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

Every head in the massive audience hall turned to stare at her. In the metal-toned eyes of the djinn—dark steel and copper, gold and tin—she saw a mix of confusion and amusement, as if she were the target of a joke yet to be revealed to her. A few tittering laughs rose from among the crowd. The king took a step away from his throne, and the noise abruptly stopped.

“You’re alive,” he whispered. The chamber was now so still she could hear him take a deep breath. The few remaining courtiers between her and the throne quickly backed away.

The man she assumed was a prince gave the king a bewildered look and then glanced back at Nahri, squinting to study her like she was some strange sort of insect. “That girl’s not Manizheh, Abba. She looks so human she shouldn’t have even passed the veil.”

“Human?” The king stepped to the lower platform, and as he drew closer, a beam of sunlight from the screened windows caught his face. Like Dara, he was marked on one temple with a black tattoo; in his case, an eight-pointed star. The tattoo’s edge had a smoky glow that seemed to wink at her.

Something in his face crumpled. “No … she is not Manizheh.” He stared at her another moment and frowned. “But why would you think she’s human? Her appearance is that of a Daeva pureblood.”

It is? Nahri clearly wasn’t the only one confused by the king’s conviction. The whispers started back up, and the young soldier with the crimson turban crossed the platform to join the king.

He laid a hand on the king’s shoulder, visibly concerned. “Abba …” The rest of his words followed in a hiss of incomprehensible Geziriyya, taking Nahri aback.

Abba? Could the soldier be another son?

“I see her ears!” The king shot back in annoyed Djinnistani. “How can you possibly think she’s shafit?”

Nahri hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. Were you allowed to just start talking to the king? Maybe she had to bow or …

The king suddenly made an impatient noise. He raised his hand, and the sigil on his temple flared to life.

It was as if someone had sucked the air from the room. The torches on the wall went out, the fountains ceased their gentle gurgle, and the black flags hanging behind the king stopped fluttering. A wave of weakness and nausea passed over Nahri, and pain flared in the various parts of her body she’d battered in the past day.

Beside her, Dara let out a strangled cry. He fell to his knees, ash beading off his skin.

Nahri dropped to his side. “Dara!” She laid a hand on his shivering arm, but he didn’t respond. His skin was nearly as cold and pale as it had been after the rukh attack. She turned on the king. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

The men on the platform looked as shocked as the king had when she first arrived. The prince gasped, and the older Daeva man stepped forward, one hand going to his mouth.

“The Creator be praised,” he said in Divasti. He stared at Nahri with wide black eyes, a mixture of something like fear, hope, and ecstasy crossing his face all at once. “You … you’re—”

“Not a shafit,” the king interrupted. “As I told you.” He dropped his hand, and the torches flared back to life. Beside her, Dara shuddered.

The Qahtani king hadn’t taken his eyes off her once. “An enchantment,” he finally concluded. “An enchantment to make you appear human. I have never heard of such a thing.” His eyes were bright with wonder. “Who are you?”

Nahri helped Dara back to his feet. The Afshin was still pale and seemed to have trouble catching his breath. “My name is Nahri,” she said, struggling under his weight. “That Manizheh you mentioned, I … I think I’m her daughter.”

The king abruptly drew himself up. “Excuse me?”

“She’s a Nahid.” Dara hadn’t recovered entirely, and his voice came out in a low growl that sent a few courtiers skittering farther away.

“A Nahid?” the seated prince repeated over the growing sounds of the shocked crowd. His voice was thick with disbelief. “Are you insane?”

The king raised his hand to dismiss the room. “Out, all of you.”

He did not have to issue the order twice—Nahri didn’t realize so many men could move that fast. She watched in silent fear as the courtiers were replaced by more soldiers. A line of guards—armed with those same strange copper swords—formed behind Dara and Nahri, blocking their escape.

The king’s steely gaze finally left her face to fall upon Dara. “If she’s the daughter of Banu Manizheh, who exactly would that make you?”

Dara tapped the mark on his face. “Her Afshin.”

The king lifted his dark brows. “This should be an interesting story.”

“NONE OF THIS MAKES ANY SENSE,” THE PRINCE declared when Dara and Nahri finally fell silent. “Ifrit conspiracies, rukh assassins, the Gozan rising from its banks to howl at the moon? A captivating tale, to be sure … perhaps it will earn you entrance to the actors’ guild.”

The king shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. The best tales always have at least a kernel of truth.”

Dara bristled. “Should you not have your own witnesses to the events at the Gozan? Surely you have scouts there. Otherwise an army could be assembling at your threshold with you none the wiser.”

“I’ll consider that professional advice,” the king replied, his tone light. He’d remained impassive as they spoke. “It is a remarkable story, however. There’s no denying the girl is under some sort of curse—that she should be plainly pureblooded to me while appearing shafit to the rest of you.” He studied her again. “And she does resemble Banu Manizheh,” he admitted, a hint of emotion stealing into his voice. “Strikingly so.”

“And what of it?” the prince countered. “Abba, you can’t really believe Manizheh had a secret daughter? Manizheh? The woman used to give plague sores to men who looked too long upon her face!”

