The City of Brass: Escape to a city of adventure, romance, and magic in this thrilling epic fantasy trilogy (The Daevabad Trilogy, Book 1)

Nahri knew something was wrong before she opened her eyes.

The sun was bright—too bright—against her still-closed lids, and her abaya clung wetly to her stomach. A gentle breeze played across her face. She groaned and rolled over, trying to take refuge in her blanket.

Instead, she got a faceful of sand. Sputtering, she sat up and wiped her eyes. She blinked.

She was definitely not in Cairo.

A shady grove of date palms and scrubby brush surrounded her; rocky cliffs blocked part of the bright blue sky. Through the trees, there was nothing but desert, gleaming golden sand in every direction.

And across from her was the djinn.

Crouched like a cat over the smoldering remains of a small fire—the sharp smell of burnt green wood filling the air—the djinn stared at her with a sort of wary curiosity in his bright green eyes. A fine dagger, its handle set with a swirling pattern of lapis and carnelians, was in one soot-covered hand. He trailed it across the sand as she watched, the blade glinting in the sunlight. His other weapons were piled behind him.

Nahri snatched up the first stick her hand landed on and held it out in what she hoped was at least a somewhat menacing manner. “Stay back,” she warned.

He pursed his lips, clearly unimpressed. But the motion drew her attention to his mouth, and Nahri was startled by her first good look at his uncovered face. Though there was nary a wing nor a horn in sight, his light brown skin shone with an unnatural gleam, and his ears twisted into elongated points. Curly hair—as impossibly black as her own—fell to the top of his shoulders, framing a sharply handsome face with long-lashed eyes and heavy brows. A black tattoo marked his left temple, a single arrow crossed over a stylized wing. His skin was unlined, but there was something ageless about his jewel-bright gaze. He might have been thirty or a hundred and thirty.

He was beautiful—strikingly, frighteningly beautiful, with the type of allure Nahri imagined a tiger held right before it ripped out your throat. Her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach constricted in fear.

She closed her mouth, suddenly aware it had fallen open. “Wh-where have you taken me?” she stammered in—what had he called her language again? Divasti? Right, that was it. Divasti.

He didn’t take his eyes off her, his arresting face unreadable. “East.”

“East?” she repeated.

The djinn tilted his head, staring at her like she was an idiot. “The opposite direction of the sun.”

A spark of irritation lit inside her. “I know what the word means …” The djinn frowned at her tone, and Nahri gave the dagger a nervous glance. “You … you’re clearly occupied with that,” she said in a more conciliatory tone, motioning to the weapon as she climbed to her feet. “So why don’t I just leave you alone and—”

“Sit.”

“Really, it’s no—”

“Sit.”

Nahri dropped to the ground. But as the silence grew too long between them, she snapped, her nerves finally getting the better of her. “I sat. So what now? Are you going to kill me like you killed Baseema or are we just going to stare at each other until I die of thirst?”

He pursed his lips again, and Nahri tried not to stare, feeling a sudden stab of sympathy for some of her more lovestruck clients. But what he said next put such thoughts out of mind.

“What I did to that girl was a mercy. She was doomed the moment the ifrit possessed her: they burn through their hosts.”

Nahri reeled. Oh, God … Baseema, forgive me. “I-I didn’t mean to call it … to hurt her. I swear.” She took a shaky breath. “When you killed her … did you kill the ifrit as well?”

“I tried. It may have escaped before she died.”

She bit her lip, remembering Baseema’s gentle smile and her mother’s quiet strength. But she had to push away the guilt for now. “So … if that was an ifrit, then you’re what? Some kind of djinn?”

He made a disgusted face. “I am no djinn, girl. I am Daeva.” His mouth curled in contempt. “Daeva who call themselves djinn have no respect for our people. They are traitors, worthy only of annihilation.”

The hatred in his voice sent a fresh rush of fear coursing through her body. “Oh,” she choked out. She had little idea what the difference between the two was, but it seemed wise not to press the matter. “My mistake.” She pressed her palms against her knees to hide their trembling. “Do … do you have a name?”

His bright eyes narrowed. “You should know better than to ask that.”

“Why?”

“There is power in names. It’s not something my people give out so freely.”

“Baseema called you Afshin.”

The daeva shook his head. “That’s merely a title … and an old and rather useless one at that.”

“So you won’t tell me your actual name?”

“No.”

He sounded even more hostile than he had last night. Nahri cleared her throat, trying to maintain her calm. “What do you want with me?”

