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, turning 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.