Nahri would not have minded such an ability right now. She’d spent the last day being attacked by various creatures and had little patience for the Qahtani’s doubt. “Do you want proof that I’m a Nahid?” she demanded. She pointed at the curved dagger sheathed at the prince’s waist. “Toss that over, and I’ll heal before your eyes.”

Dara stepped in front of her, and the air smoked. “That would be extremely unwise.”

The young soldier, or prince, or whoever he was—the one with the scruffy beard and hostile expression—immediately edged closer to the prince. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his copper sword.

“Alizayd,” the king warned. “Enough. And calm yourself, Afshin. Believe it or not, Geziri hospitality does not involve stabbing our guests. At least, not before we’ve been properly introduced.” He gave Nahri a sardonic smile and touched his chest. “I am King Ghassan al Qahtani, as surely you know. These are my sons, Emir Muntadhir and Prince Alizayd.” He pointed to the seated prince and the scowling young swordsman before gesturing to the older Daeva man. “And this is my grand wazir, Kaveh e-Pramukh. It was his son Jamshid who escorted you to the palace.”

The familiarity of their Arabic names took her aback, as did the fact that two Daeva men served the royal family so prominently. Good signs, I suppose. “Peace be upon you,” she said cautiously.

“And upon you as well.” Ghassan spread his hands. “You’ll forgive our doubts, my lady. It’s only that my son Muntadhir speaks correctly. Banu Manizheh had no children and has been dead twenty years.”

Nahri frowned. She wasn’t one to share information easily, but she wanted answers more than anything else. “The ifrit said they were working with her.”

“Working with her?” For the first time, she saw a hint of anger in Ghassan’s face. “The ifrit were the ones who murdered her. A thing they apparently did with much glee.”

Nahri’s skin crawled. “What do you mean?”

It was the grand wazir who spoke up now. “Banu Manizheh and her brother Rustam were ambushed by the ifrit on their way to my estate in Zariaspa. I … I was among the ones who found what was left of their traveling party.” He cleared his throat. “Most of the bodies were impossible to identify, but the Nahids …” He trailed off, looking close to tears.

“The ifrit put their heads on spikes,” Ghassan finished grimly. “And stuffed their mouths with the relics of all the djinn they enslaved in the traveling party, as an added bit of mockery.” Smoke curled around his collar. “Working with her, indeed.”

Nahri recoiled. She saw no hint of deception from the men on the platform—not on this matter at least. The grand wazir looked ill, and barely checked grief and rage swirled in the king’s gray eyes.

And I came so close to falling into the hands of the demons who did that. Nahri was shaken, truly shaken. She considered herself skilled at detecting lies, but the ifrit had her almost convinced. She guessed Dara was right about them being talented liars.

Dara, of course, did not bother concealing his rage at the Nahid siblings’ grisly demise. An angry heat radiated from his skin. “Why were Banu Manizheh and her brother even allowed outside the city walls? Did you not see the danger in allowing the last two Nahids in the world to go traipsing about outer Daevastana?”

Emir Muntadhir’s eyes flashed. “They weren’t our prisoners,” he said heatedly. “And the ifrit hadn’t been heard from in over a century. We scarcely—”

“No … he is right to question me.” Ghassan’s voice, quiet and devastated, silenced his elder son. “God knows I’ve done so myself, every day since they died.” He leaned back against his throne, suddenly looking older. “It should have been Rustam alone. There was a blight in Zariaspa affecting their healing herbs, and he was the more skilled at botany. But Manizheh insisted on accompanying him. She was very dear to me—and very, very stubborn. A poor combination, I admit.” He shook his head. “At the time, she was so adamant that I … ah.”

Nahri narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Ghassan met her gaze, his expression simmering with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. He studied her for a long moment and then finally asked, “How old are you, Banu Nahri?”

“I can’t be sure. I think about twenty.”

He pressed his mouth in a thin line. “An interesting coincidence.” He did not sound pleased.

The grand wazir blushed, furious red spots blooming in his cheeks. “My king, surely you do not mean to suggest that Banu Manizheh—one of Suleiman’s blessed and a woman of unimpeachable morals—”

“Had sudden cause twenty years ago to flee Daevabad for a distant mountain estate where she’d be surrounded by discreet and utterly loyal fellow Daevas?” He arched an eyebrow. “Stranger things have happened.”

The meaning of their conversation suddenly became clear. A flicker of hope—stupid, naive hope—rose in Nahri’s chest before she could squash it down. “Then … my father … is he still alive? Does he live in Daevabad?” She couldn’t hide the desperation in her voice.

“Manizheh refused to marry,” Ghassan said flatly. “And she had no … attachments. None that I was aware of, at least.”

It was a curt answer that brooked no room for further discussion. But Nahri frowned, trying to puzzle things out. “But that doesn’t make sense. The ifrit knew of me. If she fled before anyone learned of her pregnancy, if she was murdered on her journey, then …”

I shouldn’t be alive. Nahri left the last part unspoken, but Ghassan looked equally stymied.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps you were born while they were still traveling, but I cannot imagine how you survived, let alone wound up in a human city on the other side of the world.” He raised his hands. “We might never have those answers. I only pray that your mother’s final moments may have been lightened by the knowledge that her daughter lived.”

“Someone must have saved her,” Dara pointed out.