He ignored the question. “You are thirsty?”

Thirsty was an understatement; Nahri’s throat felt like sand had been poured down it, and considering the events of last night, there was a fair chance that was actually true. Her stomach rumbled as well, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything in hours.

The daeva removed a waterskin from his robe, but when she reached for it, he held it back. “I am going to ask you some questions first. You will answer them. And honestly. You strike me as a liar.”

You have no idea. “Fine.” She kept her tone even.

“Tell me of yourself. Your name, your family. Where your people are from.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you get to know my name if I can’t know yours?”

“Because I have the water.”

She scowled but decided to tell him the truth—for now. “My name is Nahri. I have no family. I have no idea where my people are from.”

“Nahri,” he repeated, drawing the word out with a frown. “No family at all … you are certain?”

It was the second time he had asked about her family. “As far as I know.”

“Then who taught you Divasti?”

“No one taught me. I think it’s my native tongue. At least, I’ve always known it. Besides …” Nahri hesitated. She never spoke of these things, having learned the consequences as a child.

Oh, why not? Maybe he’ll actually have some answers for me. “I’ve been able to learn any language since I was a child,” she added. “Every dialect. I can understand, and respond to, any tongue spoken to me.”

He sat back, inhaling sharply. “I can test that,” he said. But not in Divasti, rather in a new language with oddly rounded, high-pitched syllables.

She absorbed the sounds, letting them wash over her. The response came to her as soon as she opened her lips. “Go ahead.”

He leaned forward, his eyes bright with challenge. “You look like an urchin who’s been dragged through a charnel house.”

This language was even stranger, musical and low, more like murmuring than speech. She glared back. “I wish someone would drag you through a charnel house.”

His eyes dimmed. “It is as you say then,” he murmured in Divasti. “And you have no idea of your origins?”

She threw up her hands. “How many times must I say so?”

“Then what of your life now? How do you live? Are you married?” His expression darkened. “Do you have children?”

Nahri couldn’t take her eyes off the waterskin. “Why do you care? Are you married?” she shot back, annoyed. He glared. “Fine. I’m not married. I live alone. I work in an apothecary … as an assistant of sorts.”

“Last night you mentioned lock picking.”

Damn, he was observant. “Sometimes I take … alternative … assignments to supplement my income.”

The djinn—no, the daeva, she corrected herself—narrowed his eyes. “You’re some kind of thief, then?”

“That’s a very narrow-minded way of looking at it. I prefer to think of myself as a merchant of delicate tasks.”

“That doesn’t make you any less a criminal.”

“Ah, and yet there’s a fine difference between djinn and daeva?”

He glowered, the hem of his robe turning to smoke, and Nahri quickly changed the subject. “I do other things. Make amulets, provide some healing …”

He blinked, his eyes growing brighter, more intense. “So you can heal others?” His voice turned hollow. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can usually sense sickness better than I can heal it. Something will smell wrong, or there’ll be a shadow over the body part.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “It’s difficult to explain. I can deliver babies well enough because I can sense their position. And when I lay my hands on people … I sort of wish them well … think about the parts fixing themselves; sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

His face grew stormier as she spoke. He crossed his arms; the outline of well-muscled limbs pressed against the smoky fabric. “And those you can’t heal … I assume you reimburse them?”

She started to laugh and then realized he was serious. “Sure.”

“This is impossible,” he declared. He rose to his feet, pacing away with a grace that belied his true nature. “The Nahids would never … not with a human.”

Taking advantage of his distraction, Nahri snatched the waterskin off the ground and ripped out the plug. The water was delicious, crisp and sweet, like nothing she’d ever tasted.

The daeva turned back to her. “So you just live quietly with these powers?” he demanded. “Haven’t you ever wondered why you have them? Suleiman’s eye … you could be overthrowing governments, and instead you steal from peasants!”

His words enraged her. She dropped the skin. “I do not steal from peasants,” she snapped. “And you know nothing of my world, so don’t judge me. You try living on the streets when you’re five and speak a language no one understands. When you get thrown out of every orphanage after predicting which child will die next of consumption and telling the mistress that she has a shadow growing in her head.” She seethed, briefly overcome by her memories. “I do what I need to survive.”

“And calling me?” he asked, no apology in his voice. “Did you do that to survive?”

