Humiliation and anger boiled in his veins, giving Dara a bit more life. “I did not wish to kill a woman.”
“I am Tukharistani, Afshin. I may have lived and died before Qui-zi rose, but I know your reputation. You’ve killed plenty of women.”
Dara didn’t know how to respond to that. “I did not wish to kill more,” he finally managed. “I was looking at her, and it all came back and I—I could not do it again.”
“I see.” Razu seemed to stare right through him. “Elashia thinks we should have a bond with you, she and Issa and I. I don’t know how I feel yet about you, but I do care about Issa. His grasp on reality was shaky before the invasion, and it has vanished entirely with the knowledge that ifrit are walking the streets. He spends his days talking to himself and his nights locked in closets with weapons. He nearly impaled himself just the other morning. You are going to send him home.”
“I cannot—”
Razu took Dara’s chin in one hand, forcing him to look at her. “You can. It is what Nahri would want,” she added, the words a sharp thrust to his heart. “You don’t seem like an evil man, Afshin, but you have a lot of blood on your hands. Do this small kindness, mercy for a man who has suffered at the hands of the same creatures as you, and maybe a drop or two can be washed away.”
Warnings were running through Dara’s mind, but Creator, he was torn. These people—closer to him in many ways than his own tribe—had already suffered so much. Could he not show mercy to a harmless old man?
Razu was waiting for a response, a tense, long silence stretching on the close air. The bloody courtyard—Nahri’s courtyard—came back to him, and Dara realized he had likely slain dozens of men in the same time it was taking him to contemplate granting mercy to just one.
“I will help you,” he finally whispered, feeling as uncertain as a new bridegroom, as though he were embarking on an unknown and dangerous journey. “I will need you to get the bullet out of my shoulder first, but then I will help you, I swear.”
Pleasure creased Razu’s face. “Good.” She rose to her feet.
“Wait,” Dara croaked. “Where are you going?”
“To get you a strong drink and something to bite.” She twirled the scalpel. “This is definitely going to hurt.”
TWO DAYS AFTER HE’D TAKEN TO THE WIND TO RESCUE Irtemiz, Dara limped into the Daeva Quarter.
Battered and covered in blood, he was a far cry from the arrogant immortal who’d sliced a path of death through the hospital. His shirt was gone, cut away so Razu could extract the iron bullet lodged in his shoulder—an experience that had made every other injury, including actual death, seem painless in comparison. Dara had been able to revert to his fiery form—but only just, pulling on enough magic to send Issa off in a giant cauldron enchanted to zip him to Ta Ntry and then collapsing yet again.
His frailty had surprised Razu. “My grandparents were from the generation Suleiman punished,” she explained. “They spent the rest of their lives grieving for the abilities taken from them and spoke of their magic at length. They could have leveled the hospital with a snap of their fingers and flown to Ta Ntry and back in a single night. You do not have their strength.”
Dara had been too foggy-headed to guard his words. “Then what in the name of the Creator am I?”
“A mess,” she’d assessed bluntly, before forcing him into the cart she wheeled around to sell some sort of self-brewed liquor called soma. It had not only gotten them out of the hospital, it got them out of the shafit district entirely, the Tukharistanis calling welcome to her in their language as Dara hid beneath boxes of tinkling glass bottles. Razu had ducked into an empty alley long enough for him to slip out, and then he’d waited in a trash heap until it was dark enough to climb the wall.
Smelling of garbage, Dara was in an exceedingly foul mood even before the first person he saw was Vizaresh.
“Afshin,” Vizaresh greeted him, bouncing in excitement. “Oh, you are in so much trouble.”
IT WASN’T THE INFIRMARY DARA WAS LED TO, BUT rather a small room nearby. Manizheh and Kaveh were waiting for him, the Banu Nahida dressed in a plain linen smock and standing beside a tray of healing supplies.
Kaveh lost his composure the moment Dara was through the door.
“You selfish, arrogant, witless bastard,” the grand wazir accused. “Do you have any idea the risk you took? We were ready to start evacuating women and children to the hills!”
“I miscalculated the odds,” Dara muttered, falling upon a glass pitcher next to a platter of fruit. Wine, thank the Creator.
“You miscalculated the—”
“Kaveh, please leave,” Manizheh interrupted. “I can handle this.”
Kaveh threw up his hands, glaring at Dara as he shoved past. “You have learned nothing. You’re still the same blundering fool who rushed off to save Nahri and got dozens of Daevas killed.”
Dara abruptly smashed the wine pitcher, wiping the liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not Daevas. Not this time.” He let out a hysterical laugh, whirling to face the angry minister. “Sand flies and dirt-bloods, Grand Wazir. Dozens. Scores! Should that not please you? Were you not the one who declared killing people was the reason I was brought back to life?”
“Enough.” Manizheh’s voice was as curt as a whip. “Kaveh, go. Afshin, sit.”
Dara sat, ignoring the furious look Kaveh shot him as he left. Let him be furious—he had nothing on Dara’s rage.
“Where is Irtemiz?” he demanded hoarsely. Dara knew he shouldn’t be demanding anything. If he had any sense and training left, he would have greeted Manizheh with his face in the dust. But with the blood of more victims