The king raised his hands. “Your guess is as good as mine. The curse affecting her appearance is a strong one … it might not have been cast by a djinn.”

Dara glanced down at her, something briefly unreadable in his bright eyes before he turned back to the king. “She truly doesn’t appear a shafit to you?” Nahri could hear a hint of relief in his voice. And it hurt, there was no denying it. Clearly, for all their growing “closeness,” blood purity was still important to him.

Ghassan shook his head. “She looks as Daeva as you do. And if she’s truly the daughter of Banu Manizheh …” He hesitated, and something flickered in his face; it was replaced by his calm mask in a moment, but she was good at reading people, and she noticed.

It was fear.

Dara prodded him. “If she is … then what?”

Kaveh answered first, his black eyes meeting hers. Nahri suspected the grand wazir—a fellow Daeva—didn’t want the king massaging this answer. “Banu Manizheh was the most talented healer born to the Nahids in the last millennium. If you are her daughter …” His voice turned reverent—and a little defiant. “The Creator has smiled upon us.”

The king shot the other man an annoyed look. “My grand wazir is easily excited, but yes, your arrival in Daevabad might prove quite the blessing.” His eyes slid to Dara. “Yours, on the other hand … you said you were an Afshin, but you’ve not yet offered your name.”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Dara replied, his voice cool.

“Why don’t you share it now?”

Dara lifted his chin slightly and then spoke. “Darayavahoush e-Afshin.”

He might as well have drawn a blade. Muntadhir’s eyes went wide, and Kaveh paled. The younger prince dropped his hand to his sword again, stepping closer to his family.

Even the implacable king now looked tense. “Just to be clear: are you the Darayavahoush who led the Daeva rebellion against Zaydi al Qahtani?”

The what? Nahri whirled on Dara, but he wasn’t looking at her. His attention was locked on Ghassan al Qahtani. A small smile—the same dangerous smile he’d flashed at the shafit in the plaza—played around his mouth.

“Ah … so your people remember that?”

“Quite well,” Ghassan said coolly. “Our history has a lot to say about you, Darayavahoush e-Afshin.” He crossed his arms over his black robe. “Though I could have sworn one of my ancestors beheaded you at Isbanir.”

It was a trick, Nahri knew, a slight to his honor meant to pull a better answer from the Afshin.

Dara, of course, rushed right into it. “Your ancestor did no such thing,” he said acidly. “I never made it to Isbanir—you would not be sitting on that throne if I had.” He held up his hand, and the emerald winked. “I was captured by the ifrit while battling Zaydi’s forces in the Dasht-e Loot. Surely you can work out the rest.”

“That doesn’t explain how you stand before us now,” Ghassan said pointedly. “You would have needed a Nahid to break the ifrit’s slave curse, no?”

Though Nahri’s head was swimming with new information, she noticed Dara hesitate before answering.

“I don’t know,” he finally confessed. “I thought the same … but it was the peri, Khayzur—the one who saved us at the river—who freed me. He said he found my ring on the body of a human traveler in his lands. His people don’t typically intervene in our matters, but …” She heard Dara’s throat catch. “He took mercy on me.”

Something twisted in Nahri’s heart. Khayzur had freed him from slavery and saved their lives at the Gozan? The sudden image of the peri alone and in pain, awaiting death from his fellows in the sky, played through her mind.

But Ghassan certainly didn’t seem worried over the fate of a peri he’d never met. “When was this?”

“About a decade ago,” Dara replied easily.

Ghassan looked taken aback again. “A decade? Surely you don’t mean to say you spent the past fourteen centuries as an ifrit slave?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to say.”

The king pressed his fingers together, looking down his long nose. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, but I’ve known hardened warriors driven to gibbering madness by less than three centuries of slavery. What you’re suggesting … no man could survive it.”

What? Ghassan’s dark words sent ice flooding into her veins. Dara’s life as a slave was the one thing she hadn’t pressed him on; he didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t want to think about the bloody memories she’d been forced to relive alongside him.

“I didn’t say I survived it,” Dara corrected, his voice curt. “I remember almost nothing of my time as a slave. It’s difficult to be driven insane by memories you don’t have.”

“Convenient,” Muntadhir muttered.

“Quite,” Dara shot back. “For surely a—what did you say, a gibbering madman?—would have little patience for all this.”

“And your life before you were a slave?”

Nahri startled at the sound of a new voice. The younger prince, she realized; Alizayd, the one she’d mistaken for a guard.

“Do you remember the war, Afshin?” he asked, in one of the coldest voices Nahri had ever heard. “The villages in Manzadar and Bayt Qadr?” Alizayd stared at Dara with open hostility, with a hatred that rivaled how Dara himself had looked upon the ifrit. “Do you remember Qui-zi?”

At her side, Dara tensed. “I remember what your namesake did to my city when he took it.”

“And we’ll leave it at that,” Ghassan cut in, throwing his youngest son a warning look. “The war is over, and our peoples are at peace. A thing you must have known, Afshin, to willingly bring a Nahid here.”

“I assumed it was the safest place for her,” Dara said coolly. “Until I arrived to find an armed mob of shafit preparing to sack the Daeva Quarter.”

