t disagree.” When Nahri moved to stand, Nisreen touched her shoulder. “You’ll take care with the queen tonight?”
“I always do.” It was the truth; Nahri evaded Hatset like she owed the older woman money. From what Nahri had observed, the queen was Ghassan’s equal in cunning and resource, but whereas the king desired Nahri as an ally—in name at least—Hatset wanted nothing to do with her, treating her with the wary disdain someone might show an ill-mannered dog.
Which was fine with Nahri, especially tonight. She would steal a few minutes to eat—possibly actually steal one of the gold carving knives used during state functions just to make herself feel better—and then be gone without having to talk to either of the Qahtani princes.
Draping a snow-white chador embroidered with sunbursts of sapphires over her head, she followed a female steward through the open corridor that led to the formal gardens in front of Ghassan’s throne room. Globes of enchanted flames in rainbow-bright hues nestled in the fruit trees, and fine carpets embroidered with hunting scenes had been laid upon the trimmed grass. Tiny jade hummingbirds glittered as they sang and swooped between delicate copper feeders, their song mingling with the strumming of lutes. The air was fragrant with jasmine, musk, and roasted meat. The last made her stomach rumble sadly; Nahri hadn’t touched meat since committing to her role as Banu Nahida.
Directly ahead was an enormous tent constructed with swaths of silver silk that shimmered under the moonlight. The steward pulled aside one of the pearly curtains, and Nahri stepped inside the perfumed interior.
Its opulence was a mockery of the tents the nomadic Geziris would have once called home. Stunning hand-loomed rugs in a riot of colors lay thick upon the ground, and an illusionist had conjured up a constellation of miniature fireworks to swirl and sparkle overhead. Fire burned in wide, open golden lamps—the djinn had a strong aversion to the small, closed ones often used as slave vessels by the ifrit.
The tent was warm and packed; Nahri slipped out of her chador, handing it off to a waiting attendant and blinking as her eyes adjusted to the crowded, firelit interior. Past the bustle of servants and guests lingering near the entrance, she caught a glimpse of Queen Hatset and Princess Zaynab holding court on a raised marble dais scattered with ebony and gold cushions. Cursing the etiquette that required her to greet them first, Nahri made her way across the floor. She was determined to ignore the raised eyebrows she knew her dress would attract, so she refused to look at the other women … which meant she realized too late that many had pulled their various shaylas and veils over their heads.
The reason why sat between his mother and sister.
It took Nahri a moment to recognize the finely dressed young man in the robes of an Ayaanle noble as the traitorous former friend she’d contemplated murdering in her garden a few days ago. Gone were the filthy traveling robe and ragged ghutra. Over a rich, black dishdasha trimmed with pale moonstone beads, Ali wore a grass-green robe patterned in silver ikat, a cheerfully colored garment deeply uncharacteristic of the taciturn prince. A beautiful silver turban crowned his head, wrapped in the Geziri style that revealed the copper relic bolted to his ear.
Ali looked equally taken aback by the sight of Nahri, his shocked gaze traveling from her uncovered head down her bare arms. She heard him take a sharp breath, and she bristled; given Ali’s conservative views, he probably thought the dress even more inappropriate than Nisreen had.
“Banu Nahida,” Hatset greeted her, beckoning Nahri closer with a hand that sparkled with golden rings. “There you are. Come, join us!”
Nahri approached, bowing her head as she brought her hands together. “Peace be upon you all,” she said, in her best attempt at ingratiating politeness.
“And upon you peace, dear daughter.” Hatset gave her a warm smile. The royal women looked stunning, as usual. Hatset wore a silk abaya dyed in saffron and crimson, the fabric shimmering like a flame under a midnight-colored shayla trimmed in Geziri pearls. Zaynab—who could drive men to their knees dressed in an ill-fitting sack—was clad in a gown that looked like a waterfall had come to life and decided to worship her, a cascade of teal, emerald, and cobalt blue held together by a collar of real lotus flowers. “I was beginning to fear something might have happened to you when you didn’t arrive with your husband.”
The words were said with far too much intent, but Nahri wasn’t surprised: there seemed to be very little Hatset didn’t know about the domestic happenings of the palace. Nahri had no doubt a few of her maids were in the queen’s employ—and that news of her argument with Muntadhir had already been relayed.
