Ali had apparently survived his submission to Tiamat.
But Fiza’s breathless tale of flitting through rivers and streams, over vast oceans and underneath icy lakes in the blink of an eye to gather djinn from around the world, had not changed the ultimatum Manizheh’s envoy had made: in three days, the Qahtani siblings would be executed if Jamshid was not returned to her.
Which meant he had three days to find Ali and his mysterious army and get them back to Daevabad before Nahri faced their enemy alone. It had been more than a gamble, it had been a fleeting shot in the dark, a prayer.
Nahri supposed then it wasn’t always bad to have a little faith.
Yet her relief was edged with dread now. Because no matter Fiza’s rushed words, this … this fleet of drowned ships was not what Nahri had expected. Sobek had made damn clear how he felt about mortals, and the marid did nothing for free; there was always a price.
What price had Ali paid for all this?
Then make it worth it. Because Nahri could see opportunity in the awe-inspiring sight below them. Maybe this didn’t have to end in bloodshed.
She turned to face her mother. Manizheh’s mask was back in place as she assessed the vast array of resurrected warships like it was a group of children armed with sticks, paddling canoes.
“You’ve already gotten your victory, Mother,” Nahri said. “Ghassan is dead, and our people are free of Qahtani rule. So stand down. We’re not here to quibble over the throne or the past. We’re here, all of us,” she emphasized, pointing to the tribal sigils, “united to save the one home we share. Jamshid and I—we’ll take it from here. You know we’ll look out for the Daevas. Let us. Stand down.”
“Please, Mother,” Jamshid said softly, the familiar word falling from his lips too as he reached out to touch Manizheh’s hand. “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want peace and for the fighting to stop. Surrender, I beg you.”
Manizheh didn’t look even slightly swayed. Instead she shot a look at Nahri. “You’re the one who keeps harping on what Dara did to your djinn and shafit neighborhoods … surely you must realize all you’ve done is deliver everyone on those ships to their deaths? With but a few words, I can command him to annihilate your prince and his army.”
Oh. No, Nahri hadn’t quite realized that fact as immediately, not seeing the potential for mass murder as readily as her mother.
She thought fast. “I’m guessing that kind of devastation isn’t too precise?”
Jamshid interrupted. “There doesn’t need to be any devastation!”
Oh, big brother, you keep trying to love people who don’t deserve you. And Nahri would know, because as Manizheh opened her mouth to give Dara his next command, and Mishmish flew by, Nahri was already moving to use Jamshid yet again.
“Stay with the ships,” she hissed. “She won’t risk you.”
His eyes went wide. “Wait, what are you—”
“You’re the better rider.” Nahri shoved him off the wall.
Manizheh cried out, reaching for her son, but Jamshid had already landed on Mishmish’s back. He swore, giving Nahri a look that promised the worst of sibling retribution, but then rolled, grabbing Mishmish’s mane and soaring for the lake.
Manizheh didn’t waste any time. “Get him back, Dara. Now!”
The Afshin was gone the next moment, on a conjured winged horse of smoke.
There was murder in Manizheh’s eyes when she whirled on her daughter. Well, that was how it felt when someone called out your weaknesses. And it had been clear since the moment he landed in the garden that Jamshid occupied a far dearer spot in their mother’s heart than Nahri. Her firstborn, her son. The child she shared with the man she had loved and lost.
No, there would be no orders to annihilate Ali’s army while Jamshid was among them.
Nahri tried to pull on that tie again. “You’re outnumbered, Manizheh. Don’t make Jamshid watch you die. He’s been through enough. Surrender.”
“I’m not worried about him watching me die.” Manizheh glanced back at the fog again, as though hoping to see her son, and then beckoned to the Daeva scout who’d had the bad luck to get dragged up along with them and had been cowering since delivering his news. “You—come forward and lend me your knife.”
Trembling, the scout nonetheless complied, drawing near and handing Manizheh his knife. “Of course, my lady.”
“What is your name?”
“Yexi.”
“Yexi.” Manizheh smiled. “Thank you.”
She slit his throat.
Nahri cried out, rushing forward, but Manizheh had already shoved the blade deep, killing the scout before Nahri could get close enough to lay her hands on him. She grabbed her mother’s shoulder.
Manizheh spun out and slashed Nahri across the cheek.
It was not a mortal wound. Indeed, Nahri had no sooner fallen back in shock than it was already healing, the sting fading. But though they were facing each other as enemies, though they’d just threatened each other plenty, there was something about actually being cut—intentionally hurt, by her own mother—that sent Nahri reeling. She touched her cheek, her fingers coming away bloody.
There was a trace of regret in Manizheh’s eyes. “I truly did want things to be different between us.” She was still holding the knife, now wet with Nahri’s blood. More poured from the murdered scout, his lifeblood steaming and boiling as a column of sick haze rose from his body like a flare.
From the sky, two crashes of thunder returned it.
Nahri was backing away before the lightning even flashed, leaving two figures against the bright explosion.
This time it was the ifrit.
AESHMA GRINNED, LICKING HIS FANGS AS HE STROLLED