“No, I did that as part of some foolish ceremony.” She paused. Not so foolish after all; Yaqub had been right about the dangers of interfering with traditions that weren’t her own. “I sang one of the songs in Divasti—I had no idea what would happen.” Saying it aloud did little to alleviate the guilt she felt about Baseema, but she pressed on. “Aside from what I can do, I’ve never seen anything else strange. Nothing magical, certainly nothing like you. I didn’t think such things existed.”

“Well, that was idiotic.” She glared at him, but he only shrugged. “Were your own abilities not evidence enough?”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand.” He couldn’t. He hadn’t lived her life, the constant rush of business she had to bring in to keep herself afloat, her bribes paid. There wasn’t time for anything else. All that mattered were the coins in her hand, the only true power she had.

And speaking of which … Nahri looked around. “The basket I was carrying—where is it?” At his blank look, she panicked. “Don’t tell me you left it behind!” She jumped to her feet to search but saw nothing besides the rug spread out in the shade of a large tree.

“We were fleeing for our lives,” he said sarcastically. “Did you expect me to waste time accounting for your belongings?”

Her hands flew to her temples. She’d lost a small fortune in a night. And she had even more to lose stashed in her stall back home. Nahri’s heart quickened; she needed to return to Cairo. Between whatever rumors would undoubtedly fly around after the zar and her absence, it wouldn’t be long before her landlord sacked the place.

“I need to get back,” she said. “Please. I didn’t mean to call you. And I’m grateful you saved me from the ghouls,” she added, figuring a little appreciation couldn’t hurt. “But I just want to go home.”

A dark look crossed his face. “Oh, you’re going home, I suspect. But it won’t be to Cairo.”

“Excuse me?”

He was already walking away. “You can’t go back to the human world.” He sat heavily on the carpet under the shade of a tree and pulled off his boots. He seemed to have aged during their brief conversation, his face shadowed by exhaustion. “It’s against our law, and the ifrit are likely already tracking you. You wouldn’t last a day.”

“That’s not your problem!”

“It is.” He lay down, crossing his arms behind his head. “As are you, unfortunately.”

A chill went down Nahri’s back. The pointed questions about her family, the barely concealed disappointment when he learned of her abilities. “What do you know about me? Do you know why I can do these things?”

He shrugged. “I have my suspicions.”

“Which are?” she prodded when he fell silent. “Tell me.”

“Will you stop pestering me if I do?”

No. She nodded. “Yes.”

“I think you’re a shafit.”

He had called her that in the cemetery too. But the word remained unfamiliar. “What’s a shafit?”

“It’s what we call someone with mixed blood. It’s what happens when my race gets a bit … indulgent around humans.”

“Indulgent?” She gasped, the meaning of his words becoming clear. “You think I have daeva blood? That I’m like you?”

“Believe me when I say I find such a thing equally distressing.” He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “I never would have thought a Nahid capable of such a transgression.”

Nahri was growing more confused by the minute. “What’s a Nahid? Baseema called me something like that too, didn’t she?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes. It was brief, but it was there. He cleared his throat. “It’s a family name,” he finally answered. “The Nahids are a family of daeva healers.”

Daeva healers? Nahri gaped, but before she could respond, he waved her off.

“No. I told you what I think, and you promised to leave me alone. I need to rest. I did a lot of magic last night and I want to be ready should the ifrit come sniffing for you again.”

Nahri shuddered, her hand instinctively going to her throat. “What do you mean to do with me?”

He made an irritated sound and reached into his pocket. Nahri jumped, expecting a weapon, but instead he pulled free a pile of clothing that looked too big to have fit the space and tossed it in her direction without opening his eyes. “There is a pool near the cliff. I suggest you visit it. You smell even viler than the rest of your kind.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I don’t know yet.” She could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “I’ve called someone for help. We will wait.”

Just what she needed—a second djinn to weigh in on her fate. She picked up the bundle of clothes. “Aren’t you worried I’ll escape?”

He let out a drowsy laugh. “Good luck getting out of the desert.”

THE OASIS WAS SMALL, AND IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE she came upon the pool he had mentioned, a shadowy pond fed by the steady trickle of springs from a rocky ledge and surrounded by scrubby brush. She saw no sign of horses or camels; she couldn’t imagine how they’d gotten here.

With a shrug, Nahri pulled off her ruined abaya, stepped in, and submerged.

The press of the cool water was like the touch of a friend. She closed her eyes, trying to digest the madness of the past day. She’d been kidnapped by a djinn. A daeva. Whatever. A magical creature with too many weapons who didn’t seem particularly enamored of her.

She drifted on her back, tracing shapes in the water and staring at the palm-fringed sky.