But Nahri was not discussing her marital woes with this woman. She feigned a smile. “Forgive my tardiness. I had a patient.”
Hatset’s golden eyes twinkled. “No apology necessary.” She gestured to Nahri’s dress. “That is quite lovely. A little different, to be sure, but very beautiful.” Her voice took on a teasing tone. “Alu, doesn’t she look pretty?” she asked her son.
Ali’s gaze was darting everywhere but at Nahri. “I, er, yes,” he stammered. “I should go. The men will be expecting me.”
Hatset grabbed his wrist. “Remember to talk to people … and about things other than hadith and economics, for the love of God, Alizayd. Tell some exciting stories about Am Gezira.”
Ali rose to his feet. Nahri hated to admit such a thing, but he looked striking in his new clothes, the beautifully dyed robe highlighting his haughty features and luminous dark skin. She supposed that’s what happened when you let your mother dress you.
He kept his gaze on the floor as he passed her. “In peace,” he said softly.
“Go jump in the lake,” she returned under her breath in Arabic. She saw him tense but he didn’t stop.
Hatset smiled as she watched him walk away, her expression both proud and fiercely protective.
Of course she’s proud; she’s probably been conspiring to get him back here for years. Nahri had been turning over in her mind the conversation she’d overheard between Muntadhir and Jamshid since her run-in with Ali. She wondered if there was any truth to her husband’s concerns about the deadly intentions of the “mother” she now knew was Hatset.
The queen’s gaze shifted back to Nahri. “Dear one, why are you still standing? Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the cushion next to Zaynab. “My daughter has already accidentally knocked aside the tent panel in front of us to improve our view. And you always hide yourself away at these things.” She nodded at the platters surrounding them. “I’ve had the kitchens bring out some vegetarian dishes for you.”
Nahri went from baffled to suspicious in one fell swoop. Hatset was clearly up to something—so much so that the queen was barely attempting to hide it with her question about Muntadhir and her exuberant friendliness. And the rather obvious comment to Ali about her dress.
Nahri’s cheeks suddenly burned. Oh, no … she was not letting herself get dragged between the estranged brothers that way. She had enough problems of her own. But neither could she be rude. Hatset was the queen—wealthy, powerful, and with as much of an iron fist when it came to the harem as her husband held over the city. Daevabad’s royal harem was enormously influential; here marriages between their world’s most powerful families were debated, and here posts and contracts were given out that changed lives … all under the watchful eye of the djinn queen.
So when Hatset again gestured to the cushion next to Zaynab, Nahri sat.
“I take it you knock aside tent panels with the same frequency that your empty litter dallies in the Geziri bazaar?” she whispered to her sister-in-law. Zaynab rolled her eyes, and Nahri continued, gesturing at the platters of fruit and pastries spread before her. “This reminds me of the first time we met. I mean … before you purposely got me so intoxicated I passed out.”
Zaynab shrugged. “I was trying to be a good host,” she said airily. “How was I to know the potency of such forbidden substances?”
Nahri shook her head, stealing a glance through the billowing tent partitions at the men’s section. The jeweled stakes pinning the silk had indeed been knocked aside in front of them, giving Nahri a fairly good view. Ahead, the Qahtani men sat with their closest retainers on a beautiful white jade platform that floated upon the lush grass. The platform was stunning, its edges carved with an assortment of leaping oryxes, sly-eyed sphinxes, and soaring simurghs. Precious stones and gems highlighted the length of a horn, the sweep of a tail, and the delicate array of feathers on a wing. The men reclined upon silk cushions, wine cups and spun glass water pipes scattered about them.
At the center of course, was Ghassan al Qahtani. Nahri’s skin prickled as she looked at the djinn king. It always did—there was far too much history between them. The man who held her life in his hands, who controlled her as thoroughly as if he’d locked her away, her chains the lives of the Daevas and friends he would destroy if she so much as thought about stepping out of line.
He looked calm and as inscrutable as ever, dressed in royal robes and his striking silk turban—a turban Nahri couldn’t look at without recalling the cold way he’d revealed the truth about Dara and Qui-zi to her on that rain-soaked pavilion five years ago. Early in her marriage, Nahri had quietly asked Muntadhir to take his off before they were alone—a request he had granted without comment and one he’d religiously followed.