“An internal matter,” Ghassan assured him. “Believe me, your people were never in any danger. Those arrested today will be thrown in the lake by week’s end.”

Dara snorted, but the king remained impassive. Impressively so—Nahri sensed it took a lot to rattle Ghassan al Qahtani. She was not sure whether or not to be pleased by such a thing but decided to match his frankness. “What do you want?”

He smiled—a true smile. “Loyalty. Pledge yourselves to me and swear to preserve the peace between our tribes.”

“And in return?” Nahri asked, before Dara could speak.

“I will declare you Banu Manizheh’s pureblooded daughter. Shafit appearance or not, none in Daevabad will dare question your origin once I speak on such a thing. You’ll have a home in the palace—your every material desire granted—and take your rightful place as Banu Nahida.” The king inclined his head toward Dara. “I will formally pardon your Afshin and grant him a pension and position commensurate with his rank. He may even continue to serve you should you wish.”

Nahri checked her surprise. She could not imagine a better offer. Which of course made her distrust it. He was essentially asking for nothing, in return for giving her everything she could imagine wanting.

Dara dropped his voice. “It’s a trick,” he warned in Divasti. “You will no sooner bend the knee to that sand fly than he will ask some—”

“The sand fly speaks perfect Divasti,” Ghassan interrupted. “And does not require the bending of any knees. I am Geziri. My people don’t share your tribe’s love for overinflated ceremony. For me, your word is sufficient.”

Nahri hesitated. She glanced again at the soldiers behind them. She and Dara were thoroughly outnumbered by the Royal Guard—not to mention the young prince clearly itching for a fight. However abhorrent the thought was to Dara, this was Ghassan’s city.

And Nahri hadn’t survived this long without learning to recognize when she was outmatched. “You have my word,” she said.

“Excellent. May God strike us both down if we break it.” Nahri flinched, but Ghassan only smiled. “And now that we have that unpleasantness behind us, may I be honest? You both look terrible. Banu Nahida, there appears to be a journey’s worth of blood on your clothes alone.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “It’s not all mine.”

Kaveh blanched, but the king laughed. “I do believe I am going to like you, Banu Nahri.” He studied her for another moment. “You said you were from the country of the Nile?”

“Yes.”

“Tatakallam arabi?”

The king’s Arabic was rough but comprehensible. Surprised, she nonetheless replied, “Of course.”

“I thought so. It is one of our liturgical languages.” Ghassan paused, looking thoughtful. “My Alizayd is a rather devoted student of it.” He nodded at the scowling young prince. “Ali, why don’t you escort Banu Nahri to the gardens?” He turned back to her. “You may relax, get cleaned up, have something to eat. Whatever you desire. I will have my daughter, Zaynab, keep you company. Your Afshin can stay behind to discuss our strategy with the ifrit. I suspect this isn’t the last we’ve heard from those demons.”

“That isn’t necessary,” she protested. She wasn’t the only one. Alizayd pointed in Dara’s direction, a flurry of Geziriyya coming from his mouth.

The king hissed a reply and raised his hand, and Alizayd shut up, but Nahri wasn’t convinced. She didn’t want to go anywhere with the rude prince, and she certainly didn’t want to leave Dara’s side.

Dara, however, reluctantly nodded. “You should rest, Nahri. You’ll need your strength for the coming days.”

“And you won’t?”

“Oddly enough, I am perfectly well.” He squeezed her hand, sending a rush of warmth straight to her heart. “Go,” he urged. “I promise not to go to war without your permission,” he added with a sharp smile at the Qahtanis.

As Dara released her hand, she caught sight of the king’s careful gaze on the two of them. Ghassan nodded at her, and she followed the prince through an enormous set of doors.

ALIZAYD WAS HALFWAY DOWN THE WIDE, ARCADED corridor by the time she reached him. She jogged, trying to keep up with his long strides while casting curious glances at the rest of the palace. What she saw was well maintained, but she could sense the age of the ancient stone and crumbling facades.

A pair of servants bowed low as they passed, but the prince didn’t seem to notice. He kept his head down as they walked. He clearly hadn’t inherited his father’s diplomatic warmth, and the openly hostile way he had spoken to Dara made her nervous.

Nahri sneaked a look at him from the corner of her eye. Young was her first impression. His hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders hunched, Alizayd carried his lanky body as if he’d recently sprouted into his alarming height and was still getting used to it. He had a long, elegant face, one that might have even been handsome had it not been furrowed in a scowl. His chin was scruffy, more the hope of a beard than anything substantial. Besides the copper scimitar, a hooked dagger was tucked in his belt, and Nahri thought she caught sight of another small knife bound to his ankle.

He glanced over, probably in the hope of studying her in a similar fashion, but their eyes caught, and he quickly looked away. Nahri cringed as the silence between them grew more strained.

But he was the king’s son, and she was not easily deterred. “So,” she started in Arabic, remembering what Ghassan said about him studying the language. “Think your father’s going to kill us?”

She’d meant it as a poor joke to lighten the mood, but Alizayd’s face twisted in open displeasure. “No.”

The fact that he answered so easily—like he’d been mulling over the question himself—shocked her out of her feigned casualness. “You sound disappointed.”

