Perhaps Dara should have taken solace in their existence, proof that his Daevas had survived worse. But he didn’t. Instead, he now wondered at the cost, at the compromises that had been made to ensure the quiet power of the people who lived here.
A crack drew his attention, the noise not entirely dissimilar to the horse’s clopping hooves, but enough to make him frown. There was a muffled cry from the carriage ahead.
Dara jerked up. That sounded like Kaveh. “Stop the horses!” he ordered. “Tell the men—”
A sharp pinch in his leg, like the bite of a particularly nasty bug. Bewildered, Dara glanced down to see some sort of small glass and metal tube sticking out of his thigh. It looked like a tool that might have been found in the infirmary, and Dara was so utterly baffled he only noticed a half second too late that it was filled with a dark liquid that sparkled with metal fragments.
And that Tamer’s brother—the useless one whose name Dara hadn’t bothered trying to recall—was holding it, pressing down on a plunger before Dara could stop him.
Dara ripped the instrument from his leg, grabbed the boy, and broke his neck before the others could even cry out. He shot to his feet, fire burning down his skin as he let his magic consume him.
And then it stopped. Dara collapsed as the carriage crashed to a halt, his leg giving out.
“Tur!” Tamer wailed, reaching for his brother. “No!”
Pain scorched through Dara’s thigh, coming in waves from the spot where the boy had injected him. He was aware of screams coming from the other carriages, of Gushtap shouting his name before being cut off, but Dara couldn’t focus. Silver stars were blossoming before his eyes, a horrible, paralyzing burn creeping through his body. He spasmed, writhing on the floor and trying to get his hand to obey him. The knife at his waist—if he could just …
A sandaled foot stomped hard on his wrist, and then Muntadhir was leaning over him, the emir’s ruthless expression coming in broken pieces as he ripped the knife from Dara’s hand. Distantly he heard another clap, a flash of light coming against the dark interior.
And then a white-hot burst of pain as Muntadhir plunged the knife into Dara’s stomach.
“You were right, Lady ta Buzo,” Muntadhir said, his voice flat. “I would never work with the people who killed my father.” From the corner of his eye, Dara watched Muntadhir flick open the teak chest. “I thank you for these,” he added, running a hand over the weapons. “I’m glad to know we can still rely on the Ayaanle.”
Amani bowed. “But of course, my emir.” All traces of their enmity—of the stupid act Dara had fallen for—were gone. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Afshin!”
Kaveh. But Dara couldn’t respond. He was frozen; whatever poison he’d been injected with made it feel as though he were watching all this from the prison of his own eyes.
“No, my lady,” Muntadhir replied. “One of my men will take you back to your quarter. You should hurry.”
Amani was gone the next moment, vanishing out the carriage. The wind snatched the door, pulling it wide open. Frozen rain pattered on Dara’s face.
“Afshin!”
Dara managed to shift his head enough to see Kaveh. The grand wazir was surrounded by the other Daeva nobles. He looked terrified, his hands outstretched as if to ward them off. Gushtap was dead, his throat opened on the muddy street.
Muntadhir shoved the trunk of weapons out of the carriage. Dara heard it smash on the street, a cheer going up from the men.
He reached frantically for his magic, for his body, for anything, but the iron coursing through his blood had left him immobilized. Racked with pain, his body and mind disjointed, Dara could only witness the mob of noblemen fighting for weapons, Kaveh being dragged, bellowing in rage. And then other sounds. Awful, guttural rips and howls.
“Jamshid,” Dara croaked. “His father. Don’t—don’t …” Don’t let him die like this.
Muntadhir whirled on him, but the emotion on the emir’s face wasn’t the cruel vengeance Dara expected, but lost, dazed grief. The look of a man who’d been broken more thoroughly than Dara had realized and could no longer hide it.
“Jamshid is dead,” Muntadhir whispered. “Ali is dead. Nahri is dead. We are all of us dead, because of you.” He raised the short sword in his hands, leveling the point at Dara’s heart.
There was a crack of thunder … and the entire carriage blew apart.
Dara saw flashing light, fire, and then hit the ground hard and saw nothing at all.
28
NAHRI
Nahri shoved the book in front of her aside. “Useless. This might as well be in Geziriyya.”
Jamshid grabbed the text before it went tumbling to the ground. “Careful! That’s two-thousand-year-old family history you’re tossing around.”
“It’s two-thousand-year-old scribble to me.” Nahri rubbed her temples, her head beginning to pound. “Every time I think I’m getting better at this …”
“You are getting better,” Jamshid assured her. “By the Creator, Nahri, give yourself more than a couple of days to learn how to read an ancient dialect of Divasti known only to scholars.”
“And former Temple acolytes,” she grumbled. “You certainly don’t seem to be having any problems.”
“Queen Hatset did say she could put a call out for linguists.”
“The only thing Hatset wants to find in these books is a way to magically compel Ali to stay in Ta Ntry forever. And I wouldn’t trust Nahid secrets to any djinn she hires. No, this is on you and me alone.”
“So me alone.”
“You know, you’ve gotten very rude now that you know you’re fallen royalty.” Nahri lay back on her cushion to admire the carved coral ceiling above her. It was stunning, a masterpiece of geometry and art that spread out in intricate diamonds and whorls. Everything in Shefala’s library was similarly beautiful.