Her gaze went to him now. She hadn’t spoken to her husband since their fight in the infirmary, and seeing him there, dressed in the same official robes and turban as his father, deepened her unease. Jamshid was at his side, of course, their knees brushing, but there were others as well, most of whom Nahri recognized. Wealthy, well-connected men all of them … but they were also Muntadhir’s friends, true ones. One appeared to be telling Muntadhir a story, while another passed him a water pipe.
It looked as though they were trying to keep his spirits up—or perhaps distract him from the other side of the platform, where Ali had taken a seat. Though he lacked his older brother’s dazzling array of jewelry, the starkness of his attire seemed to elevate him. At Ali’s left were several officers from the Royal Guard, along with a thickly bearded man with an infectious grin and a severe-eyed woman in male dress. On his right, the Qaid appeared to be telling a story at which Ghassan gave a hearty laugh. Ali remained silent, his gaze flitting between his companions and a large glass pitcher of water on the rug before him.
And though it was a beautiful night in an enchanted garden, filled with guests who looked like they might have stepped from the pages of a book of legends, Nahri had a sense of foreboding. The things Muntadhir had whispered to Jamshid, whatever Hatset was up to … Nahri could see it playing out in the scene before her. Daevabad’s sophisticated elites—the literati noblemen and wealthy traders—had flocked to Muntadhir. The rougher men who wielded blades, and the ones who could stand before the Friday crowds and fill their hearts with holy purpose … they were with Ali.
And if those brothers remained divided, if those groups turned on each other … Nahri didn’t see it ending well for her people—for any of them.
Her stomach rumbled. Impending civil war or not, there was little Nahri could do to save her tribe on an empty stomach. Not particularly caring about etiquette, she pulled over a tiled glass dish of knafeh and a reed platter of fruit, fully determined to gorge herself on cheese pastry and melon.
The nape of her neck prickled. Nahri glanced back up.
Through the narrow opening, Ali was watching her.
She met his troubled gray eyes. Nahri typically tried to close herself off from her abilities in crowds like this, the competing heartbeats and gurgling humors an irritating distraction. But for a moment she let them expand.
Ali stood out like a spot on the eye, a deep silence in the ocean of sounds.
You’re my friend, she remembered him declaring the first time she’d saved his life, with the utter confidence the haze of opium had instilled. A light, he’d added when he begged her not to follow Dara.
Annoyed by the unwanted, unsettling feeling the memory caused, she snatched up one of the serving knives. Still holding his gaze, she plunged it deep into a piece of melon, then began carving it with surgical precision. Ali drew up, looking both startled and somehow still snobbish. Nahri glared, and he finally looked away.
Ahead, Ghassan clapped his hands. Nahri watched as he gazed warmly at the crowd.
“My friends, I thank you for honoring my family with your presence here tonight.” He beamed at Ali. “And I thank God for allowing me the joy of seeing my youngest again. It is a blessing whose value I didn’t quite realize until he came striding into my palace dressed like some northern raider.”
That brought a chuckle to the mostly Geziri crowd, and Ghassan continued. “Prince Alizayd, of course, wanted none of this. If he had his way, we’d share a single platter of dates and perhaps a pot of the coffee I hear he now brews himself.” Ghassan’s voice turned teasing. “Then he would likely give us a lecture on the benefit of estate taxes.”
Ali’s companions burst into laughter at that. Muntadhir was clenching his wine cup, and Nahri didn’t miss the quiet way Jamshid lowered her husband’s hand.
“I will, however, save you from such a thing,” Ghassan said. “Indeed, I’ve something else planned. My chefs have been furiously attempting to outdo each other in advance of Navasatem, so I issued them a challenge this evening. Prepare their finest dish, and my son will choose the best cook to design the menu for the generation celebrations.”
Nahri grew a bit intrigued at that. Five years in Daevabad had yet to completely inure her to its marvels, and she was sure whatever the royal chefs conjured would be magnificent indeed. She watched as more servants wound their way through the royal platform, some pouring rosewater over the hands of the men while others refilled cups. Turning away a wine bearer, Ali beckoned politely to a young man holding a glass pitcher icy with condensation.
