Nor did his warriors interrupt as Dara spoke; they were too well-trained. But there was no missing the growing horror and disbelief on their faces as he detailed what Manizheh had done, from executing the Daeva nobles for blood magic and enslaving him, to letting the ifrit sack the Temple for vessels and conjuring the devastating attack on the palace that had killed as many of their own people as djinn.
There was silence when he was done. Irtemiz was so pale that he almost wanted to check her pulse.
“But—but we followed her orders,” Piroz finally replied. “She said all those people were guilty. Afshin, she had me dragging parents away from their children.”
“I know,” Dara said. “And I am so, so sorry for not having stopped her sooner. You were my responsibility, and I failed to see what she had become until it was too late. I failed to teach you how to see it.” He swallowed hard. “For a very long time, I thought my only role was to obey. To teach you all to obey. I was wrong.”
“But she was a Nahid,” Irtemiz protested. “One of Suleiman’s blessed. She performed miracles!”
“She performed magic,” Dara countered. “There was nothing miraculous about the way she murdered the Geziris or brought me back to life under her thrall.”
“This is nonsense.” Noshrad, the warrior Manizheh had replaced Dara with at court, shot to his feet. “There were already whispers you were going astray. Now the Nahid everyone knows you truly wanted is back, so how convenient that Banu Manizheh was corrupt.” His face twisted in fury. “You killed her. Your own Banu Nahida. Were there any decency left in this city, you would be strung up from the Temple walls.” He spat at Dara’s feet. “I am finished with this conversation.”
Irtemiz opened her mouth, looking upset, but Dara was already shaking his head. “Let him go.” Noshrad wouldn’t be the only angry Daeva. Manizheh’s supporters had been dwindling, but she’d had plenty of true believers, Daevas who’d been thrilled to see their tribe rise and would not take kindly to Nahri’s ideas of “power sharing.” Dealing with them would be a priority for the people rebuilding the city.
But Dara was not going to be one of those people.
“Listen to me,” he continued, taking a moment to look at each of them directly. “Because I am going to teach you a final lesson, one I wish had been taught to me. There is a time to fight, and you are all fierce warriors, students I am deeply proud of. But there is also a time to put down your weapons and make peace. A time to recognize that a new kind of fight has started, and it may be even harder. You may have to battle with words and with your very beliefs. But it is worth it. Your lives are worth it. Don’t let them be made into fodder for those who will never be in the trenches. Make something of yourselves. Find happiness, and if you cannot find that here, make fresh starts in outer Daevastana.”
Irtemiz spoke. “They will want to punish us, these new rulers. You don’t think Muntadhir al Qahtani remembers the soldiers who held him as Manizheh cut out his eye?”
“I will take the blame for you. For all of you. I have already spoken to Baga Jamshid and Kartir. You will be safe.”
“But then they will hate you.”
“They have always hated me. I thrive on djinn hate.” Dara smiled. “Now go. It is a lovely day, and there is rebuilding to do. Do not waste your time listening to the sermons of an old man.”
They obeyed his last order with obvious reluctance, but they did leave. Dara watched them go, his heart feeling a twinge. No matter the circumstances, he had found companionship with his warriors. Training them had saved him and given him a purpose in the bleak first years in which he’d been brought back to life and was going mad with fear over Nahri. Dara loved them.
He was going to miss them terribly.
He closed his eyes, soaking in the chatter of Divasti and the smell of the fire altars. He wanted to remember this place, to imprint it upon his soul.
“What do you mean, your final lesson?”
He opened his eyes. Irtemiz had returned, her dark gaze filled with apprehension. Of course she had disobeyed. In a way, he had counted on it.
Dara took her hand. “My friend, I must beg a favor of you.”
46
NAHRI
Nahri ran her hands down the little girl’s shattered arm, dulling the nerves as she rebroke the parts of the bone that had healed incorrectly and then urged them to knit back together.
The Geziri girl watched with enormous gray eyes. “That’s so neat,” she enthused. She glanced back at her father. “Abba, look!”
Her father was slightly green. “I see.” He turned to Nahri. “And she’ll be okay after this?”
“As long as she rests for a couple of days.” Nahri winked at the girl. “You’re very brave. If you still think this is neat in a decade or so, come look me up, and maybe I’ll take you on as a student.”
“That would be amazing!”
She tugged one of the girl’s braids. “I’ll see if someone can’t rustle up a couple of bandages for you to take home and practice with.”
Nahri ducked out of the examination chamber, immediately on alert. She was light enough on her feet to avoid being trampled by the bustling crowd in the corridor, but only just barely. “Busy” didn’t come close to describing the hospital. Between injured soldiers, civilians hurt in the city’s destruction, and the general magical maladies that had gone