He thinks I have daeva blood. The idea that she was in any way related to the creature who’d summoned a sandstorm last night seemed laughable, but he had a point about ignoring the implications of her healing abilities. Nahri had spent her entire life trying to blend in with those around her just to survive. Those instincts were warring even now: her thrill at learning what she was and her urge to flee back to the life she’d worked so hard to establish for herself in Cairo.

But she knew her odds of surviving the desert alone were low, so she tried to relax, enjoying the pool until her fingertips wrinkled. She scoured her skin with a palm husk and massaged her hair in the water, relishing the sensation of being clean. It wasn’t often she got to bathe—back home, the women at the local hammam made it clear she was unwelcome, perhaps fearing she’d put a hex on the bathwater.

There was little that could be done to save her abaya, but she washed what remained, stretching it out on a sunny rock to dry before turning her attention to the clothing the daeva had given her.

It was obviously his; it smelled of burnt citrus and was cut to accommodate a muscular man, not a chronically famished woman. Nahri rubbed the ash-colored fabric between her fingers and marveled at its quality. It was soft as silk, yet sturdy as felt. It was also completely seamless; try as she might, she couldn’t find a single stitch. She could likely sell it for a good sum if she escaped.

It took effort to get the clothes to fit; the tunic hung comically large around her waist and ended past her knees. She rolled the sleeves up as best she could and then turned her attention to the pants. After ripping a strip from her abaya to use as a belt and rolling up the hems, they stayed on reasonably well, but she could only imagine how ridiculous she looked.

With a sharp rock, she cut a longer section of her abaya for a headscarf. Her hair had dried in a wild mess of black curls that she attempted to braid before tying the makeshift scarf around her head. She drank her fill from the waterskin—it seemed to refill on its own—but the water did little to help the hunger gnawing at her stomach.

The palm trees were thick with swollen gold dates, and overripe ones, covered in ants, littered the ground. She tried everything she could think of to get at the ones in the trees: shaking the trunks, throwing rocks, even a particularly ill-fated attempt at climbing, but nothing worked.

Did daevas eat? If so, he must have some food, probably hidden in that robe of his. Nahri made her way back to the small grove. The sun had risen, hot and searing, and she hissed as she crossed a patch of scorched sand. God only knew what had happened to her sandals.

The daeva was still asleep; his gray cap was tipped over his eyes, his chest slowly rising and falling in the fading light. Nahri crept closer, studying him in a way she’d been too wary to do before. His robe rippled in the breeze, undulating like smoke, and hazy heat drifted from his body as though he was a hot stone oven. Fascinated, she moved even closer. She wondered if daeva bodies were like those of humans: full of blood and humors, a beating heart and swelling lungs. Or perhaps they were smoke through and through, their appearance only an illusion.

Closing her eyes, she stretched her fingers toward him and tried to concentrate. It would have been better to touch him, but she didn’t dare. He struck her as the type to wake in a foul mood.

After a few minutes, she stopped, growing disturbed. There was nothing. No beating heart, no surging blood and bile. She could sense no organs, nothing of the sparks and gurgles of the hundreds of natural processes that kept her and every other person she’d ever met alive. Even his breathing was wrong, the movement of his chest false. It was as though someone had created an image of a person, a man out of clay, but forgotten to give it a final spark of life. He was … unfinished.

Not an ill-formed piece of clay, though … Nahri’s gaze lingered on his body, and then she stilled, catching sight of a green flash on the daeva’s left hand.

“God be praised,” she whispered. An enormous emerald ring—large enough for a sultan—rested on the daeva’s middle finger. The base looked to be badly battered iron, but she could tell from a single glance that the jewel was priceless. Dusty but perfectly cut, with not a single blemish. Something like that had to be worth a fortune.

As Nahri contemplated the ring, a shadow passed overhead. Idly, she glanced up. Then, with a yelp, she dove into the thick brush to hide.

NAHRI PEEKED THROUGH A SCREEN OF LEAVES AS the creature flew across the oasis, enormous against the spindly trees, and then landed next to the sleeping daeva. It was something only a deviant mind could dream up, an unholy cross between an old man, a green parrot, and a mosquito. All bird from the chest down, it bobbed like a chicken as it moved forward on a pair of thick, feathered legs ending in sharp talons. The rest of its skin—if it could be called skin—was covered in silvery gray scales that flashed as it moved, reflecting the light of the setting sun.

