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 screamed and rushed forward as a second arrow went through Ali’s chest. The prince staggered back, and his heel caught against the edge of the boat, throwing him off balance.

“Ali!” Muntadhir lunged for his brother but wasn’t fast enough. Ali toppled into the lake with barely a splash. There was a large gulp, like the sound of a heavy rock landing in a still pool, and then silence.

Nahri ran to the railing, but Ali was gone, the only sign of his presence a ripple in the dark water. Muntadhir dropped to his knees with a wail.

Her eyes welled with tears. She spun on Dara. “Save him!” she cried. “I wish for you to bring him back!”

Dara swooned, staggering at her command, but Ali didn’t reappear. Instead Dara blinked, and the brightness left his eyes. His confused gaze wandered the bloody deck. He dropped the bow, looking unsteady. “Nahri, I—”

Muntadhir jumped to his feet and snatched up the zulfiqar. “I’ll kill you!” Flames swirled up the blade as he charged the Afshin.

Dara parried the other man away with his khanjar as easily as he might have swatted a gnat. He blocked another of Muntadhir’s attempts and then casually ducked the third, elbowing the emir hard in the face. Muntadhir cried out; a spray of black blood spouted from his nose. Nahri didn’t need to be a swordsman to see how clumsily he moved in comparison with the deadly swift Afshin. Their blades clashed again, and Dara shoved him away.

But then Dara stepped back. “Enough, al Qahtani. Your father doesn’t need to lose a second son tonight.”

Muntadhir didn’t look particularly desirous of Dara’s mercy—nor capable of being reasoned with. “Fuck you!” he sobbed, slashing wildly with the zulfiqar as blood ran down his face. Dara moved to defend himself. “Fuck you and your sister-fucking Nahids. I hope you all burn in hell!”

Nahri couldn’t judge his grief. She stood frozen at the edge of the boat, her heart breaking as she stared at the still water. Was Ali already dead? Or was he being torn apart right now, his screams silenced by the black water?

More soldiers poured from the ship’s hold, some holding broken oars like batons. The sight stirred her from her grief, and she climbed to her feet, her legs shaking. “Dara …”

He glanced up and abruptly raised his left hand. The ship cracked, a wall of splintered wood rising twice her height to separate them from the soldiers.

Muntadhir swung the zulfiqar at Dara again, but the Afshin was ready. He hooked his khanjar in the forked sword’s tip and twisted it from Muntadhir’s hands. The zulfiqar went skittering across the deck, and Dara kicked the emir in the chest, sending him sprawling.

“I’m sparing your life,” he snapped. “Take it, you fool.” He turned around and walked away, heading in her direction.

“That’s right … run, you coward!” Muntadhir shot back. “That’s what you do best, isn’t it? Run away and let the rest of your tribe pay for your actions!”

Dara slowed.

Nahri watched Muntadhir’s grief-stricken eyes trail the deck, taking in Jamshid’s arrow-riddled body and the spot where his brother had been shot. A look of pure anguish, of spite—ragged and unthinking—filled his face.

He stood up. “Ali told me, you know, what happened to your kin when Daevabad fell. What happened when the Tukharistanis broke into the Daeva Quarter looking for you, looking for vengeance, and found only your family.” Muntadhir’s face twisted in hate. “Where were you, Afshin, when they screamed for you? Where were you when they carved the names of the Qui-zi dead into your sister’s body? She was only a child, wasn’t she? Long names, those Tukharistanis,” he added savagely. “I bet they were only able to fit a few before—”

Dara screamed. He was on Muntadhir in less than a second, striking the emir so hard across the face that a bloody tooth flew from his mouth. The khanjar smoked in his other hand, and as he raised it, it transformed, the blade turning dull and splitting into a dozen or so leather strands studded with iron.

A whip.

“You want me to be the Scourge?” Dara shrieked as he lashed Muntadhir. The emir cried out and raised his arms to protect his face. “Will that please your filthy people? To make me into a monster yet again?”

Nahri’s mouth fell open in horror. Do you know why people call him the Scourge? she heard the dead prince ask.

Dara brought the whip down again, ripping a strip of flesh from Muntadhir’s forearms. Nahri wanted to flee. This was not the Dara she knew, the one who taught her to ride a horse and slept by her side.

But she didn’t flee. Instead, acting on a crazy impulse, she jumped to her feet and grabbed his wrist as he raised the whip again. He whirled around, his face wild with grief.

Her heart thudded. “Stop, Dara. Enough.”

He swallowed, his hand trembling under her own. “It’s not enough. It won’t ever be. They destroy everything. They murdered my family, my leaders. They eviscerated my tribe.” His voice broke. “And after everything, after they take Daevabad, after they turn me into a monster, they want you.” His voice choked on the last word, and he raised the whip. “I will flay him until he’s bloody dust.”

