Nahri toyed with her veil. “Well, there was one other thing.”
“What one other thing?”
“Muntadhir said the seal ring wasn’t supposed to leave Daevabad.”
Ali jerked upright. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” He gestured wildly at the Nile. “We are very much not in Daevabad!”
“I didn’t want you to overreact! Like you’re doing right now,” Nahri said when Ali groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
“God forgive me,” he muttered through his fingers. “We broke a prophet’s ring.”
“We didn’t break a prophet’s ring! At least, not intentionally,” she amended. “And we’re getting ahead of ourselves. It’s only been two days. We’ll keep trying.”
Ali lifted his head. “So if I don’t have magic, and you don’t have magic …” Alarm rose in his voice. “What if no one does?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if no one does, Nahri. Did any of your powers return while I was gone?” When she shook her head, he explained. “My father couldn’t strip magic from that far a distance. When he used the seal, it was only on those in his presence. What if we did break a prophet’s ring?”
Oh. Nahri’s mouth went dry. She hadn’t quite considered all that.
“We’ll fix it,” she replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “Though I cannot help but point out that it would slightly even the odds between us and Manizheh if we were all powerless.”
“About that …” A little shame crept into Ali’s voice. “I’m not entirely powerless. I still have this.” He made a beckoning motion at the river.
Water leapt into his hand. A tiny liquid tendril spun there like a miniature cyclone before Ali twitched as though in pain, and the water spout collapsed.
“Ah,” she said acidly. “That. One of the many secrets you swore you didn’t have.”
“There might be a few secrets,” Ali confessed. “About me, about the marid, the war. I don’t even know where to start.”
Had a Daevabadi royal wanted to spill secrets last week, Nahri would have been eager to listen. But right now she wasn’t ready to hear about some new horror of the magical world.
“Why don’t you not start? Not today anyway.” When Ali frowned, looking confused, Nahri tried a different tack. “I asked Subha once how she kept herself from being crushed by healing, by the weight of her responsibilities and the bleakness of the work.” Thinking about Subha hurt; it made Nahri sick with fear to imagine how terrified her shafit friends might be right now. “Do you know what she told me?”
“That depends on how early in your relationship it was. As I recall, the first few weeks were rather barbed.”
Nahri gave him an imperious look. “She told me to keep myself whole. That there wasn’t any shame in taking care of yourself in order to help those who needed you.”
Ali shifted. “What are you suggesting?”
“That we table discussions of secrets for a few days. We go back to the apothecary. We eat. I introduce you properly to Yaqub and maybe get you some clothes that aren’t … this.” She gestured to his ragged shawl.
“And then?”
She took his hand. “Ali, we’re spent. You couldn’t fight Dara, I couldn’t fight Manizheh. Now we’re halfway around the world in even worse straits with no clue how to get back.” Her voice grew gentler. “I know you want to rush home. To save your sister, save your people, and avenge Muntadhir. But we’re not ready. Let’s take a couple of days to recover and see if anything changes with the seal.”
Reluctance crossed Ali’s face, warring with the logic she’d laid out. “I suppose you’re right.” He took a deep breath and then, quick as a bird, squeezed and released her hand.
Nahri climbed to her feet, catching sight of a pack of giggling girls approaching the river with laundry. In the dying afternoon light, the Nile blazed, the familiar buzz of insects washing over her. Farther ahead, the streets leading back into Cairo were bustling with people headed home, ducking out of shops and setting up tables for coffee and backgammon.
Ali had stood as well, looking a little better. Some of his old determination settled over his features, and then he spoke. “I know things look bad, but I’ll get us back to Daevabad, I promise. We’ll find a way home.”
Nahri’s gaze was still on the Egyptian street. “Home,” she repeated. “Of course.”
7
DARA
Aeshma clucked his tongue, gazing upon Dara’s creation with open admiration. “Now this is a thing worthy of a true daeva.” He gave Dara a grin of gleaming fangs. “See what happens when you embrace your magic instead of sulking?”
Dara threw him an annoyed look, but he had to force it. For what the ifrit had helped him conjure was indeed magnificent.
It was a blood beast, shaped from Dara’s own smoke and life-blood to resemble a massive shedu. Its hide was a rich amber and its glittering wings a rainbow of jewel-bright colors. Bound to his mind, the shedu was pacing, the ground shaking with the impact of its chariot-wheel-size paws.
Dara ran his fingers through its mane, and a burst of fiery sparks erupted from the dark locks. “Is it supposed to be so big?”
“I’ve killed larger,” Aeshma replied, supportive as usual. “It was always a delight to see their Nahid riders smash against the ground. I suppose they couldn’t heal from that.”
“You look like each other,” Vizaresh added. “The hair. Maybe if she lives, your Nahri could ride it.”
The ifrit’s tone was as lecherous as it came, and Dara took a deep breath, reminding himself that Manizheh still needed these cretins—which meant that he was not yet allowed to remove Vizaresh’s head from his neck.
Instead, he glared. “Such a sharp tongue when you’re not running away from djinn boys a fraction your age.”
Vizaresh snorted. “I did not survive this many centuries by picking fights with creatures I don’t understand, and your oil-eyed ‘djinn boy’ who was using water currents like a whip is one of them.” He leaned back, reclining against
