“We won.” Jamshid moved closer, bringing a cup to her lips. “Drink. You sound like a drunk frog.”
Nahri scowled. “I didn’t give you magic back so you could mock me.” She took a sip of the water. “Speaking of water, the marid …”
“Are satisfied,” Alizayd said. “Very satisfied. They’re celebrating in the lake as we speak—or at least I think they’re celebrating. They’re a very weird lot.” His voice softened. “You did it, Nahri. You saved the city.”
Dara watched their gazes meet, the prince’s strange eyes glowing. An expression Dara couldn’t read flickered on Nahri’s face, gone the next minute, replaced by a small, sad smile. “And you came back,” she said.
There was something so fragile and raw in her voice that Dara stepped forward, uncaring about the many hostile glances immediately aimed his way.
“You should be resting,” he announced. “All this talking, it will tax you.” Suddenly aware he’d made himself known only to tell Nahri what to do yet again, Dara flushed. “I mean, if you want to rest. It is, of course, your choice,” he added quickly, bringing his fingertips together in respect.
Ah, well, now everyone was simply staring at him like he was a fool.
But then the corner of Nahri’s mouth lifted, quirking in what might have been a sarcastic smile and sending his heart tumbling end over end. “I am glad for your change in disposition,” she said drily. She sat up, wincing and then glancing askance at her cup as the water in it abruptly boiled. “It’s going to take some time to get used to this magic.”
“It suits you,” Dara said softly. “The magic. The seal. All of it.”
Nahri met his gaze again, this time looking more uncertain. “Thanks.”
Better uncertain than recoiling. But now that she was awake, the awful things he’d said to her came back. “You do not need to thank me. I should be at your feet for what happened on the roof. For the lies and shooting you—”
Alizayd whirled on him, and the temperature in the room dropped, a clammy chill sweeping the air. “You shot her?”
“Wasn’t more than a scratch,” Nahri lied, putting her hand on the prince’s wrist. “I heal quickly. And it worked, Dara. That’s all that matters.”
But the damage had been done, the room so tense Dara felt even more violently out of place. He realized the others were already settling in—Fiza and Elashia adjusting Nahri’s cushions, Subha taking her pulse, and Jamshid holding her simmering cup. Against the crush of blankets, Nahri was still holding Alizayd’s wrist.
She belongs to them. And they to her. Dara bowed his head, feeling the weight of his choices and his centuries settle heavily over his shoulders. “I will not burden you further. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
He stepped toward the door.
“Dara?”
He glanced back.
Nahri still looked guarded, but her voice was firm when she spoke. “I was glad to have saved your life. I’m glad that you chose to stay in this world.”
He brought his hands up in blessing again, taking refuge in protocol as he bowed low. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahida.”
Razu left with him, pulling the door closed behind them. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I do not need a guide,” Dara grumbled, fighting heartache. “I know this city better than all of you.”
“Glad to see your spirit has remained intact, but think of this more as ‘let’s make sure he actually leaves.’ Come.”
He scowled but followed her down the darkened corridor. “Will she be okay here?”
“Of course.” Razu sounded surprised by the question. “This is her hospital; people loved her here before she rescued the city from Manizheh and restored their magic.”
The image of the packed room came to his mind again. “I did not realize the roots she’d put down in Daevabad. The family she created.” It was the best word he knew to describe the crush of bickering, worried people who’d been hovering over Nahri. Daevas and djinn and shafit. From all the tribes. From different faiths.
Dara hadn’t realized something like that was possible.
“Well, she is charming.” Razu sounded wistful. “God, in another life, she and I could’ve cleaned out half the gambling halls in old Arshi.”
“And in what century did Arshi fall?”
“The Creator only knows.” Razu shrugged. “I try not to think about the passage of time. I’d go mad if I thought about my old life too often.”
“Tell me about it,” Dara muttered. “Still, you have a place here. A purpose. A life you have made and enjoy.”
“Do you not think you can do the same?”
“I have not missed that you are taking me the long way out the back.”
Razu’s expression dimmed. “I thought it best we avoid running into, well, anyone. I believe you were under Manizheh’s control when you attacked the quarters, but many don’t. They believe it too convenient. They’re angry and grieving and want to see someone punished.”
Of course they do. It had been fourteen centuries since Qui-zi, and still he’d been known as the Scourge. How many centuries would this newest horror take to atone for?
“I should not have come to the hospital,” Dara said, the realization making him ill. “I am sorry. You should not have to be guiding me about like this—I don’t wish the hatred people have for me to hang on you.”
“Oh, believe me, Afshin, I can handle myself.”
They kept walking, emerging from a back door that led into the street. It was still early in the morning, and there weren’t yet many people out.
Which meant not much blocked Dara’s view of the devastated neighborhoods stretching from the hospital to the broken midan. The bodies had been removed, but dark stains, torn clothing, and abandoned shoes marked where they’d been killed, surrounded by the contents of smashed buildings—broken pots, filthy quilts, and shattered toys. The products of a lifetime, homes that had housed generations, destroyed in moments.
By him. In one corner, he’d started to conjure tents for
