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

The palanquin that carried Nahri from the palace was a far cry from the one in which she had arrived, the cozy “floral box” she’d shared with an irritated Afshin. A symbol of her elevated station, it could have fit a half-dozen people, and was supported by twice that number. The inside was embarrassingly sumptuous, stuffed with brocaded pillows, an untouched cask of wine, and hanging silk tassels fragrant with frankincense.

And thoroughly covered windows. Nahri tried tearing at the silk panel again, but it was sewn tight. She glanced at her hand, struck by another possibility. She opened her mouth.

“Don’t,” Nisreen said sharply. “Don’t even think of burning the curtains down. Especially not in that human language of yours.” She clucked her tongue. “I knew that Qahtani boy was going to be a bad influence.”

“He’s proving a most useful influence.” But Nahri sat back, throwing the covered windows an annoyed look. “This is the first time I’ve been able to leave the palace in months. You’d think I could actually look upon the city my ancestors built.”

“You can see the Grand Temple when we arrive. Nahids are not expected to mix with the general populace; such a thing would disgrace you.”

“I doubt that very much,” Nahri muttered, crossing her legs and tapping a foot against one of the palanquin’s support poles. “And if I’m in charge of the Daevas, can’t I change the rules? Meat is now permitted,” she intoned. “The Banu Nahida is allowed to interact with whomever she wants in whatever manner she wants.”

Nisreen went a little pale. “That’s not how we do things here.” She sounded even more nervous than Nahri. The invitation to the Grand Temple had come yesterday without warning, and Nisreen had spent every minute of the past day trying to prepare Nahri with rushed lectures on Daeva etiquette and religious rituals that had mostly gone in one ear and out the other.

“My lady …” Nisreen took a deep breath. “I would beg—again—that you reflect on what this moment means to our people. The Nahids are our most cherished figures. We spent years mourning them, years believing their loss meant the end of everything until your—”

“Yes, until my miraculous return, I know.” But Nahri didn’t feel like much of a miracle. She felt like an imposter. She fidgeted, uncomfortable in the ceremonial clothes she’d been forced to don: a pale blue gown finely worked in silver thread and pants of spun gold, the hems heavy with seed pearls and lapis lazuli beads. White silk veiled her face, and a white chador—as light and fine as a puff of smoke—covered her hair, drifting to her feet. She didn’t mind the chador, but the headpiece that held it in place—a heavy diadem of gold, glittering with sapphires and topaz and a band of tiny gold disks hanging over her brow—made her head ache.

“Stop fiddling with that,” Nisreen advised. “You’re liable to send the whole thing crashing down.” The palanquin shuddered to a stop. “Good, we’re here … oh, child, don’t roll your eyes. That is hardly inspiring.” Nisreen opened the door. “Come, my lady.”

Nahri peeked out, stealing her first look at Daevabad’s Grand Temple. Nisreen said it was one of the oldest buildings in Daevabad and it looked it, as imposing and massive as the Great Pyramids back in Egypt. It was a ziggurat like the palace, but smaller and steeper, a flat-topped step pyramid of three levels, brickwork covered by marble faience in a dazzling rainbow of colors and trimmed in brass. Behind the temple was a tower about twice its height. Smoke rose from its crenellated top.

A large courtyard stretched between the two buildings. A garden—far more orderly than the feral jungle of the palace—had been designed by a clearly discerning eye, with two long rectangular pools meeting to form a cross, outlined by lush flower beds in a riot of color. On either side of the pools, wide pathways stretched, inviting the visitor to linger, to amble slowly through the fragrant shade, past ancient trees with broad fan-shaped leaves. The entire complex was walled, the massive stones hidden by trellises dripping with roses.

It seemed a peaceful place, designed to encourage reflection and prayer—had a crowd of at least two hundred people not been excitedly swarming a single figure.

Dara.

Her Afshin stood at the heart of the garden, surrounded by a mob of admirers. Daeva children, many with imitations of his marks drawn on their cheeks, had dragged him to his knees and were pushing past each other to show the legendary warrior their skinny muscles and miniature fighting stances. Dara grinned as he replied to whatever it was they were saying. Though Nahri couldn’t hear his words over the buzz of the crowd, she watched as he tugged affectionately on a small girl’s braid, placing his cap on the head of the little boy standing next to her.