It paused to stretch a pair of feathered arms. Its wings were extraordinary, the brilliant, lime-colored feathers nearly as long as she was tall. Nahri started to rise, wondering whether to warn the daeva. The creature was focused on him and seemingly oblivious to her, a situation she preferred. Yet if it killed him, there’d be no one to get her out of the desert.

The birdman let out a chirp that made every hair on her body rise, and the sound roused the daeva, solving her problem. He blinked his emerald eyes slowly, shading his face to see who stood before him. “Khayzur …” He exhaled. “By the Creator, am I glad to see you.”

The creature extended a delicate hand and pulled the daeva into a brotherly embrace. Nahri’s eyes widened. Was this the person the daeva had been waiting for?

They settled themselves back on the rug. “I came as soon as I got your signal,” the creature squawked. Whatever language they were speaking it wasn’t Divasti; it was full of staccato bursts and low whoops like birdsong. “What’s wrong, Dara?”

The daeva’s expression soured. “It’s better seen than explained.” He glanced about the oasis, and his eyes locked on Nahri’s hiding spot. “Come on out, girl.”

Nahri bristled, annoyed to be found so easily and then ordered about like a dog. But she emerged anyway, shoving the leaves aside and coming forward to join them.

She stifled a gasp when the birdman turned to her—the gray tone of his skin reminded her far too much of the ghouls. It was at odds with his small, almost pretty pink mouth and the neat green brows that met in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were colorless, and he had just the barest wisps of a gray beard.

He gaped, looking equally surprised at the sight of her. “You … you’ve a companion,” he said to the daeva. “Not that I’m displeased, but I must say, Dara … I did not take humans as your type.”

“She’s not my companion.” The daeva scowled. “And she’s not entirely human. She’s shafit. She …” He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly strained. “She would appear to have some Nahid blood.”

The creature whirled around. “Why do you think that?”

The daeva’s mouth twisted in distaste. “She healed before my eyes. Twice. And she has their gift with languages.”

“The Maker be praised.” Khayzur lurched closer, and Nahri skittered back. His colorless eyes swept her face. “I thought the Nahids were wiped out years ago.”

“As did I,” the daeva said. He sounded unnerved. “And to heal the way she did … she can’t merely be a distant descendant. But she looks entirely human—I plucked her from some human city even farther west than we are now.” The daeva shook his head. “Something’s wrong, Khayzur. She claims she knew nothing of our world until last night, but she somehow dragged me halfway across the—”

“She can speak for herself,” Nahri said acidly. “And I didn’t mean to drag you anywhere! I’d have been happier never to have met you.”

He snorted. “You’d have been murdered by that ifrit if I hadn’t shown up.”

Khayzur abruptly raised his hands to silence them. “The ifrit know about her?” he asked sharply.

“More than I do,” the daeva admitted. “One showed up just before I did and wasn’t at all surprised to see her. That’s why I called you.” He waved his hand. “You peris always know more than the rest of us.”

Khayzur’s wings drooped. “Not on this matter—though I wish I did. You’re right, the circumstances are strange.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the gesture oddly human. “I need a cup of tea.” He abruptly returned to the rug, motioning for Nahri to follow. “Come, child.”

He dropped into a half perch, and a large samovar, fragrant with peppercorns and mace, suddenly appeared in his hands. He snapped his fingers, and three glass cups appeared. He filled them and handed her the first.

She examined the cup in awe; the glass was so thin it seemed almost like the steaming tea floated in her hand. “What are you?”

He gave her a gentle smile that revealed sharply pointed teeth. “I am a peri. My name is Khayzur.” He touched his brow. “An honor to meet you, my lady.”

Well, whatever a peri was, they clearly had better manners than daevas. Nahri took a sip of her tea. It was thick and peppery, burning down her throat in an oddly pleasant way. In an instant, her whole body felt suffused with warmth—and more important, her hunger was sated.

“That’s delicious!” She smiled, her skin tingling from the liquid.

“My own recipe,” Khayzur said proudly. He gave a sidelong glance at the daeva and nodded to the third cup. “If you’d like to stop glowering and join us, that’s yours, Dara.”

Dara. It was the third time the peri had called him that. She flashed him a triumphant smile. “Yes, Dara,” she said, all but purring his name. “Why don’t you join us?”

He threw her a dark look. “I’d prefer something stronger.” But he took the cup and dropped down beside her.

The peri sipped his tea. “Do you think the ifrit will come after her?”

Dara nodded. “It was hell-bent on taking her. I tried to kill it before it abandoned its host, but there’s a good chance it escaped.”

