Dara was not going to last another minute with Muntadhir al Qahtani.
For an actively dying man, the emir was running his mouth at remarkable speed, gasping out an unending stream of barbs obviously calculated to goad Dara into killing him.
“And our wedding night,” Muntadhir continued. “Well … nights. I mean, they all started to blend together after—”
Dara abruptly pressed his knife to the other man’s throat. It was the tenth time he’d done so. “If you do not stop talking,” he hissed. “I’m going to start cutting pieces off of you.”
Muntadhir blinked, his eyes a dark shadow against his wan face. He’d paled to the color of parchment, ash crumbling on his skin, and the green-black lines of the zulfiqar poisoning—creeping, curling marks—had spread to his throat. He opened his mouth and then winced, falling back against the carpet Dara had enchanted to speed them to Manizheh, a flash of pain in his eyes perhaps stealing whatever obnoxious response he had planned.
No matter—Dara’s attention had been captured by a far stranger sight: water was gushing through the corridor they flew down, the unnatural stream growing deeper and wilder the closer they came to the library. He’d raced to the infirmary only to be told that a panicked, rambling Kaveh e-Pramukh had intercepted Manizheh and sent her here.
They soared through the doors, and Dara blinked in alarm. Water was pouring through a jagged hole near the ceiling, crashing against the now flooded library floor. Broken furniture and smoldering books—not to mention the bodies of at least a dozen djinn—lay scattered. Manizheh was nowhere to be seen, but he spotted across the room a knot of the warriors who’d been accompanying her.
Dara was there in seconds, landing the rug as gently as possible on an island of debris and splashing into the water. “Where is the Banu—”
He didn’t get to finish the question.
A tremor tore through the palace, the ground beneath him shaking so violently he stumbled. The entire library shuddered, piles of debris collapsing and several of the massive shelves breaking free of the walls.
“Watch out!” Dara cried as a cascade of books and scrolls rained down upon them. Another tremor followed, and a crack ripped across the opposite wall with such force that the floor split.
The quake was over in seconds, an eerie hush hanging over them. The water drained away, surging toward the rent in the floor like an animal fleeing. And then … as though someone had blown out a lamp he couldn’t see, Dara felt a shift in the air.
With a bone-jarring popping sound, the globes of conjured fire that floated near the ceiling abruptly went out, crashing to the ground. The fluttering black al Qahtani banners grew still, and the door ahead of him flew open. All the doors did, whatever locking enchantments had been set seemingly broken.
A chill went down his spine at the silence, at the odd, empty coldness that had stolen through the room. Dara conjured a handful of flames, the firelight dancing along the scorched and water-stained walls. Ahead, his men appeared to be struggling to do the same, gesturing wildly at the dark.
“Can you conjure flames?” he heard one ask.
“I can’t conjure anything!”
A far more shocked cry caught his ear. Dara whirled around. Muntadhir had staggered to his feet, swaying as he held out his arms to gape at his body.
In the dim light of the ruined library, the deadly dark lines of the magical poison that marked the emir’s skin were retreating.
Dara’s mouth fell open as he watched the utterly impossible sight before him. Like a spider curling in on itself, the poison was leaching away, creeping back from Muntadhir’s shoulders and down past his chest. Muntadhir ripped away the cloth binding his stomach just in time to reveal the dark green hue lifting from the wound altogether. And then—with the barest hint of smoke—it vanished entirely.
The emir dropped to his knees with a choked sob. He touched his bloody stomach, weeping with relief.
Dread rose in Dara’s heart. Something had just gone very wrong. “Bind that man!” he managed to snap at his soldiers. Dara didn’t need any more surprises when it came to Muntadhir and weapons. “Now. And where is the Banu Nahida?”
One of his men raised a finger toward a darkened set of stairs. “I’m sorry, Afshin,” he said, his arm trembling wildly. “She ordered us away when we found Banu Nahri.”
Nahri. Muntadhir instantly forgotten, Dara raced through the door and then ducked as the remains of an enchanted pulley system came crashing down around him. Heedless of the destruction, he took the steps two at a time, arriving at another door.
“Banu Nahida!” he called loudly. When there was no response, he kicked the door in.