The adults looked just as mesmerized, awe on their faces as they pressed closer to the Afshin whose long-ago demise and defeated rebellion, Nahri realized, probably made him a rather romantic figure. And not just awe; as Dara smiled his all-too-charming grin, Nahri heard an audible—and distinctly female—sigh from the assembled crowd.

Dara glanced up, noticing Nahri before his admirers did. His smile grew more dazzling, which in turn sent her heart into an idiotic dance. A few of the other Daevas looked over, then more, their faces brightening at the sight of the palanquin.

Nahri cringed. “You said it would be only a few dozen people,” she whispered to Nisreen, fighting the urge to duck back inside.

Even Nisreen looked taken aback by the size of the crowd headed in their direction. “I suppose some of the priests had friends and family begging to tag along, and then they had friends and family …” She made a sweeping gesture at the Grand Temple complex. “You are somewhat important to all this, you know.”

Nahri muttered a curse in Arabic under her breath. Noticing the rest of the women had pulled their veils from their lower faces, she reached for hers.

Nisreen stopped her. “No, you keep yours on. Nahids—both men and women—always veil in the Grand Temple. The rest of us remove them.” She dropped her hand. “That’s the last I’ll touch you, as well. No one is to touch you here, so don’t reach out to your Afshin. In his day, a man would have gotten his hand lopped off for touching a Nahid in the Grand Temple.”

“I’d wish them luck trying to do that to Dara.”

Nisreen gave her a dark look. “He would have been the one doing the lopping, Nahri. He’s an Afshin; his family has served yours in such a manner since Suleiman’s curse.”

Nahri felt the blood leave her face at that. But she stepped out, Nisreen behind her.

Dara greeted her. He appeared to be in some sort of ceremonial dress, a finely stitched felt coat dyed in the shimmering colors of a smoldering fire, loose charcoal pants tucked into tall boots. His uncovered hair fell in glossy black curls to his shoulders, his hat still being passed among his small fans.

“Banu Nahida.” Dara’s tone was solemn and reverent, but he winked before abruptly falling to his knees and pressing his face to the ground as she approached. The rest of the Daevas bowed, bringing their hands together in a gesture of respect.

Nahri stopped before a still-prostrate Dara, a little bewildered.

“Tell him to rise,” Nisreen whispered. “He can’t do so without your permission.”

He can’t? Nahri arched an eyebrow. Had she and Dara been alone, she might have been tempted to take advantage of such information. But for now, she simply beckoned him up. “You know you don’t have to do that.”

He climbed back to his feet. “It’s my pleasure.” He brought his hands together. “Welcome, my lady.”

Two men had separated from the crowd to join them: the grand wazir, Kaveh e-Pramukh, and his son Jamshid. Kaveh looked like he was fighting back tears—Nisreen had told Nahri that he’d been very close to both Manizheh and Rustam.

Kaveh’s fingers trembled as he brought them together. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahida.”

Jamshid gave her a warm smile. The captain was out of his Royal Guard uniform and dressed in Daeva fashion today, a dark jade coat trimmed in velvet and striped pants. He bowed. “An honor to see you again, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Avoiding the curious eyes of the crowd, Nahri glanced up as a small flock of sparrows flew past the smoking tower, their wings dark against the bright noon sky. “So this is the Grand Temple?”

“Still standing.” Dara shook his head. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure it would be.”

“Our people don’t give up that easily,” Nisreen replied, a note of pride in her voice. “We’ve always fought back.”

“But only when necessary,” Jamshid reminded her. “We have a good king in Ghassan.”

An amused look crossed Dara’s face. “Ever the loyal one, aren’t you, Captain?” He nodded in Nahri’s direction. “Why don’t you escort the Banu Nahida inside? I need to speak with your father and Lady Nisreen a moment.”

Jamshid looked a little surprised—no, he looked a little concerned, his eyes darting between his father and Dara with a trace of worry—but he acquiesced with a small bow. “Of course.” He glanced at her, motioning toward the wide pathway that led to the Grand Temple. “Banu Nahida?”

Nahri threw Dara an irked look. She’d been looking forward to seeing him all morning. But she held her tongue, not intending to embarrass herself before the large Daeva crowd. Instead, she followed Jamshid down the path.

The Daeva captain waited and then matched his pace to hers. He walked with an unhurried air, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a little on the pale side, but he had a handsome face with an elegant, aquiline nose and winged black brows.