Before the servant could reach the prince, Jamshid stopped him, holding out his arm in a slightly rude—or perhaps inebriated—manner. He took the pitcher and poured his own glass of what Nahri recognized as tamarind juice, before pushing it back at the other man. He took a sip and then set his cup down, reaching out to quickly squeeze Muntadhir’s knee.
Ghassan clapped his hands again and then Nahri wasn’t looking at Jamshid.
Because a damned boat had joined them.
Carved from teak and large enough to fit the royal family, the boat swept in on a wave of conjured smoke, a miniature version of the great sewn ships said to sail the Indian Ocean. On its silk sail, the emblem of the Sahrayn tribe had been painted, and indeed the man accompanying it was Sahrayn, his striped hood thrown back to reveal red-streaked black hair.
He bowed low. “Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, peace be upon you all.”
“And upon you peace,” Ghassan replied, looking bemused. “An impressive presentation. What do you have for us, then?”
“The finest of delicacies from Qart Sahar: cave eels. They are found only in the deepest, most forbidden cisterns of the Sahara. We capture them alive, bringing them back in great vats of saltwater, and then prepare them in a scented broth of the most delicate perfumes and preserved vinegars.” He beamed, gesturing to the boat … no, to the vat, Nahri realized, catching sight of several sinuous shapes churning in the dark liquid filling the bottom. “They have been swimming in there a whole fortnight.”
The look on Ali’s face was almost enough to make the whole evening worth it. He choked on his tamarind juice. “Swimming … they’re still alive?”
“But of course.” The Sahrayn chef gave him a puzzled look. “The thrashing makes the meat sweeter.”
Muntadhir finally smiled. “Sahrayn eels. Now that is an honor, brother.” He took a sip of his wine. “I believe the first bite belongs to you.”
The chef beamed again, looking ready to burst with pride. “Shall I, my prince?”
Ali looked ill but motioned for him to continue.
The chef plunged a glittering brass trident into the vat, provoking a metallic shriek that drew startled yelps from the audience. The eel was still squirming as he quickly spun it into a nest and then placed it gingerly on a brightly patterned tile. He presented it to Ali with a flourish.
Muntadhir was watching with open delight on his face, and Nahri had to admit that in this, she and her husband were united.
Ali took the tile and choked down a bite of eel, swallowing hard before he spoke. “It’s … it’s very good,” he said weakly. “It certainly tastes like it did a lot of thrashing.”
There were tears in the chef’s eyes. “I will carry your compliments to my grave,” he wept.
The next two competitors did not offer quite the same level of presentation, though the diners looked considerably more pleased by the skewers of minced rukh kebab—Nahri could only imagine how someone had caught one of those—grilled with golden Tukharistani apples, studded with whole spices, and served while still aflame.
They were removing the largest platter of kabsa Nahri had ever seen, a shrewd move made by the Geziri chef who probably suspected a prince living in the countryside might long for comfort food after some of the competition’s more “creative” dishes, when Ghassan frowned.
“Strange,” he said. “I did not see the competitor from Agni—”
A simurgh soared into the garden with a shriek.
The glittering firebird—twice the size of a camel—swept over the crowd, its smoking wings setting an apricot tree aflame. By the time it fluttered to the ground, half the men had reached for their weapons.
“Hah! It worked!” A grinning Agnivanshi man with a singed mustache joined them. “Peace be upon you, my king and princes! How do you like my creation?”
Nahri watched hands slowly move away from dagger hilts. And then she clapped in delight when she realized what the man meant. The simurgh wasn’t a simurgh, not really. It was a composite, constructed from what appeared to be a dizzying array of sweets in every color of creation.
The chef looked inordinately proud of himself. “A little different, I know … but what is the purpose of Navasatem if not to celebrate the sweetness of relief from Suleiman’s servitude?”
Even the king looked dazzled. “I’ll grant you points for creativity,” Ghassan offered. He glanced at Ali. “What say you?”
Ali had risen to his feet to better examine the simurgh. “A stunning enchantment,” he confessed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“You’ve never tasted anything like this either,” the chef said smoothly. He tapped the simurgh’s glass eye and it fell neatly into his hands, a waiting platter. He made a swift selection and then bowed as it was passed toward the prince.
Ali smiled, biting into crumbly pastry covered in silver foil. Appreciation lit his face. “That is delicious,” he admitted.