Manizheh stood alone and very still, her back to him, among a tangle of bodies. Fear clawed up in his throat as Dara forced himself to examine their faces. No, Creator, no. I beg you.
But Nahri wasn’t among the dead. Instead, they were his own men. They’d been slaughtered, still-smoldering slashes rending their bodies.
A zulfiqar. Alizayd. Dara knew it in his bones. And it was entirely his fault. He should have killed the prince the second he had him, instead of letting Vizaresh delay him with fantasies of vengeance.
Mardoniye. His warriors on the beach. Now these three. Dara clenched his fists, fighting the heat aching to burst free. This had all gone so wrong—and not just because of the ifrit.
It had gone wrong because in his heart, Dara had known this invasion was a mistake. It was too rushed and too brutal. They’d allied with creatures he didn’t trust and used magic he didn’t understand. And he had gone along, had bowed his head in submission to a Nahid again and dismissed the disquiet in his soul. Now it had blown up in his face.
It wasn’t even the first time. His own history had taught him nothing.
Manizheh had yet to move. She just stood there, staring at the dark lake. “Banu Manizheh?” he spoke again.
“It’s gone.” Her voice was an uncharacteristic whisper. “They’re gone. She gave the seal to that sand fly.”
Dara staggered back. “What? You can’t mean …”
“I mean exactly as I say.” There was an edge in Manizheh’s voice. “I should have known better,” she murmured. “I should have known not to trust her. She deceived me, mocked me, and then gave Suleiman’s seal—our ancestors’ seal—back to the people who stole it.”
Dara’s gaze fell again on the murdered men and for the first time, he felt a sting of true betrayal. How could Nahri have given something so powerful, so precious, to a man she’d watched slaughter her own people?
He swallowed, pushing his roiling emotions down. “Where are they?” he asked, trying to check the tremor in his voice. “Banu Nahida, where are they?” he pressed when she didn’t answer.
She raised a trembling hand, gesturing to the dark water. “They jumped.”
“They did what?” Dara was at the parapet in seconds. He saw nothing but the black water below.
“They jumped.” Manizheh’s voice was bitter. “I tried to reason with her, but that djinn had his claws in her mind.”
Dara fell to his knees. He clutched the stone, and a stir of movement caught his eye, small swells and eddies glimmering on the dark lake.
He let out his breath. “The water is moving,” he whispered. Dara leaned out farther, examining the distance. Surely, a Nahid healer could survive that fall. If she’d jumped clear of the rocks, if she landed the right way …
Hope and grief warred in his chest. Creator, please … let her be alive. Dara didn’t care if she greeted him with a dagger to his heart; after tonight, part of him would welcome it. But this couldn’t be how Nahri’s story ended.
He rose unsteadily to his feet. “I am going to find her.”
Manizheh grabbed his wrist. “Stop.”
The flat word, uttered as one might issue a command to some sort of animal, broke the fragile grip he had on his emotions.
“I have done everything you asked!” he choked out, wrenching free of her grip. “I have been your Afshin. I have killed your enemies and bloodied our home. You can grant me a few moments to find out whether she still lives.”
Manizheh’s eyes lit in outrage, but her voice remained cool. “Nahri isn’t what’s important right now, Darayavahoush.” She abruptly pointed up. “That is.”
Dara glanced up.
The sky above the palace was shattering.
It looked like a smoky glass dome cracking, the inky midnight peeling away to reveal the warmer hues of dawn, the glow of a desert sky instead of the murky fog that lurked, ever present, above Daevabad. It was spreading, rippling out across the horizon. And as his gaze followed the falling sky, he noticed rooftop fires were winking out across the city. A camp of travelers’ tents, magical creations of silk and smoke, collapsed, as did two conjured marble towers.
Dara was utterly bewildered. “What is going on?” He glanced at Manizheh, but she wasn’t looking at him. As Dara watched, she drew her sword, pricking her thumb on the blade. A well of black blood blossomed. And then another.
The color left her face. “My magic … it’s gone.”
Coldness swept him as he watched more fires blink out. The stillness that had fallen over the library, the poison that had drained from the emir …
“I do not think it is your magic alone,” he whispered. “I think it is all of Daevabad’s.”