“So how are you finding life in Daevabad?” he asked politely.

Nahri considered the question. As she’d barely seen any of the city, she wasn’t sure what sort of answer she could give. “Busy,” she finally said. “Very beautiful, very bizarre, and very, very busy.”

He laughed. “I can’t begin to imagine what a shock this must be. Though from all sources, you are handling it with grace.”

I suspect your sources are being diplomatic. But Nahri said nothing, and they kept walking. There was a deep, almost solemn, stillness to the garden air. Something strange, like an absence of …

“Magic,” she said, realizing it aloud. When Jamshid gave her a confused frown, she explained, “There’s no magic here.” She made a sweeping gesture over the rather unassuming plant life surrounding her. There were no fiery floating globes, no jeweled flowers or fairy-tale creatures peering through the leaves. “Not that I can see anyway,” Nahri clarified.

Jamshid nodded. “No magic, no weapons, no jewelry; the Grand Temple’s meant to be a place of contemplation and prayer—no distractions allowed.” He gestured to the serene surroundings. “We design our gardens as a reflection of Paradise.”

“You mean Paradise isn’t filled with treasure and forbidden delights?”

He laughed. “I suppose everyone would have their own definition of such a place.”

Nahri kicked at the gravel path. It wasn’t quite gravel, but rather flat, perfectly polished stones the size of marbles, in a vast array of colors. Some were speckled with flecks of what looked like precious metals while others were streaked with quartz and topaz.

“From the lake,” Jamshid explained, following the direction of her gaze. “Brought up by the marids themselves as tribute.”

“Tribute?”

“If you believe the legends. Daevabad was once theirs.”

“Really?” Nahri asked, surprised. Though she supposed she shouldn’t be. Misty Daevabad—ringed by fog-shrouded mountains and a fathomless magical lake—certainly seemed a place more suited for water beings than those created from fire. “So where did the marids go?”

“No one really knows,” Jamshid replied. “They were said to be allied with your earliest ancestors; they helped Anahid build the city.” He shrugged. “But considering the curse they placed on the lake before they disappeared, they must have had some sort of falling-out.”

Jamshid fell silent as they approached the Grand Temple. Impossibly delicate columns held up a carved stone awning, shading a large pavilion fronting the entrance.

He pointed to the enormous shedu painted on the awning’s surface, its wings outstretched over a setting sun. “Your family’s crest, of course.”

Nahri laughed. “This isn’t the first time you’ve given this tour, is it?”

Jamshid grinned. “It is, believe it or not. But I was a novitiate here. I spent much of my youth training to enter the priesthood.”

“Do priests in our religion typically ride around on elephants, shooting arrows to break up riots?”

“I wasn’t a very good priest,” he acknowledged. “I wanted to be like him, actually.” He nodded toward Dara. “I suspect most Daeva boys do, but I went further, asking the king if I could join the Royal Guard when I was a teenager.” He shook his head. “I’m lucky my father didn’t throw me in the lake.”

That shed some light on his earlier defense of the Qahtanis. “Do you like being part of the Royal Guard?” she asked, trying to remember the little she knew of the Daeva captain. “You’re the prince’s bodyguard, right?”

“The emir’s,” he corrected. “I can’t imagine Prince Alizayd would ever need a bodyguard. Anyone raising a hand to him while he’s wearing his zulfiqar is asking for a quick death.”

Nahri had little argument there—she still remembered the swiftness with which Ali had dispatched the snake in the library. “And what’s the emir like?”

Jamshid’s face brightened. “Muntadhir’s a good man. Very generous, very open—the type of man who invites strangers into his home and gets them drunk on his best wine.” He shook his head, affection in his voice. “He’s one I’d love to give this tour to. He’s always appreciated Daeva culture and patronizes a lot of our artists. I think he’d enjoy seeing the Grand Temple.”

Nahri frowned. “Can’t he? He’s the emir; I’d think he could do whatever he likes.”

Jamshid shook his head. “Only Daevas are allowed to enter the Grand Temple grounds. It’s been that way for centuries.”

Nahri glanced back. Dara was still next to the palanquin with Nisreen and Kaveh, but his gaze was on Nahri and Jamshid. There was something odd, almost subdued, in his face.

She turned back to Jamshid. He’d slipped off his shoes, and she moved to do the same.