The Agnivanshi chef shot a triumphant look at his competitors as Ali took a sip from his goblet and then tried another sweet. But this time, he frowned, reaching for his throat. He hooked his fingers around the collar of his dishdasha, tugging at the stiff fabric.
“You’ll excuse me,” he said. “I think I just …” He reached for his cup and then stumbled, knocking it over.
Ghassan straightened up, a look Nahri had never seen in his eyes. “Alizayd?”
Coughing, Ali didn’t answer. His other hand went to his throat, and as the confusion in his expression turned to panic, his eyes met Nahri’s again through the tent panel.
There was no anger there, no accusation. Just pained regret that sent a wave of cold dread through her before Ali even fell to his knees.
He gasped, and with the sound, Nahri was back on the boat, back in that horrible night five years ago. Dara had gasped like that, a hushed sound of true fear—an emotion she hadn’t thought her Afshin could feel—as he fell to his knees. His beautiful eyes had met hers and then he’d gasped, his body crumbling into dust as she screamed.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Hatset fly to her feet. “Alizayd!”
And then it was chaos.
Ali collapsed, choking and clawing at his throat. Hatset burst through the tent, propriety abandoned as she raced to her son’s side. Zaynab screamed, but before she could lunge forward, a pair of female guards descended, nearly knocking Nahri aside in their effort to pull the princess to safety. The Royal Guard was doing the same on the men’s side, soldiers hustling a stunned Muntadhir back. The Qaid drew his zulfiqar and then actually grabbed Ghassan, locking him in a tight, protective grip.
No one stopped Hatset. Well, one of the guards tried, and she smashed the heavy goblet she was holding into his face, then dropped at Ali’s side, shouting his name.
Nahri didn’t move. She could see Dara’s tear-streaked face before hers. “Come with me. We’ll leave, travel the world.”
His ashes on her hands. His ashes on the wet robe of his killer.
Everything seemed to go very still; the screams of the crowd faded, the thud of running feet fell away. A man was dying before her. It was a scene she knew well from the infirmary, one of desperate family members and scrambling aides. Nahri had learned not to hesitate, learned to shut her emotions off. She was a healer, a Nahid. The doctor she always wanted to be.
And in her dreams—her foolish dreams of being an apprentice to the great physicians in Istanbul, of taking her place in one of Cairo’s famed hospitals—in those dreams, she was not the kind of doctor to sit and watch a man die.
She jumped to her feet.
She was halfway to Ali, close enough to see the shimmering silver vapors escaping the gashes he’d clawed in his skin, when Suleiman’s seal crashed down upon her.
Nahri swooned, fighting for air herself, weak and bewildered by the sudden clash of incomprehensible languages. She spotted the seal glowing on Ghassan’s face and then Hatset whirled on her, brandishing the goblet. Nahri froze.
Ali started screaming.
Blood blossomed from his mouth, from his throat and neck, silver shards emerging from his skin in bloody bursts. The silver vapors, Nahri realized. They’d turned to solid metal the instant Ghassan called upon the seal; their misty form must have been magical.
Ghassan had just killed his son trying to save him.
Nahri ran. “Lift the seal!” she shouted. “You’re killing him!” Ali was seizing as he clutched his shredded throat. She dropped beside Hatset, snatching up one of the silver shards and holding it before the terrified queen. “Look for yourself! Did you not just see this change?”
Hatset glanced wildly between the shard and her dying son. She turned on Ghassan. “Lift it!”
The seal was gone in an instant, Nahri’s powers surging back through her. “Help me turn him over!” she shouted as Ali’s companions rushed to join them. She thrust a finger down his throat until he gagged and then pounded his back, black blood mingling with the silver gushing from his mouth. “Get me a board! I need to get him to the infirmary immediate—”
A blade whipped past her face.
Nahri jerked back, but it hadn’t been meant for her. There was a heavy thump and then a muffled scream as the servant who’d served Ali’s juice fell dead at the garden’s entrance, the khanjar belonging to Ali’s female companion buried in his back.
She didn’t have long to dwell on it. Ali’s eyes snapped open as they laid him on a stretched portion of cloth.
They were as black as oil. As black as they’d been when the marid took him.
Hatset clamped a hand over them, a little too fast. “The infirmary,” she agreed in a shaky voice.