“You are Darayavahoush to your Creator. Afshin is a title that need not define you here.”
Dara finally turned around. “And my other title? Do you think the Creator knows that one? Surely They must; prayers for justice from a thousand lips must weep it.” His voice turned bitter. “It was almost finally granted.”
Kartir moved forward. “I heard. How are you feeling? There was word you were injured. Word you haven’t been so … visible.”
That was one way of putting it. Manizheh had been as good as her promise, pulling Dara from most of his official duties and replacing him with the warriors he’d trained. Dara could no longer offer guidance when it came to running Daevabad. Instead, he was given assignments by so-called cooler heads, expected to obey and keep his mouth firmly shut.
There is honor in being a weapon. He ground his teeth. “You might say I’ve fallen from favor.”
“You and I both, to be honest,” Kartir replied. “Banu Manizheh has made clear she desires my retirement more than my advice. But you saved the life of a fellow Daeva, did you not? The young woman?”
“Irtemiz.” The presence of his protege at training had been a sliver of good news, even if, with her broken arm and leg, all she could do was shout corrections at his recruits from a chair.
But Dara’s mood had already dimmed. That night at the hospital had broken something in him. Hunted like an animal, he saw clearly how the rest of the world viewed him.
“I probably took three dozen lives to save hers,” Dara said. “Maybe more. Not that it matters, right? They were sand flies and dirt-bloods. Unnatural creations; soulless abominations whose very existence threatens ours, and their fanatical supporters.”
“Do you believe that’s what they are?”
Tears burned in Dara’s eyes, the wetness sizzling again his hot skin. “I used to. I used to believe it all, Kartir. I had to.”
Kartir’s expression betrayed no judgment. “Why did you have to?”
Dara took a deep breath and then they were out, the words that expressed the most hidden fear of his heart finally spoken aloud. “Because it had to be true, Kartir. Because if the shafit were people, innocent mothers and fathers and children, and I did to them the things I did …” He exhaled. “Then I am damned. I am a monster, worse than the vilest ifrit, and I—I do not want to be that. I was just trying to serve my tribe. I was eighteen when the Nahids sent me to Qui-zi. I worshipped them, trusted them, and they lied.” He raised his hands, taking in the Temple. “What is any of this supposed to mean if it makes room for such an atrocity?”
“I think it a mistake to judge the Creator by the misdeeds of mortals,” Kartir replied. “I believe the Nahids are blessed. I believe they are meant to guide us, but that doesn’t mean they’re not flawed. It doesn’t mean they don’t fall prey to their own fears and desires. I love the Nahids enough not to burden them with expectations of perfection. I cannot. I have seen a Temple-raised woman use her gifts to kill, while a human-raised one broke a taboo I thought sacred and saved lives.”
Dara was close to losing the battle with his tears. “Then what do you do?”
“I think you start by listening to this”—Kartir tapped Dara’s head—“and this”—he touched Dara’s heart—“as much as you do the holy words of priests, books, and Nahids. Your heart and mind are bestowed by the Creator as well, you know.”
“My heart and mind are telling me that I committed the ghastliest, most unforgivable of crimes. That I helped create a world that can only be fixed by more violence. That I—” Dara hesitated. Still this felt traitorous. “That I followed the wrong people.” He glanced, imploring, at the priest. “What do I do with that kind of burden, Kartir? If there were any justice, I would be burning in hellfire. Instead, I keep being brought back to life.” He gestured to his body. “My form? The ifrit live for millennia like this.”
“Does that not seem a blessing?”
“A blessing?” Dara repeated, the hysterical edge in his voice echoing across the empty vastness. “It is a curse!”
Kartir removed the broom from Dara’s hands—just in time, for it was starting to smolder. “Walk with me, Darayavahoush.” The priest took his arm, leading him past the enormous, gleaming silver altar and into the back corridors of the Temple.
“If you will permit me,” Kartir said as they approached a pair of brass doors at the end of the hall, “all I am hearing from you is ‘I this, I that.’ Have you not considered that your suffering and redemption might be less important than making things up to your victims?”
The words struck deep, leaving Dara thrown for a response. “There is no making that up. You can’t bring back the dead.”
“You can stop making more dead. You are the bravest man I know, and you run now from ghosts? Sit with this burden, Dara. You may find doing so is easier than holding it over your head and waiting for it to crush you.”
Kartir opened the door. Inside was a small circular room lined with glass shelves. At its center stood a crude, almost primitive fire altar, little more than a beaten brass bowl in which cedar burned brightly. It threw firelight across the room, reflecting on the glittering glass shelves and the soft velvet cushions they displayed.
And on the emerald ornaments that were everywhere.
Dara recoiled so fast he crashed into the door frame. Slave vessels—rings, lamps, bracelets, and collars. Dozens.
Kartir squeezed his arm. “Breathe, Darayavahoush. They cannot hurt you. They sleep.”
Dara shook his head, trying not to rip his arm free and tear out of the room. “I do not want to be here.”
“Neither do they. But I think you need a reminder of the