“Oh, no,” he said quickly. “You keep yours on. The Nahids are exempt from most restrictions here.” He plunged his hands into a smoldering open brazier as they stepped into the shadow of the temple, sweeping ash up his forearms. He removed his hat, passing an ash-coated hand over his dark hair. “From this, as well. I think it’s assumed you’re always ritually pure.”

Nahri wanted to laugh at that. She certainly didn’t feel “ritually pure.” Even so, she followed him into the temple, gazing about in appreciation. The interior was enormous and rather stark, simple white marble covering the floor and walls. A massive fire altar of finely polished silver dominated the room. The flames in its cupola danced merrily, filling the temple with the warm aroma of burning cedar.

About a dozen people, men and women both, waited below the altar. They were dressed in long crimson robes belted with azure cords. Like Jamshid, all were bareheaded except one, an elderly man whose peaked azure cap stood nearly half his height.

Nahri gave them an apprehensive look, her stomach fluttering with nerves. She’d felt like failure enough in the infirmary with only Nisreen to witness her mistakes. That she was now here, in the temple of her ancestors, greeted as some sort of leader, was terribly intimidating.

Jamshid pointed to the alcoves lining the temple’s inner perimeter. There were dozens, crafted of intricately carved marble, their entrances framed by richly woven curtains. “We keep those shrines for the most lionized figures of our history. Mostly Nahids and Afshins, though every once in a while one of us with less prestigious blood sneaks in.”

Nahri nodded to the first shrine they passed. Inside was an impressive stone statue depicting a thickly muscled man riding a roaring shedu. “Who’s that supposed to be?”

“Zal e-Nahid, Anahid’s youngest grandson.” He pointed to the roaring shedu. “It was he who tamed the shedu. Zal climbed to the highest peaks of the Bami Dunya, the mountainous lands of the peri. There, he found the pack leaders of the shedu and wrestled them into submission. They flew him back to Daevabad and stayed for generations.”

Nahri’s eyes widened. “He wrestled a magical flying lion into submission?”

“Several.”

Nahri glanced at the next shrine. This one featured a woman dressed in plated armor, one hand clutching a spear. Her stone face was fierce—but it was the fact that it was tucked under her own arm that really drew Nahri’s attention.

“Irtemiz e-Nahid,” Jamshid remarked. “One of the bravest of your ancestors. She held off a Qahtani assault on the temple about six hundred years ago.” He pointed to a line of scorch marks Nahri hadn’t noticed high up on the wall. “They tried to burn it down with as many Daevas stuffed inside as possible. Irtemiz used her abilities to quell the flames. Then she put a spear through the eye of the Qahtani prince leading the charge.”

Nahri reeled. “Through his eye?”

Jamshid shrugged, not looking particularly fazed by this bloody bit of information. “We have a complicated history with the djinn. It cost her in the end. They cut off her head and threw her body in the lake.” He shook his head sadly, pressing his fingers together. “May she find peace in the Creator’s shade.”

Nahri gulped. That was enough family history for the day. She moved away from the shrines, but despite her best effort to ignore them, one more caught her eye. Draped in rose garlands and smelling of fresh incense, the shrine was crowned by the figure of an archer on horseback. He stood up tall and proud in his stirrups, facing backward with his bow drawn to aim an arrow at his pursuers.

Nahri frowned. “Is that supposed to be—”

“Me?” Nahri jumped at the sound of Dara’s voice, the Afshin appearing behind them like a ghost. “Apparently so.” He leaned past her shoulder to better examine the shrine, the smoky scent of his hair tickling her nostrils. “Are those sand flies my horse is stomping?” He cackled, his eyes bright with amusement as he studied the cloud of insects around the horse’s hooves. “Oh, that’s clever. I would have liked to meet whoever had the nerve to slip that in.”

Jamshid studied the statue with an air of wistfulness. “I wish I could ride and shoot like that. There’s no place in the city to practice.”

“You should have said something sooner,” Dara replied. “I’ll take you out to the plains just past the Gozan. We used to train there all the time when I was young.”

Jamshid shook his head. “My father doesn’t want me passing the veil.”

“Nonsense.” Dara clapped him on the back. “I’ll convince Kaveh.” He glanced at the priests. “Come, we’ve made them wait long enough.”

The priests were bent in low bows by the time Nahri approached—or truthfully, they might have just been standing that way. All were elderly, not a black hair left in sight.