Alizayd gave her a dark look. “Your Afshin is a monster. He deserves to lose his head a hundred times over for the crimes he’s committed.” Nahri startled, but before she could respond, the prince pulled open a door and beckoned her through. “Come.”

The sudden appearance of the late-afternoon light dazzled her eyes. The lilt of birdsong and monkey calls broke the quiet, occasionally cresting into the croak of a frog and the rustle of crickets. The air was warm and moist, so fragrant with the aroma of rose blossoms, rich soil, and wet wood that her nose stung.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, her amazement only grew. What stretched before them could hardly be called a garden. It was as vast and wild as the feral woods she and Dara had journeyed through, more like a jungle intent on devouring its garden roots. Dark vines sprawled from its depths like lapping tongues, swallowing the crumbling remains of fountains and ensnaring defenseless fruit trees. Flowers in near violent hues—a crimson that shone like blood, a speckled indigo like a starry night—bloomed across the ground. A pair of spiky date palms glittered in the sun before her, made entirely of glass, she realized, their plump fruit a golden jewel.

Something swooped overhead, and Nahri ducked as a four-winged bird—its feathers the variants of colors one would see in a setting sun—flew past. It vanished into the trees with a low growl that could have come from a lion ten times its size, and Nahri jumped.

“This is your garden?” she asked in disbelief. A tiled path stretched before them, broken by gnarled, thorned roots and shrouded by moss. Tiny glass globes filled with dancing flames floated over it, illuminating its twisting route into the garden’s dark heart.

Alizayd looked insulted. “I suppose my people don’t keep the gardens as immaculate as your ancestors did. We find ruling the city to be a more appropriate use of time than horticulture.”

Nahri was losing patience with this royal brat. “So Geziri hospitality doesn’t involve stabbing your guests, but does allow for threats and insults?” she asked with mock sweetness. “How fascinating.”

“I …” Alizayd looked taken aback. “I apologize,” he finally muttered. “That was rude.” He stared at his feet and motioned toward the path. “If you please …”

Nahri smiled, feeling vindicated, and they continued. The path turned into a stony bridge hanging low over a glimmering canal. She glanced down as they crossed. The water was the clearest she’d ever seen, gurgling over smooth rocks and shining pebbles.

Before long they came upon a squat stone building rising from the vines and crowded trees. It was painted a cheerful blue with columns the color of cherries. Steam seeped from the windows, and a small herb garden hugged its exterior. Two young girls knelt among the bushes, weeding and filling a thatched basket with delicate purple petals.

An older woman with lined skin and warm brown eyes emerged from the building as they approached. Shafit, Nahri guessed, noticing her round ears and sensing the familiarity of a fast heartbeat. The woman wore her graying hair in a simple bun and was dressed in some complicated garment wound about her torso.

“Peace be upon you, sister,” Alizayd greeted her when she bowed, in a far kinder tone than he had used with Nahri. “My father’s guest has had a long journey. Do you mind caring for her?”

The woman gazed at Nahri with undisguised curiosity. “It would be an honor, my prince.”

Alizayd briefly met her eyes. “My sister will join you soon, God willing.” She could not tell if he was joking when he added, “She is better company.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, turning abruptly on his heel.

An ifrit would be better company than you. At least Aeshma had briefly attempted to be charming. Nahri watched as Alizayd quickly returned the way they’d come, feeling more than a little uneasy, until the shafit woman gently took her arm and guided her into the steamy bathhouse.

In minutes, a dozen girls were attending to her; the servants were shafit of a dizzying array of ethnicities, speaking Djinnistani with snatches of Arabic and Circassian, Gujarati and Swahili, along with more languages she couldn’t identify. Some offered tea and sherbet while others carefully assessed her wild hair and dusty skin. She had no idea who they thought she was, and they were careful not to ask but treated her as if she were a princess.

I could get used to this, Nahri thought what felt like hours later as she lolled in a warm bath, the water thick with luxurious oils, and the steamy air smelling of rose petals. One girl massaged her scalp, working a lather into her hair while another massaged her hands. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

She was far too drowsy to realize the room had gone silent before a clear voice jolted her out of her reverie.

“I see you have made yourself comfortable.”

Nahri’s eyes shot open. A girl sat on the bench opposite her bath, her legs delicately crossed underneath the most expensive-looking dress Nahri had ever seen.

She was stunning, with a beauty so unnaturally perfect Nahri knew in a moment not a drop of human blood ran through her veins. Her skin was dark and smooth, her lips full, and her hair carefully hidden under a simple ivory turban embellished with a single sapphire. Her gray-gold eyes and elongated features resembled the younger prince so sharply there could be no doubt who she was. Alizayd’s sister, the princess Zaynab.

Nahri crossed her arms and sank back under the bubbles, feeling exposed and plain. The other woman smiled, clearly enjoying her discomfort, and dipped a toe into the bath. Diamonds winked from a gold anklet.

“You’ve got the whole palace in quite an excitement,” she continued. “They’re preparing a massive feast even now. If you listen, you can hear the drums from the Grand Temple. Your entire tribe is celebrating in the streets.”

“I … I’m sorry …,” Nahri stammered, uncertain what to say.

