“They probably were. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t go back to Daevabad. My brother was dead. I was certain my daughter was as well. The ring—you, my only hope—was gone, and I wanted to be free, no matter the cost. Even if it meant striking a deal with an ifrit—lying to an ifrit—because in truth, I had no idea how to remove Suleiman’s curse. I didn’t think it could be done.”
Manizheh set down his relic, pacing away. The bottom of her chador had turned gray with dust, streaks of it like grasping fingers reaching up from the ground of the crypt.
“But you found me again,” Dara said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He had the feeling that somehow he was always destined to wind up in Manizheh’s hands. “Or my ring, anyway.”
“Nisreen recovered your ring.” Sadness crossed Manizheh’s expression. “She never told Kaveh how. I wish I had the story. I wish I could speak with her and thank her for everything. She was so loyal and worked so hard for all this. She should have seen it. She shouldn’t have spent her last moments in pain because of some shafit savage.”
Dara didn’t know what to say. Nisreen was only the latest in a long line of people whose brutal deaths he mourned, and coming up with the proper words to assuage another’s grief was beginning to leave him numb. “I take it you didn’t need my relic once you had my ring and Qandisha to tell you where she left my body to rot.”
“I still wasn’t sure it would work. You should have died when Alizayd severed your hand; a freed slave’s vessel cannot be separated from their conjured body. Whether it’s because you were brought back with Nahid blood or something else, I don’t know. But from the moment I held your ring, I knew you were still there. Your presence burned so strongly. I had your ring and I had your mortal remains. And when I woke you up, you were this.”
The meaning of the wonder in her voice and the way she trailed off took a moment to register.
“Wait …” Dara’s tone was shaky. “Surely you’re not suggesting you didn’t mean to make me like this?” He let his skin briefly turn to flame. “That you weren’t trying to bring me back in this form?”
“I freed you the way I would free any ifrit slave. When you opened your eyes, when the fire failed to leave your skin, I thought it was a miracle.” Manizheh laughed hoarsely, no humor in the sound. “A sign from the Creator, believe it or not.”
Dara’s mind spun. “I-I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us.” An almost desperate anger, a mad desire to be understood, seemed to have stolen over his usually so composed Banu Nahida. “Don’t you understand, Afshin? I saw the shock in Aeshma’s face when I brought you back. I knew how the story would carry, the power it would give me to lay claim to resurrecting the great guardian of the Daevas in such a way.”
“You lied.” The moment the words left his lips, Dara knew how naive they sounded. Manizheh had always made clear how far she would go to take back Daevabad. But this was different. Personal. It was his body and soul, shattered and re-formed. Snatched from the edge of Paradise and twisted again and again, into a tool—a weapon—to serve others.
Heat pooled in his hands, ribbons of smokeless fire wrapping about his arms. And suddenly Dara knew he was never going to have answers. Not about his memories. Not about his future. He was an experiment, a mess, and not even the Nahid who’d brought him back to life understood how.
“You were right,” he said quietly. “I did not want that story.”
“Then perhaps next time you should listen to me.” Manizheh was breathing fast, pacing, and when she spoke again, it seemed to be as much to herself as to Dara. “And it’s in the past now, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I suppose not. Weapons are not permitted feelings.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t speak to me about feelings. Not here.” Manizheh motioned to the decaying coffins of her relatives scattered on the filthy ground. “Not when my children are missing, and our city’s at war.” She picked up his relic and slipped it into her pocket. “You’re not the only one with regrets, Dara. This isn’t how I wanted to see the Nahids—the Daevas—rise.
“But I won’t bow. Not again.”
22
ALI
Ali jumped from the ship, splashing into the clear shallows of the inlet. “Looks welcoming,” he remarked, glancing at the dense forest and impenetrable brush.
Nahri was giving the jungle an openly doubtful appraisal. “This is the land of golden streets and coral castles?”
Fiza leapt down. “You’re in the human world, Daevabadis. Djinn here have to be discreet.”
“Are those bones in the trees?”
“Yes!” Fiza cackled, trudging ahead. “Looks like a zahhak. Very creative. Come along, fancy people,” she called over her shoulder, freeing the knife she wore on her arm. “I’m assuming most of the magical traps the Ayaanle set aren’t working, but you should probably stay close.”
“Of course there would be traps,” Nahri muttered, taking Ali’s hand and climbing down.
Ali said nothing but stuck to her side as two more crewmen followed. The inlet narrowed as they ventured deeper into the jungle, becoming little more than a wide, lazy stream. With birds and monkeys chittering in the lush canopy and the smell of ocean air, it might have made for a pleasant scene … if not for the skulls, teeth, and rusting metal implements hanging in the trees. It was almost ridiculous—the exact scenario he imagined resulted from a bunch of paranoid djinn merchants gathering in a committee to decide what would best scare away curious humans.
“‘Plague ahead,’” Ali read from a large stone cairn. “‘Proceed, and you will
