Bewildered, Nahri followed Hatset as she strode off, heading for a small corridor tucked behind a large library—the library Ali had mentioned. Nahri longed to peek inside but settled for a glimpse of bookshelves soaring to a distant ceiling and beautiful windows of vibrantly colored glass.
Hatset nodded to the Ayaanle woman she’d seen in soldier’s dress earlier and exchanged a few words of Ntaran before the guard opened the door, revealing a cozy room filled with candles. A small, elderly man was wrapped in blankets and sitting before a steaming bowl. He looked up as they arrived, his green eyes exhausted.
Nahri gasped. “Ustadh Issa.”
NAHRI WAS AT ISSA’S SIDE THE NEXT MOMENT, HER healer’s instincts kicking in. He looked terribly frail, his brilliant green eyes dim and the glimmer gone from his smoky black skin. She had had no idea how the freed slaves might have reacted once magic was stripped—their bodies were conjurements themselves, and truthfully, Nahri had been almost too frightened to contemplate the consequences.
But it seemed the Creator had granted her this one mercy. She took Issa’s hand; it felt too light. “Are you all right?” she asked hurriedly.
He let out a hacking cough. “No,” he wheezed. “I hate traveling.” His bleary gaze focused on her. “Oh! But you are not dead. That is very good.”
“I like it,” Nahri replied, helping him sit up. “How did you get out of Daevabad?”
“The Afshin aided me. Razu made some sort of deal with him, appealing to his fellowship as a former slave.”
Nahri opened and closed her mouth. Dara had helped Issa escape? Had he acted without Manizheh’s knowing?
She shut down the thought before it dared spark even an ember of hope. No, Nahri was not going to lose herself in the madness of wondering if there was still goodness in Dara.
Hatset spoke. “I’ve kept Issa’s identity a secret thus far; people think he’s a cousin. I wanted to let him recover. And then with your and Alizayd’s arrival, I wanted to be careful in deciding what information should come out.”
Nahri’s heart dropped. “Is it worse? The vapor, the rest of the Geziris—”
“They survived,” Hatset assured Nahri quickly, although her tone indicated she was anything but comforted herself. “Zaynab escaped the palace, thank God, and was able to warn the Geziri Quarter in time for people to get rid of their relics. She and Ali’s warrior woman are safe for now, as safe as they can be. Issa says the shafit and Geziri neighborhoods have effectively barricaded themselves off, along with the other tribal districts.”
Barricaded themselves off? “Wait, do you mean Manizheh doesn’t control the city?”
Ustadh Issa let out a mournful sound. “No one controls anything. It’s chaos. Anarchy.” He raised a trembling finger. “Such civil strife is the greatest danger to society!”
Nahri straightened up like a shot. “Ali needs to hear this.”
“There’s one more thing.” Hatset met Nahri’s gaze. “Issa says Muntadhir is still alive.”
Worries over Daevabad’s security situation fled Nahri’s mind. “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “He was struck with the zulfiqar. I saw its poison spreading with my own eyes.” She whirled on Issa. “How do you know this? Have you seen him?”
The scholar shook his head. “No, but others have. Banu Manizheh sent a note to the princess saying she’d kill him if Zaynab didn’t surrender.”
Nahri was buzzing with new information. Daevabad hadn’t yet entirely fallen—though she wasn’t sure being on the brink of a civil war was much better. Muntadhir was possibly still alive, a prisoner in the palace.
And yet even as a bit of relief flooded through her, so did a strange foreboding, like waking from a dream into the harsh reality of day. So quickly all Nahri’s chains were coming back. Another foreign city and deadly political court. Jamshid, the brother Nahri needed to protect, a weakness that others could use against her.
And now the husband she’d never wanted, a good man whose honorable death she’d truly mourned, might still be alive. It all fell heavily on her shoulders, a mantle of yet more responsibility.
Nahri took a deep breath, trying to focus. “I need to tell Ali and Jamshid.” She couldn’t believe Hatset hadn’t done so already.
Hatset laid a hand on her wrist. “That’s not a good idea.”
“And why in God’s name is it not—”
The queen was already pulling her out of the room. “Excuse us, Ustadh,” she said to Issa, before shutting the door and leaving herself and Nahri alone in the narrow corridor. “Banu Nahri, you know my son. How do you think Alizayd will react when he learns Muntadhir is alive and being held prisoner by Manizheh? When he learns his sister is struggling to stay out of her clutches and the city is in open civil war?”
He’s going to go summon a marid and beg it to drop him off in Daevabad’s lake. But Nahri shook her arm free. “He’s not as rash as he once was. And this is good news! If Manizheh’s control of the city is weak, we might actually stand a chance of taking it back!”
The queen shook her head. “Neither of you should be thinking about Daevabad yet, let alone the ludicrous prospect of warring with Manizheh and her Afshin. Our world is in chaos, not just a single city, and people want nothing more than to get their magic back—the magic Manizheh is promising to return to whoever hands you and Ali over to her. The two of you need to stay in Shefala, long enough to establish an independent court with its own army. A court attractive and stable enough that the other tribes will want to ally with the two of you, not submit in fear to her.”
Under different circumstances, Nahri would have seen the pragmatism in Hatset’s suggestion.
But these weren’t those circumstances. “We don’t have that kind of time, Hatset. I wish we did. But I know how badly my mother wants Suleiman’s seal. The moment she finds out we’re here, she’s going