The princess stood with a grace that made Nahri want to weep with envy. Her gown fell in perfect waves to the floor; Nahri had never seen anything like it: a rose pink net as fine as a spider’s web, spun into a delicate floral pattern interlaced with seed pearls, and laid over a deep purple sheath. It didn’t look like something made by human hands, that was for certain.

“Nonsense,” Zaynab replied. “There’s no need to apologize. You are my father’s guest. It pleases me to see you content.” She beckoned toward a servant bearing a silver tray, plucking a powdery white confection from it and slipping it into her mouth without getting a speck of sugar on her painted lips. She glanced at the servant. “Have you offered any to the Banu Nahida?”

The girl gasped and dropped the tray. It clattered to the ground, and a pastry rolled into the scented water. The servant’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “The Banu Nahida?”

“Apparently so.” Zaynab gave Nahri a conspiratorial smile, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Manizheh’s own daughter, bewitched to look human. Exciting, isn’t it?” She gestured at the tray. “Better clean that quickly, girl. You’ve gossip to spread.” She turned back to Nahri with a shrug. “Nothing interesting ever happens around here.”

The studied casualness with which the princess revealed her identity left Nahri momentarily speechless with anger.

She’s testing me. Nahri checked her temper and reminded herself of Dara’s story about her origins. I was raised a simple human servant, saved by the Afshin and brought to a magical world I barely understand. React like that girl would.

Nahri forced an embarrassed smile, realizing this was only the first of many games she’d be playing in the palace. “Oh, I don’t know how interesting I am.” She gazed at Zaynab in open admiration. “I’ve never met a princess before. You’re so beautiful, my lady.”

Zaynab’s eyes lightened with pleasure. “Thank you, but please … call me Zaynab. We’re to be companions here, aren’t we?”

God protect me from such a fate. “Of course,” she agreed. “If you will call me Nahri.”

“Nahri it is.” Zaynab smiled and gestured her forth. “Come! You must be famished. I will have food brought to the gardens.”

She was more thirsty than famished; the heat of the bath had sucked every last bit of moisture from her skin. She glanced around, but her destroyed clothes were nowhere to be seen, and she had little desire to reveal more of herself before the frighteningly striking princess.

“Oh, come, there’s no reason to be shy.” Zaynab laughed, accurately guessing her thoughts. Mercifully, one of the servants reappeared at the same time, bearing a silken, sky blue robe. Nahri slipped into it and then followed Zaynab out of the bathhouse and along a stone path through the wild garden. The collar of Zaynab’s dress dropped low enough to expose the back of her elegant neck, and Nahri could not help but study the golden clasps of the two necklaces she wore. They looked delicate. Fragile.

Stop, she chided herself.

“Alizayd fears he has already offended you,” Zaynab said as she led Nahri to a wooden pavilion that seemed to appear from out of nowhere, perched over a clear pool. “I apologize. He has the unfortunate tendency to say exactly what’s on his mind.”

The pavilion was lined with a thick embroidered carpet and plush cushions. Nahri sank into them without instruction. “I thought honesty a virtue.”

“Not always.” Zaynab sat down across from her, elegantly folding herself onto a cushion. “He did tell me about your journey, however. What a grand adventure that must have been!” The princess smiled. “I could not resist the urge to peek in my father’s court to see the Afshin before I came here. God forgive me, but that’s a beautiful man. Even more handsome than the legends say.” She shrugged. “Although I guess that’s to be expected from a slave.”

“Why would you say that?” Nahri asked, the question coming out sharper than she intended.

Zaynab frowned. “Do you not know?” When Nahri said nothing, she continued. “Well, that’s part of the curse, is it not? To make them more alluring to their human masters?”

Dara hadn’t told her that, and the thought of the handsome daeva forced to obey the whims of a slew of enthralled masters was not something Nahri wished to dwell upon. She bit her lip, wordlessly watching as a handful of servants joined them on the pavilion, each bearing a silver platter loaded with food. The one closest to her, a stout woman with biceps as thick as Nahri’s legs, staggered from the weight of her platter and nearly dropped it in Nahri’s lap when she set it down.

“God be praised,” Nahri whispered. There was enough food in front of her to break the fasts of an entire Cairo neighborhood. Piles of saffron-hued rice glistening with buttery fat and studded with dried fruit, mounds of creamy vegetables, stacks of fried almond-colored patties. There were sheets of flatbread as long as her arms and small clay bowls filled with more varieties of nuts, herbed cheeses, and fruit than she could identify. But it all paled compared to the platter in front of her, the one which nearly toppled the servant carrying it: a whole pink fish resting in a bed of bright herbs, two stuffed pigeons, and a copper pot of meatballs in a thick yoghurt sauce.

Her gaze fell upon an oval dish piled with spiced rice, dried limes, and glistening chicken pieces. “Is that … kabsa?” She was pulling the dish toward her, helping herself before Zaynab could answer. Starving, exhausted, and having subsisted on stale manna and lentil soup for weeks, Nahri didn’t particularly care if she came off as uncouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste of the roasted chicken.

She caught sight of the princess’s amused expression as she eagerly scooped up more of the spiced rice. “Are you such a fan of Geziri cuisine, then?” Zaynab smiled, the expression not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ve never known a Daeva to eat meat.”