Dara brought his fingers together. “I present Banu Nahri e-Nahid.” He beamed back at her. “The grand priests of Daevabad, my lady.”

The one in the tall peaked cap stepped forward. He had kind eyes crowned by the longest, wildest gray eyebrows Nahri had ever seen, a charcoal mark splitting his forehead. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahri,” he greeted her warmly. “My name is Kartir e-Mennushur. Welcome to the temple. I pray this is only the first of many visits.”

Nahri cleared her throat. “I pray for that as well,” she replied awkwardly, growing more uncomfortable by the second. Nahri had never gotten on well with clerics. Being a con artist tended to put her at odds with most of them.

At a loss for anything else to say, she nodded to the massive fire altar. “Is that Anahid’s altar?”

“Indeed.” Kartir stepped back. “Would you like to see it?”

“I … all right,” she agreed, desperately hoping she wouldn’t be expected to perform any of the rituals associated with it; everything Nisreen had attempted to teach Nahri about their faith seemed to have flown from her head.

Dara followed at her heels, and Nahri fought the temptation to reach for his hand. She could have used a little reassurance.

Anahid’s altar was even more impressive up close. The base alone was big enough for a half-dozen people to bathe in comfortably. Glass oil lamps shaped like boats floated within, bobbing across the simmering water. The silver cupola towered overhead, a veritable bonfire of incense burning behind the gleaming metal. Its heat scalded her face.

“I took my vows in this very spot,” Dara said softly. He touched the tattoo on his temple. “Received my mark and my bow and swore to protect your family no matter the cost.” A mix of astonishment and nostalgia crossed his face. “I didn’t think I’d ever see it again. I certainly didn’t imagine by the time I did, I’d have my own shrine.”

“Banu Manizheh and Baga Rustam have one as well,” Kartir offered, pointing to the other side of the temple. “Should you wish to pay your respects later, I’d be glad to show you.”

Dara gave her a hopeful smile. “Maybe in time you will as well, Nahri.”

Her stomach turned. “Yes. Perhaps even one where my head is still attached to my body.” The words came out far more sarcastic—and loud—than Nahri intended, and she saw several of the priests below stiffen. Dara’s face fell.

Kartir swept between them. “Banu Nahida, would you mind coming with me a moment? There’s something in the sanctuary I’d like to show you … alone,” he clarified, when Dara turned to follow.

Nahri raised her shoulders, feeling that she didn’t have much choice. “Lead the way.”

He did, heading for a pair of hammered brass doors set in the wall behind the altar. Nahri followed, jumping when the door clanged shut behind them.

Kartir glanced back. “My apologies. I suspect there aren’t enough working ears among my fellows and me to be bothered by the noise.”

“It’s all right,” she said softly.

The priest led her through a twisting maze of dark corridors and narrow staircases, proving far spryer than she’d initially thought, until they came to a sudden dead end outside another pair of simple brass doors. He pulled one open, motioning her inside.

A little apprehensive, Nahri crossed the threshold, entering a small, circular room barely the size of her wardrobe. She stilled, taken aback by an air of solemnity so thick she could almost feel it upon her shoulders. Open-faced glass shelves lined the rounded walls, small velvet cushions nestled in their depths.

Nahri drew closer, her eyes widening. Each cushion was home to a single small object, mostly rings, but also lamps, bangles, and a few jeweled collars.

And all shared the same feature: a single emerald.

“Slave vessels,” she whispered in shock.

Kartir nodded, joining her at the nearest shelf. “Indeed. All those recovered since Manizheh and Rustam’s deaths.”

He fell silent. In the room’s somber stillness, Nahri could swear she heard the gentle sounds of breath. Her gaze fell on the vessel closest to her, a ring so similar to Dara’s she had to tear her eyes away.

He was just like this once, she realized, his soul trapped for centuries. Sleeping until another brutal master woke him to do their bidding. Nahri took a deep breath, struggling to compose herself. “Why are they here?” she asked. “I mean, without a Nahid to break the curse …”

Kartir shrugged. “We didn’t know what to do with them so we settled for bringing them here, where they could rest near the flames of Anahid’s original fire altar.” He pointed to a beaten brass bowl standing upon a plain stool in the center of the room. The metal was dull and scorched, but a fire burned bright among the cedarwood scattered in its center.

