“I’ve got you, my friend,” she assured him. “Lift the seal.”
But it was already lifting; like last time, the ring in his heart responded more to Nahri’s touch than any command Ali could give it. She sent a swell of cool relief surging through his body, and the pain immediately lessened.
Just in time, for the swollen creek had crashed over the cliff, lapping toward the boat in ravenous, frothy swells. As though he were the sea itself, Ali tasted the oily wooden hull and the bricks of the foundation wall. The ship bobbed like a toy on the rising wave.
Another shot glanced off the bow; al Mudhib was still out there somewhere.
You should drown him. You should drown them all. Al Mudhib and his thugs were murderers and thieves, worthless scum who’d preyed upon Ayaanle villagers and forced shafit like Fiza into servitude. They deserved to die. And it would be so easy. A bare flick of Ali’s hand, and they’d be gone, devoured.
Waves lashed the boat, and Ali slipped, falling from Nahri’s grasp and hurtling across the deck. He smashed into the opposite railing, and the pain in his chest returned with a vengeance, white hot and twisting through his heart.
DROWN THEM. Ali gripped the railing and hauled himself back to his feet. Desperate for a distraction from the murderous urges swirling in his mind, he threw himself into controlling the marid magic.
The sea, he commanded, pressing a fist against the agony in his chest. Bring us to the sea.
The boat shot forward like a released arrow. The new crew cried out in alarm, cursing and praying.
“Ali!” Nahri scrambled back to his side, reaching for him as a gray fog dashed across his vision. Her hands scorched his skin, and Ali jerked away, the ship moving with him and leveling more trees.
“I’m fine.” And oddly enough … he was. The pain was gutting, yes, but it suddenly felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. Ali stepped forward, watching in wonder as they rushed toward the ocean. His legs seemed to have a mind of their own, steadying him as they careened around the bends of the wild, swollen creek.
Devour it. Ali grinned with mad delight as floods raced forward to consume the beach. Blood filled his mouth, dripping past his lips as the magic in his veins boiled and surged through him, dashing against the hard alien intrusion in his chest.
The ship burst from the forest, dashing through the inlet. And then … Ali sighed in pleasure, tasting the salt of the ocean as it overpowered the freshwater creek. Water raced over his skin in a welcoming embrace, fingers of it running through his hair and down his throat like a lover’s caress.
But why was Ali up here, in this bobbing toy of dead trees and oily pitch, when the ocean was so close?
Come. This time the command wasn’t his. As if in a dream, Ali turned, reaching for the wooden rail that separated him from the water.
“Ali, what are you doing?” He was dimly aware of a voice speaking his name. Nahri, one part of his mind told him.
Daeva, another part accused. The scent of their fiery essence soured the wet air. They were everywhere, surrounding him in a place they had no business being.
So leave them. Fling yourself into the sea and join us. Ali lifted a leg over the railing.
“Ali, no!” The daeva called Nahri threw herself at him, grabbing him around the chest. “Fiza, help me!”
Ali tried to wrench free. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed, the words coming out in a slither of foreign syllables.
“What’s wrong with him?” another daeva cried, a woman. “What’s wrong with his eyes?”
“Ali, please.” The first daeva was begging now, trying to pry his hands from the railing. “Let it go. Let the marid magic go!”
They succeeded in dragging him back only a few steps before Ali shook them off. Foolish mortals, what did they know? Why stay here when the churning, heaving water beckoned so strongly? His blood ached for it, he ached for it.
He was dimly aware of the daeva running at him again, an oar in her hand.
“Ali, I’m really sorry,” she said as she put herself between him and the ocean. She lifted the oar …
And smashed it into his skull.
19
DARA
Had Dara not been expecting Muntadhir, he would never have guessed the bedraggled man with wild eyes and overgrown hair was the same emir he’d first met lounging in the throne room. Though Dara had seen men in far worse shape after weeks of imprisonment, it was still a startling reminder of their change in fortunes. Muntadhir was thin, his skin pale from a month without light, and his stained waist cloth revealed an angry red scar from the zulfiqar strike that should have killed him. Bruises and scratches covered his limbs; a welt protruded on his cheek. As he shuffled down the garden path, his wrists and ankles shackled and a guard at each elbow, Dara could already smell him.
But even beaten and filthy, Muntadhir’s expression was fiery when he met Dara’s gaze. He drew up, glaring, and then spat at Dara’s feet.
“Scourge.”
“Al Qahtani.” Dara glanced at the soldiers. “Leave us.”
He waited until his men were gone and then stood. He’d arranged to meet Muntadhir in a private nook of the inner gardens. Roses climbed the pale stone wall, and water danced in the tiled fountain, a peaceful scene at odds with the tension between the men.
Dara stopped before Muntadhir. “I am going to remove your shackles. I trust you are not going to do anything foolish.”
Rage burned in the emir’s dirty face, but he said nothing, remaining still as Dara struck off the irons at his wrists and ankles. The skin underneath was blistered and raw. Dara stepped back with relief, resisting the urge to