Nahri remembered Dara saying that, but shrugged it off. “I ate meat in Cairo.” She coughed, a lump in her throat from swallowing so quickly. “Do you have any water?” she choked out to one of the servants.

Across from her, Zaynab delicately pecked at a bowl of glistening black cherries. She nodded toward a glass carafe. “There is wine.”

Nahri hesitated, still a little leery of alcohol. But as she started to cough again, she decided a few sips wouldn’t hurt. “Please … thank you,” she added as a servant poured a generous goblet and handed it over. She took a long sip. It was far drier than the date wine Dara conjured up, crisp and cool. And rather refreshing; sweet without being overly so, with a delicate hint of some sort of berry.

“That’s delicious,” Nahri marveled.

Zaynab smiled again. “I’m glad you like it.”

Nahri kept eating, taking a few sips of wine every now and then to clear her throat. She was vaguely aware of Zaynab droning on about the history of the gardens; the sun had grown hot, but a gentle breeze blew over the cool water. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint sound of glass wind chimes. She blinked and leaned heavily into the soft cushions, a strange heaviness creeping over her limbs.

“Are you all right, Nahri?”

“Mmm?” She looked up.

Zaynab gestured toward Nahri’s goblet. “You may wish to ease up on that. I hear it’s rather potent.”

Nahri blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open. “Potent?”

“Supposedly. I wouldn’t know myself.” She shook her head. “The lectures I would get from my little brother if he caught me drinking wine …”

Nahri looked at her goblet. It was full—she realized now just how careful the servants had been to keep it full—and she had no idea how much she’d consumed.

Her head swam. “I …” Her voice came out in an embarrassing slur.

Zaynab gave her a mortified look, pressing a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry!” she apologized, her voice sugar sweet. “I should have guessed your … upbringing would not have exposed you to such things. Oh, Banu Nahida, do be careful,” she warned as Nahri fell forward on her palms. “Why don’t you rest?”

Nahri felt herself being helped into an impossibly soft mound of cushions. A servant started to fan her with a large paddle of palm fronds while another spread a thin canopy to block the sun.

“I … I can’t,” she tried to protest. She yawned, her vision going fuzzy. “I should find Dara …”

Zaynab laughed lightly. “I’m sure my father can handle him.”

Somewhere in a back corner of her mind, Zaynab’s confident laugh nagged at Nahri. A warning tried to break through the fog of her thoughts, raise her from the creeping exhaustion.

It failed. Her head fell back, and her eyes fluttered shut.

NAHRI SHIVERED AWAKE, SOMETHING COLD AND wet pressed against her forehead. She opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light. She was in a dark room, lying on an unfamiliar couch, a light quilt drawn up to her chest.

The palace, she remembered, the feast. The goblets Zaynab kept pressing on her … the odd heaviness that overtook her body …

She immediately drew up. Her head was not pleased at the swiftness of the movement and promptly protested with a pounding ache at the base of her skull. Nahri winced.

“Shhh, it’s all right.” A shadow separated itself from a murky corner. A woman, Nahri realized. A Daeva woman, her eyes as dark as Nahri’s and an ash mark upon her brow. Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her face was lined with what looked like equal measures of hard work and age. She approached with a steaming metal cup. “Drink this. It will help.”

“I don’t understand,” Nahri muttered, rubbing her aching head. “I was eating and then …”

“I believe the hope was that you would pass out drunk among a pile of meat dishes and embarrass yourself,” the woman said lightly. “But you needn’t worry. I arrived before any real damage was done.”

What? Nahri pushed the cup away, suddenly less inclined to accept unknown drinks from strangers. “Why would she … who are you?” she demanded, bewildered.

A gentle smile lit the woman’s face. “Nisreen e-Kinshur. I was the senior aide to your mother and uncle. I came as soon as I received word—though it took me some time to make my way through the crowds celebrating in the streets.” She pressed her fingers together, inclining her brow. “It is an honor to meet you, my lady.”

Her head still spinning, Nahri wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “Okay,” she finally managed.

Nisreen motioned to the steaming cup. Whatever it was smelled bitter and a bit like pickled ginger. “That will help, I promise. Your uncle Rustam’s recipe, one that won him many fans among Daevabad’s merrymakers. And as for the first part of your question …” Nisreen lowered her voice. “You would be wise not to trust the princess; her mother Hatset never had much love for your family.”

And what does that have to do with me? Nahri wanted to protest. She’d been in Daevabad barely a day; could she really have already earned herself an adversary at the palace?

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Nahri looked up as a very familiar—and very welcome—face peeked in.

“You’re awake.” Dara smiled, looking relieved. “Finally. Feeling any better?”

“Not really,” Nahri grumbled. She took a sip of the tea and then made a face, setting it down on a low mirrored table beside her. She swiped at a few of the wild strands of hair sticking to her face as Dara approached. She could only imagine what she looked like. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Since yesterday.” He sat down beside her. Dara certainly looked well rested. He’d bathed and shaved and was dressed in a long pine green coat that set off his bright eyes. He wore new boots, and as he moved she caught sight of the saddlebag he placed on the ground.

The coat and shoes took on a new meaning. Nahri narrowed her eyes. “Are you going somewhere?”