She tightened her grip on his arm and stepped between him and Muntadhir. “They haven’t taken me. I’m right here.”

His shoulders dropped, and he bowed his head. “They have. You won’t forgive me the boy.”

“I …” Nahri hesitated, glancing at the spot where Ali had gone over. Her stomach turned, but she pressed her mouth in a firm line. “It doesn’t matter right now,” she said, hating the words as she spoke them. She nodded at the approaching ships. “Can you make it to shore before they get here?”

“I won’t leave you.”

She pressed the hand holding the whip. “I’m not asking you to.” Dara glanced down, his bright eyes meeting her own. She took the whip from him. “But you need to let this go. Let it be enough.”

He took a deep breath, and Muntadhir let out a groan as he curled in on himself. The hate returned to Dara’s face.

“No.” Nahri took his face in her hands and forced him to look in her eyes. “Come with me. We’ll leave, travel the world.” It was obvious there was no going back to what they’d had before. But she’d have said anything to get him to stop.

Dara nodded, his bright eyes wet. She tossed the whip in the lake and took his hand. She had just started to lead him away when Muntadhir stammered behind them, a strange mix of hope and alarm in his voice.

“Z-Zaydi?”

Nahri spun around. She gasped, and Dara threw a protective arm in front of her as the flicker of relief died in her chest.

Because the thing that was climbing up onto the boat was definitely not Alizayd al Qahtani.

THE YOUNG PRINCE STEPPED INTO THE FIRELIGHT and swayed like one not accustomed to land. He blinked, a slow reptilian movement, and she saw that his eyes had gone completely black, even the whites vanished under an oily dark cover. His face was gray, and his blue lips moved in a silent whisper.

Ali stepped forward and mechanically scanned the ship. His clothes were shredded, and water streamed from his body like a sieve, pouring from his eyes, ears, and mouth. It bubbled up from under his skin and dripped from his fingertips. He took another jerky step toward them, and in the improved light, Nahri could see his body, encrusted with all manner of lake debris. The arrows and iron shackles were gone; instead, waterweeds and disembodied tentacles tightly wrapped his limbs. Shells, shimmering scales, and razor-sharp teeth were embedded in his skin.

Muntadhir slowly stood up. The blood drained from his face. “Oh, my God. Alizayd …” He took a step closer.

“I wouldn’t do that, sand fly.” Dara was pale as well. He pushed Nahri behind him and reached for his bow.

Ali jerked to attention at the sound of Dara’s voice. He sniffed the air and then turned on them. Water puddled at his feet. He’d been whispering since he climbed aboard, but as he drew nearer, she suddenly understood the words, muttered in a language unlike anything she’d ever heard. A flowing language that rushed and slithered and swam over his lips.

Kill the daeva.

Except of course it wasn’t “daeva” he used, but rather a sound Nahri knew she could never reproduce, the syllables full of hate and pure … opposition. As if this other thing, this daeva, had no right to exist, no right to sully the waters of the world with smoke and flames and fiery death.

From behind his wet robe, Ali drew an enormous scimitar. The blade was green and mottled with rust, looking like something the lake had swallowed centuries ago. In the firelight, she saw a bloody symbol roughly carved high upon his left cheek.

“Run!” Dara cried. He shot Ali, and the arrow dissolved upon contact. He grabbed the zulfiqar and rushed the prince.

The symbol blazed bright on Ali’s cheek. A wave of pressure burst through the air, and the entire ship shook. Nahri flew back into a stack of wooden crates. A jagged piece of wood sliced deep into her shoulder. It burned as she sat up, a wave of weakness and nausea sweeping over her.

Her powers were gone. And then she realized what must have been carved into Ali’s cheek.

Suleiman’s seal.

Dara.

“No!” Nahri climbed to her feet. In the center of the ship, Dara had fallen to his knees just like he had when Ghassan used the seal to reveal her identity. He looked up to see the thing that was Ali towering over him, raising the rusted blade over his head. He attempted to defend himself with the zulfiqar, but even Nahri could see that his movements were slowed.

Ali knocked it away with enough force to send the blade flying into the lake and then raised the rusty scimitar again. He started to bring it down toward Dara’s neck, and Nahri screamed. Ali hesitated. She took a breath.

He changed direction, slashing down, cutting clean through Dara’s left wrist and severing his hand.

Separating the ring.

Dara didn’t make a sound as he fell. She could swear he seemed to look past Ali, to gaze upon her one final time, but she wasn’t certain. It was hard to see his face; he’d grown as dim as smoke, and there was some woman screaming in her ear.

But then Dara grew still—too still—and crumbled to ash before her eyes.