A group of djinn had gathered, whispering and pointing with obvious disquiet. They parted for Nahri, and she drew closer. The seal ring on her finger had been buzzing since she’d left the castle, and it grew painfully cold now.
A warning. Nahri studied the simurgh’s eyes again, the bright teal blank and feverish. There was no spark, no movement, nothing indicating life within the creatures, and as Nahri stretched out a hand, trying to detect the beat of their hearts without having to touch them, her unease grew. There was a pulse, but barely, and not one that made her think of life.
“And you said someone was riding one?” she asked.
Musa nodded. “A Daeva man. He called himself Manizheh’s envoy and asked after your brother.”
An utter sense of wrongness swept her. “There’s magic controlling these creatures, but not like anything I know.”
“Maybe the Afshin did it? He still has his abilities, no?”
Nahri studied the firebirds, recalling the smoky beasts Dara had conjured back in the palace. They’d been terrifying, but wild, lashing out in a typhoon of destruction—alive in a way these pitiful decaying creatures weren’t.
“I don’t think this was Dara.” Then her heart skipped. Two simurgh. One for the rider.
And one for whomever he’d come to fetch.
JAMSHID WAS WAITING IN A SCREENED BALCONY THAT overlooked the majlis, his silhouette visible against a field of carved diamonds, their tiny bursts of light like stars in the sky. He glanced back as Nahri approached, and she started at his appearance. God only knew where the Ayaanle had gotten Daeva clothes befitting … well, a Baga Nahid, but her brother had been dressed to impress in a blue and white linen robe patterned with leaping deer and a gold diadem crowning his wavy black hair. He was clean-shaven save for his mustache, and an ash mark split his brow.
All in all, he looked very regal, and Nahri realized he’d started carrying himself differently as well. Jamshid wasn’t the quiet Daeva courtier who’d had to keep his head down lest he attract the wrath of the wrong djinn. He was the last Baga Nahid, a warrior, scholar, and healer-in-training.
Nahri nodded at the diadem, the gold stamped with a snarling shedu. “That was definitely stolen from our family during the conquest.”
“A nice reminder, isn’t it?” Jamshid jerked a thumb at the screen. “I know our visitor. He’s Saman Pashanur, one of my father’s closest friends. A large landowner with priestly roots.”
“A trusted friend?”
Jamshid nodded. “Growing up, I heard him make plenty of treasonous remarks about the Qahtanis when he’d had too much wine.”
Treasonous enough that he’d now be Manizheh’s envoy? Peering through the screen, Nahri studied their new arrival. Saman was dressed in a traveling robe with a dusty scarf still draped over his cap. He was standing up and looked rather defiant, considering he was surrounded by armed djinn. Hatset sat on a low, cushioned divan on the platform above him.
“And he’s looking for you?” Nahri asked.
“That’s what he says. I get the impression he doesn’t know you’re here.” Jamshid nodded at a black chest at the envoy’s feet. “He claims he has a message but won’t say anything else until he sees me.”
“A message in a box. That sounds promising.” Nahri glanced at her brother, his expression difficult to read in the dim light. “He’s going to want to know if you’re a prisoner.”
“Well, then we’ll have that in common. You’ll stay here?”
“For now.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring nod, and he left.
But a pang of loneliness struck her the moment he was gone. Ali should have been here, frowning the way he did when trying to puzzle things out and undoubtedly finding a way to make being trapped together in a small, dark chamber more awkward.
A mix of grief and helplessness surged through her—God, but Nahri hated this awful not knowing. Had Tiamat taken him already and killed him? Or was Ali even now being tortured for having given away Suleiman’s ring?
Don’t do this. Not now. Nahri leaned against the screen, pressing her fingers into the cutouts, hoping touching something solid might ground her.
There was visible relief in the Daeva envoy’s eyes when Jamshid entered the room. “Jamshid,” Saman greeted him. “Thank the Creator. I was starting to get worried.”
Hatset cut in. “So familiar with your Baga Nahid,” she said archly. “Don’t your people remove tongues for that?”
Saman stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jamshid drew nearer, and then in a bold move that made Nahri smile, her brother took a stool, set it next to the queen, and sat.
“We can speak honestly,” he began. “I know who I am, Saman, and if Manizheh sent you after me, I suspect you do as well. I wish my father had been honest with me so that I didn’t have to learn the truth from strangers in a foreign land.”
Saman lowered his gaze. “Apologies, my lord. For what it’s worth, I did not know until recently.” He glanced up again, genuine concern in his eyes. “Are you well, Baga Nahid? Have they hurt you?”
Jamshid inclined his head, gesturing to the room of armed soldiers. “I’ve been better, but I’m unharmed. How is the city? My father? My … mother?”
Saman brought his hands up in blessing. “It would be best if we spoke of those things in private.”
“Which is not going to happen,” Hatset pointed out. “Come. You’ve seen him, so now we shall have some answers. Why has Manizheh sent you?”
“Because she received your threat regarding her son,” Saman replied. “It came at a poor time—she’d been trying to make peace with the djinn, only to be betrayed once again. Baga Jamshid,” he said more softly, “I am very sorry to inform you that your father is dead.”
Jamshid rocked back on his stool. “What? How?”
“He was killed during a peace summit the Banu Nahida had graciously organized. Unknown to us, Emir Muntadhir had been poisoning the Daeva houses against her, offering all manner of riches. It