“Then it may have already told its fellows.” Khayzur shuddered. “You’ve no time to puzzle out her origins, Dara. You need to get her to Daevabad as soon as possible.”

Dara was already shaking his head. “I can’t. I won’t. Suleiman’s eye, do you know what the djinn would say if I brought in a Nahid shafit?”

“That your Nahids were hypocrites,” Khayzur replied. Dara’s eyes flashed. “And what of it? Is saving her life not worth embarrassing her ancestors?”

Nahri certainly thought her life was a hell of a lot more important than the reputation of some dead daeva relatives, but Dara didn’t look convinced. “You could take her,” he urged the peri. “Leave her at the banks of the Gozan.”

“And hope she finds her way past the veil? Hope the Qahtani family believes the word of some lost, human-looking girl should she somehow make it to the palace?” Khayzur looked appalled. “You are an Afshin, Dara. Her life is your responsibility.”

“Which is why she’d be better off in Daevabad without me,” Dara argued. “Those sand flies would likely murder her just to punish me for the war.”

The war? “Wait,” Nahri cut in, not liking the sound of this Daevabad at all. “What war?”

“One that ended fourteen centuries ago and over which he’s still holding a grudge,” Khayzur answered. At that, Dara knocked over his teacup and stalked off. “A skill at which he’s most adept,” the peri added. The daeva threw him a jewel-eyed glare, but the peri pressed on. “You’re only one man, Dara; you can’t hold the ifrit off forever. They will kill her if they find her. Slowly and gleefully.” Nahri shivered, a prickle of fear running over her skin. “And it will be entirely your fault.”

Dara paced the edge of the rug. Nahri spoke up again, not particularly keen on a pair of bickering magical beings deciding her fate without any input from her.

“Why would this Daevabad be safer than Cairo?”

“Daevabad is your family’s ancestral home,” Khayzur replied. “No ifrit can pass its veil—none can, save your race.”

She glanced at Dara. The daeva stared out at the setting sun, muttering angrily under his breath as smoke curled around his ears. “So it’s full of people like him?”

The peri gave her a weak smile. “I’m sure you will find a greater … breadth of temperaments in the city itself.”

How encouraging. “Why are the ifrit after me in the first place?”

Khayzur hesitated. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that explanation to your Afshin. It’s a lengthy one.”

My Afshin? Nahri wanted to ask. But Khayzur had already turned his attention back to Dara. “Have you come to your senses yet? Or do you intend to let this nonsense over blood purity ruin another life?”

“No,” the daeva grumbled, but she could hear the indecision in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back, refusing to look at either of them.

“By the Maker … go home, Dara,” Khayzur urged. “Have you not suffered enough for this ancient war? The rest of the Daeva tribe made peace long ago. Why can’t you?”

Dara twisted his ring, his hands trembling. “Because they didn’t witness it,” he said softly. “But you are correct about the ifrit.” He sighed and turned around, his face still troubled. “The girl is safest—from them anyway—in Daevabad.”

“Good.” Khayzur looked relieved. He snapped his fingers, and the tea supplies disappeared. “Then go. Travel as fast as you can. But discreetly.” He pointed to the rug. “Do not overly rely on this. Whoever sold it to you did a terrible job on the charm. The ifrit might be able to track it.”

Dara scowled again. “I did the charm.”

The peri lifted his delicate brows. “Well … then perhaps keep those close,” he suggested with a nod to the weapons piled under the tree. He rose to his feet, shaking out his wings. “I will not delay you further. But I’ll see what I can learn of the girl—should it be useful, I’ll try to find you.” He bowed in Nahri’s direction. “An honor to meet you, Nahri. Good luck to you both.”

With a single flap of his wings, he rose in the air and vanished into the crimson sky.

Dara stepped into his boots and swung the silver bow over one shoulder before smoothing the carpet out. “Let’s go,” he said, tossing his other weapons onto the rug.

“Let’s talk,” she countered, crossing her legs. She wasn’t moving from the carpet. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

“No.” He dropped beside her on the rug, his voice firm. “I saved your life. I’m escorting you to the city of my enemies. That’s enough. You can find someone in Daevabad to bother with your questions.” He sighed. “I suspect this journey will already be long enough.”

Enraged, Nahri opened her mouth to argue and then stopped, realizing the rug now held all their supplies, as well as she and Dara both.

No horses. No camels. Her heart skipped a beat. “We’re not really going to—”

Dara snapped his fingers, and the carpet shot into the air.