Nahri frowned. “But I thought the altar in the temple …”

“The altar out there is what came after,” Kartir explained. “When her city was complete, the ifrit subdued, and the other tribes brought to heel. After three centuries of hardship, war, and work.”

He lifted the ancient brass bowl. It was a humble thing, rough and undecorated, small enough to fit in his hands. “This here … this is what Anahid and her followers would have used when they were first freed by Suleiman. When they were transformed and dropped in this foreign land of marids with barely any understanding of their powers, of how to provide for and protect themselves.” He gently placed the bowl in her hands and met her gaze, his eyes intent. “Greatness takes time, Banu Nahida. Often the mightiest things have the humblest beginnings.”

Nahri blinked, her eyes suddenly wet. She looked away, embarrassed, and Kartir took the bowl, wordlessly replacing it and leading her back out.

He motioned to a narrow, sunlit archway at the other end of the corridor. “There is a rather lovely view of the garden from there. Why don’t you rest a bit? I’ll see if I can’t get rid of that crowd.”

Gratitude welled up inside her. “Thank you,” Nahri finally managed.

“You needn’t thank me.” Kartir pressed his hands together. “I sincerely hope you won’t be a stranger here, Banu Nahida. Please know that whatever you need, we are at your disposal.” He bowed again and left.

Nahri emerged from the archway into a small pavilion. High on the third level of the ziggurat, it was little more than a nook hidden behind a stone wall and a screen of potted date palms. Kartir was probably right about the view, but Nahri had no desire to peek at the crowd again. She collapsed into one of the low cane chairs, trying to collect herself.

She let her right hand fall to her lap. “Naar,” she whispered, watching as a single flame swirled to life in her palm. She’d taken to conjuring it up more frequently, clinging to the reminder that she was capable of learning something in Daevabad.

“May I join you?” a soft voice asked.

Nahri closed her palm, extinguishing the flame. She turned around. Dara stood at the archway, looking uncharacteristically abashed.

She waved at the other chair. “All yours.”

He took the seat across from her, leaning forward on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he started. “I truly thought this was a good idea.”

“I’m sure you did.” Nahri sighed and then removed her veil, pulling off the heavy diadem holding her chador in place. She didn’t miss the way Dara’s gaze drifted to her face, nor did she care. He could deal with some distress—he certainly gave her enough.

He dropped his gaze. “You’ve an admirer in Kartir … aye, the tongue-lashing I just received.”

“Thoroughly deserved.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Nahri glanced at him. He seemed nervous, rubbing his palms on his knees.

She frowned. “Are you all right?”

He stilled. “I’m fine.” She saw him swallow. “So, what do you think of Jamshid?”

The question took her aback. “I … he’s very nice.” It was the truth, after all. “If his father’s anything like him, it’s hardly surprising he’s risen so high in Ghassan’s court. He seems very diplomatic.”

“They are both that.” Dara hesitated. “The Pramukhs are a respectable family, one with a long record of devotion to your own. I was a bit surprised to see them serving the Qahtanis, and Jamshid seems to have a regrettably sincere affection for Muntadhir, but … he’s a good man. Bright, kindhearted. A talented warrior.”

Nahri narrowed her eyes; Dara had never been subtle and he was speaking of Jamshid with far too much feigned indifference. “What are you trying not to say, Dara?”

He blushed. “Only that you seem well matched.”

“Well matched?”

“Yes.” She heard something catch in his throat. “He … he would be a good Daeva alternative if Ghassan presses on with his idiotic scheme to marry you to his son. You’re near in age, his family has loyalty to both yours and the Qahtanis—”

Nahri straightened up, indignant with rage. “And Jamshid e-Pramukh is the first name that comes to mind when you think of Daeva husbands for me?”

He had the decency to look ashamed. “Nahri—”

“No,” she cut in, her voice rising in anger. “How dare you? You think to introduce me as some wise Banu Nahida one moment and attempt to trick me into marriage with another man in the next? After what happened that night in the cave?”

He shook his head, a faint flush stealing over his face. “That should never have happened. You were a woman under my protection. I had no right to touch you that way.”

“I remember it as being mutual.” But as the words left her lips, Nahri recalled that she had kissed him first—twice—and the realization twisted her stomach into a knot of insecurity. “I … was I wrong?” she asked, mortification rising in her voice. “Did you not feel the same way?”