His smile faded. “Lady Nisreen,” he asked, turning to the older woman. “Forgive me … but would you mind perhaps giving us a moment alone?”

Nisreen arched one black eyebrow. “Were things so different in your time, Afshin, that you’d be left alone with an unmarried Daeva girl?”

He pressed a hand against his heart. “I promise I mean nothing scandalous.” He smiled again, a slightly rakish grin that made Nahri’s heart skip a beat. “Please.”

Nisreen apparently wasn’t immune to the handsome warrior’s charms either. Something in her face collapsed even as her cheeks grew a bit pink. She sighed. “One moment, Afshin.” She rose to her feet. “I should probably go check on the workers restoring the infirmary. We’ll want to begin training as soon as possible.”

Training? Nahri’s head pounded harder. She’d hoped to have at least a brief respite in Daevabad after their exhausting journey. Overwhelmed, she merely nodded.

“But, Banu Nahida …” Nisreen paused at the door and glanced back, concern in her black eyes. “Please take better care around the Qahtanis,” she warned gently. “Around anyone not of our tribe.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Dara turned back to Nahri. “I like her.”

“You would,” Nahri replied. She gestured again to his boots and bag. “Tell me why you’re dressed like you’re going somewhere.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m going after the ifrit.”

Nahri blinked at him. “You’ve lost your mind. Being back in this city has actually driven you insane.”

Dara shook his head. “The Qahtanis’ story about your origins and the ifrit doesn’t make sense, Nahri. The timeline, this supposed curse affecting your appearance … the pieces don’t fit.”

“Who cares? Dara, we’re alive. That’s all that matters!”

“It’s not all that matters,” he argued. “Nahri, what if … what if there was some truth in what Aeshma said about your mother?”

Nahri gaped. “Did you not hear what the king said happened to her?”

“What if he was lying?”

She threw up her hands. “Dara, for the love of God. You’re looking for any reason to distrust these people, and for what? To go on some half-baked quest?”

“It’s not half-baked,” Dara said quietly. “I didn’t tell the Qahtanis the truth about Khayzur.”

Nahri went cold. “What do you mean?”

“Khayzur didn’t free me. He found me.” Dara’s bright eyes met her shocked ones. “He found me twenty years ago, covered in blood, barely aware, and wandering the same part of Daevastana in which your relatives supposedly met their end … an end you must have just escaped.” He reached his hand out, grasping hers. “And then twenty years later—using a magic I still don’t understand—you called me to your side.”

He squeezed her hand, and she was acutely aware of his touch, his palm hard and calloused against her own. “Maybe the Qahtanis aren’t lying, maybe that’s the truth as far as they are aware. But the ifrit knew something—and right now that’s all we have.” There was a hint of pleading in his voice. “Someone brought me back, Nahri. Someone saved you. I have to know.”

“Dara, do you not remember how easily they defeated us at the Gozan?” Her voice broke in fear.

“I’m not going to get myself killed,” he assured her. “Ghassan’s giving me two dozen of his best men. And as much as it pains me to say this, the Geziris are good soldiers. Fighting seems to be the only thing they do well. Trust me when I say I wish I did not have the experience to know this.”

She threw him a dark look. “Yes, you might have mentioned your past in a bit greater detail before we got here, Dara. A rebellion?”

He flushed. “It’s a long story.”

“It always seems to be, with you.” Her voice grew bitter. “So that’s it, then? You’re just going to leave me here with these people?”

“It won’t be long, Nahri, I swear. And you’ll be perfectly safe. I’m taking their emir.” His face twisted. “I made it quite clear to the king that if something happened to you, his son would suffer the same.”

She could only imagine how well that conversation had gone over. And she knew part of what Dara was saying made logical sense, but God, did the thought of being alone in this foreign city, surrounded by scheming djinn with unknown grievances, terrify her. She couldn’t conceive of doing this alone, of waking without Dara beside her, of passing her days without his gruff advice and obnoxious comments.

And surely he was underestimating the danger. This was the man who’d jumped down the gullet of a rukh with the vague notion of killing it from the inside. She shook her head. “What of the marid, Dara, and the peris? Khayzur said they were after you.”

“I’m hoping they’re already gone.” Nahri raised her brow, incredulous, but he continued. “They’re not going to come after a large party of djinn. They can’t. There are laws between our races.”

“That didn’t stop them before.” Her eyes stung. This was all too much, too fast.

His face fell. “Nahri, I have to do this … oh, please don’t cry,” he begged as she lost the fight against the tears she was trying to hold in check. He brushed them from her cheek, his fingers hot against her skin. “You won’t even know I’m gone. There’s so much to steal here that your attention will be thoroughly occupied.”

The joke did little to improve her mood. She averted her gaze, suddenly embarrassed. “Fine,” she remarked flatly. “After all, you brought me to the king. That’s all you promised—”

“Stop.” Nahri startled as his hands suddenly cupped her face. He leveled his gaze on hers, and her heart skipped a beat.

But Dara went no further—though there was no denying the flash of regret in his eyes as his thumb lightly brushed her lower lip. “I’m coming back, Nahri,” he promised. “You’re my Banu Nahida. This is my city.” His expression was defiant. “Nothing will keep me from either of you.”