But it is not what she wants. And that is what she deserves.
“I cannot imagine how it works,” he said.
“A new government? Me neither. But give it time.”
Dara had to force a smile. He might look the younger man, but he had a millennium on the priest and knew all too well the “time” that kind of change took. “Of course.”
“Though speaking of time …” Kartir rose to his feet with a struggle, leaning heavily on his cane—it was clear imprisonment had taken a toll. “Our Baga Nahid awaits.”
JAMSHID HAD WANTED HIS MOTHER’S LAST RITES CARRIED out privately, and so Dara had built her pyre himself, letting Kartir lead the prayers. He’d stayed silent when Jamshid lit the shroud with fire conjured from his hands, watching as Kartir bowed a final time to Banu Manizheh and then quietly left.
“Do you want me to leave as well?” Dara had asked.
Jamshid hadn’t looked away from the burning pyre, the flames reflected in his expressionless gaze. “No. She should have someone who knew her here.”
So Dara had stayed at the side of a young man whose life he’d turned upside down, mourning a woman he wished so desperately he could have saved from herself.
After some time, Jamshid spoke again. “Was there any good in her?”
“Yes,” Dara said honestly. “She was an incredible healer and cared deeply for her original followers. She loved your father. I genuinely believe she wanted better for her people and her city. She just got very, very lost.” Dara glanced at Jamshid. “And she loved you.”
“She didn’t know me.”
“You were her son. She loved you.”
Jamshid’s gaze hadn’t wavered. “I wish I’d had more time with her. I had so much I wanted to say. To her, to my father. A hundred accusations and questions. I’m so angry, and yet I’m heartbroken. And now—because I don’t want to burden the people I love by mourning the murderers who ruined their lives—I have no one to talk to except you.”
Slightly stung, Dara offered what he hoped was a reassuring pat on Jamshid’s shoulder. “It is all right. I do owe you. For all the arrows in the back.”
“It was enormously satisfying to shoot you.”
“I am glad to keep finding new ways to serve the Nahids,” Dara said mildly. “You still have your talent with the bow.”
Jamshid shuddered. “I don’t ever want to pick up a bow again. Not after the blood my parents spilled. I don’t even know that I want to be called ‘Baga Nahid.’ That kind of responsibility …” Fear crept into his voice. “What if I fail?”
He is going to be a good leader. He and Nahri both. Overwhelmed by everything, Jamshid couldn’t see it yet, but Dara could.
An odd sensation settled over him, and it took Dara a moment to realize it was peace. Considering the deeply traumatized state of the city, perhaps he shouldn’t have felt such ease, but he did. His people were in good hands. Capable, compassionate hands. Ironic that after fighting to recover their throne for centuries, the pair of Nahids most worthy of it had the wisdom not to want it.
“What about you?” Jamshid asked, glancing at Dara for the first time. “I will not lie; I did not conceive of a way we took Daevabad back with you still alive.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” Dara replied, biting back his sarcasm. Everyone was making very clear how they felt about his not being on a funeral pyre. He sighed. “I do not know what I will do next.”
Jamshid was still looking at him. “I heard you and Nahri talking when she saved your life. Have you … have you truly seen what’s after?”
Tamima’s teasing smile and a quiet grove of cedars with a rug his mother had woven. He wasn’t sure that was a place meant to be seen and shared with this world.
Dara hesitated and then spoke. “If what I have seen is true, it means there is peace for the worst of us. Rest for those who do not deserve it. It was beautiful. And it spoke to a mercy this world does not deserve.”
Jamshid trembled. “I wonder if one day my parents may still see it.” He glanced at the smoldering pyre and then at Dara again. “Were you not tempted?”
“Terribly so.”
“So why didn’t you go?”
Because I had not earned it.
The words popped into his head with almost startling clarity, taking Dara aback. Racked with pain, Manizheh dead at his hand—when Nahri appeared before him, fiery bright with Suleiman’s seal blazing on her temple, she might have been an envoy from the Paradise whose judgment he feared. And when she asked what Dara wanted, the death he had craved and begged for …
He hadn’t earned it. Not yet.
But with that revelation, more clarity. The slow settling of a decision that seemed almost obvious in retrospect.
Dara returned his gaze to Jamshid. “Because there is still something I need to do.”
OF THE FORTY-TWO WARRIORS DARA HAD BROUGHT to Daevabad, eight were left, another loss for which Dara would do penance. Studying the wan, scarred faces of his paltry band made him only more aware of who was missing. Loyal Mardoniye, who’d fallen first while protecting Banu Manizheh, and Bahram, whom Dara had last spoken to when the blushing young man was trying to steal a few moments alone with Irtemiz. Gushtap, who’d always been grinning, and Laleh, one of Dara’s quietest, who’d apparently been executed by Manizheh when it was discovered she’d helped some of the elderly noblewomen escape the arena.
They had all been so young. So earnest and full of life and promise.
Now they looked broken, despair in their slumped shoulders and angry mouths. Dara recognized that feeling—it was the same kind of grief and resentment that had once fueled him.
So he was going to do what he could to make sure it didn’t end