“No!” Dara fell to his knees before her, closing the space between them. “Please don’t think that.” He reached for one of her hands, holding fast when she tried to jerk away. “Just because I shouldn’t have done it doesn’t mean …” He swallowed. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to, Nahri.”

“Then what’s the problem? You’re unmarried, I’m unmarried. We’re both Daeva …”

“I’m not alive,” Dara cut in. He dropped her hand with a sigh, rising to his feet. “Nahri, I don’t know who freed my soul from slavery. I don’t know how. But I know that I died: I drowned, just like you saw. By now, my body is likely nothing but ash on the bottom of some ancient well.”

A fierce denial rose in Nahri’s chest, foolish and impractical. “I don’t care,” she insisted. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

He shook his head. “It matters to me.” His tone turned imploring. “Nahri, you know what people are saying here. They think you’re a pureblood, the daughter of one of the greatest healers in history.”

“So?”

She could see the apology in his face before he answered. “So you’ll need children. You deserve children. A whole brood of little Nahids as likely to pick your pocket as heal an injury. And I …” His voice broke. “Nahri … I don’t bleed. I don’t breathe … I can’t imagine that I could ever give you children. It would be reckless and selfish of me to even try. The survival of your family is too important.”

She blinked, thoroughly taken aback by his reasoning. The survival of her family? That’s what this was about?

Of course. That’s what everything here is about. The abilities that had once kept a roof over her head had become a curse, this connection with long-dead relatives she’d never known a plague on her life. Nahri had been kidnapped and chased halfway across the world for being a Nahid. She was all but imprisoned in the palace because of it, Nisreen controlling her days, the king shaping her future, and now the man that she—

That you what? That you love? Are you such a fool?

Nahri abruptly stood, as angry with herself as she was with Dara. She was done showing weakness before this man. “Well, if that’s all that matters, surely Muntadhir will do,” she declared, a savage edge creeping into her voice. “The Qahtanis seem fertile enough, and the dowry will probably make me the richest woman in Daevabad.”

She might as well have struck him. Dara recoiled, and she turned on her heel. “I’m going back to the palace.”

“Nahri … Nahri, wait.” He was between her and the exit in a heartbeat; she’d forgotten how fast he could move. “Please. Don’t leave like this. Just let me explain …”

“To hell with your explanations,” she snapped. “That’s what you always say. That’s what today was supposed to be, remember? You promising to tell me about your past, not parading me in front of a bunch of priests and trying to convince me to marry another man.” Nahri pushed past him. “Just leave me alone.”

He grabbed her wrist. “You want to know about my past?” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. His fingers scalded her skin and he jerked back, letting her go. “Fine, Nahri, here’s my story: I was banished from Daevabad when I was barely older than your Ali, exiled from my home for following orders your family gave me. That’s why I survived the war. That’s why I wasn’t in Daevabad to save my family from being slaughtered when the djinn broke through the gates.”

His eyes blazed. “I spent the rest of my life—my short life, I assure you—fighting the very family you’re so eager to join, the people who would have seen our entire tribe wiped out. And then the ifrit found me.” He held up his hand, the slave ring sparkling in the sunlight. “I never had anything like this … anything like you.” His voice cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I enjoy imagining your life with another?”

His rushed confession—the horror behind his words—dulled her anger, the utter misery in his face moving her despite her own hurt. But … it still didn’t excuse his actions.

“You … you could have told me all this, Dara.” Her voice shook slightly as she said his name. “We could have tried to fix things together, instead of you plotting out my life with strangers!”

Dara shook his head. Grief still shadowed his eyes, but he spoke firmly. “There’s nothing to fix, Nahri. This is what I am. It’s a conclusion I suspect you’d have come to soon enough anyway. I wanted you to have another choice in hand when you did.” Something bitter stole into his expression. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the Pramukhs will provide you with dowry enough.”

The words were her own, but they cut deep when turned back on her. “And that’s what you think of me, isn’t it? Regardless of your feelings, I’m still the dirt-blood-raised thief. The con artist after the biggest score.” She gathered the edges of her chador, her hands shaking with anger and something else, something deeper than anger that she didn’t want to admit to. She’d be damned if she was going to cry in front of him. “Never mind that I might have done those things to survive … and that I might have fought for you just as hard.” She drew herself up, and he dropped his gaze under her glare. “I don’t need you to plan my future here, Dara. I don’t need anyone to.”

This time when she left, he didn’t try to stop her.