He dropped onto her bed. “What part of ‘stay away from the Qahtanis’ did you not understand?” Anger simmered in his voice. “Tell me you didn’t agree to marry that lecherous sand fly.”
Ah. She was wondering when he’d hear about that. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she countered. “An opportunity presented itself, and I wanted to—”
“An opportunity?” Dara’s eyes flashed with hurt. “Suleiman’s eye, Nahri, for once could you speak like someone with a heart instead of someone peddling stolen goods at the bazaar?”
Her temper sparked. “I’m the one without a heart? I asked you to marry me, and you told me to go produce a stable of Nahid children with the richest Daeva man I could find as soon as . . .” She trailed off, getting a better look at Dara as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was dressed in a dark traveling robe, silver bow and arrow-filled quiver slung over his shoulder. A long knife was tucked in his belt.
She cleared her throat, suspecting she was not going to like the answer to her next question. “Why are you dressed like that?”
He stood up, the linen curtains blowing gently in the cool night air behind him. “Because I’m getting you out of here. Out of Daevabad and away from this family of sand flies, away from our corrupted home and its mobs of shafit clamoring for Daeva blood.”
Nahri exhaled. “You want to leave Daevabad? Are you mad? We risked our lives to get here! This is the safest place from the ifrit, from the marid—”
“It’s not the only safe place.”
She drew back as a vaguely guilty expression crossed his face. She knew that expression. “What?” she demanded. “What are you keeping from me now?”
“I can’t—”
“If you say ‘I can’t tell you,’ I swear on my mother’s name to stab you with your own knife.”
He made an annoyed noise and paced around the edge of her bed like an irritated lion, his hands clasped behind his back, smoke swirling about his feet. “We have allies, Nahri. Both here and outside the city. I said nothing in the temple because I didn’t want to raise your hopes—”
“Or let me have a say in my own fate,” Nahri cut in. “As usual.” Thoroughly annoyed, she flung a pillow at his head, but he easily ducked it. “And allies? What is that supposed to mean? Are you plotting with some secret Daeva cabal to steal me away?” She said it sarcastically, but when he flushed and looked away, she gasped. “Wait . . . are you plotting with some secret Daeva cabal—”
“We don’t have time to get into the details,” Dara interrupted. “But I’ll tell you everything on the way.”
“There’s no ‘on the way’—I’m not going anywhere with you! I gave my word to the king . . . and my God, Dara, have you heard how these people punish traitors? They let some great horned beast stomp you to death in the arena!”
“That’s not going to happen,” Dara assured her. He sat beside her again and took her hand. “You don’t have to do this, Nahri. I’m not going to let them—”
“I don’t need you to save me!” Nahri jerked her hand away. “Dara, do you listen to anything I say? I started marriage negotiations. I went to the king.” She threw up her hands. “What are you even saving me from? Becoming the future queen of Daevabad?”
He looked incredulous. “And the price, Nahri?”
Nahri swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat. “You said it yourself: I’m the last Nahid. I’m going to need children.” She forced a shrug, but couldn’t keep the bitterness entirely out of her voice. “I might as well make the best strategic match.”
“‘The best strategic match,’” Dara repeated. “With a man who doesn’t respect you? A family that will always view you with suspicion? That’s what you want?”
No. But Nahri had made clear her feelings for Dara. He’d rejected them.
And in her heart she knew she was starting to want more in Daevabad than just him.
She took a deep breath, forcing some calm into her voice. “Dara . . . this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’ll be safe. I’ll have all the time and resources to properly train.” Her throat caught. “In another century, there might very well be a Nahid on the throne again.” She glanced up at him, her eyes wet despite her best effort to check her tears. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Dara stared at her. Nahri could see the emotions warring in his expression, but before he could speak, there was a knock at the door.
“Nahri?” a muffled voice called out.
A familiar voice.
Smoke curled around Dara’s collar. “Forgive me,” he started in a deadly hush. “Exactly which brother did you agree to marry?”
He was across the room in three strides. Nahri raced after him, throwing herself in front of the door before he could rip it off the hinges. “It’s not what you think,” she whispered. “I’ll get rid of him.”
He glowered but stepped back into the shadows. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and then opened the door.
Alizayd al Qahtani’s smiling face greeted her.
“Peace be upon you,” he said in Arabic. “I’m so sorry to . . .” He blinked, taking in the sight of her bedclothes and uncovered hair. He immediately averted his eyes. “I . . . er—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “What’s wrong?”
He’d been holding his left side but opened his black robe now, revealing the bloodstained dishdasha beneath. “I tore some of my stitches,” he said apologetically. “I wanted to wait in the infirmary overnight, but I can’t get the bleeding to stop and . . .” He frowned. “Is something wrong?” He studied her face, casting aside propriety for a moment. “You—you’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, aware of Dara watching from the other side of the door. Her mind raced. She wanted to tell Ali to run, to yell at him for daring to come to her door unaccompanied—anything to get him safely away—but he did look like he needed help.
“Are you sure?” He took a step closer.
She forced a smile. “I’m sure.” She considered the distance between the two of them and the infirmary. Dara would not dare follow her, would he? He could have no idea how many patients rested inside, how many guards waited in the outer corridor.
She nodded at Ali’s bloody dishdasha. “That looks awful.” She stepped through the door. “Let me—”
Dara called her bluff.
The door was ripped from her hand. Dara reached for her wrist, but a wide-eyed Ali grabbed her first. He pulled her into the infirmary, shoving her behind him, and she landed hard on the stone floor. His zulfiqar burst into flames.
In seconds, the infirmary was in chaos. A spray of arrows fired into the wooden balustrade, following Ali’s path as his zulfiqar lit the curtain sectioning off the patient beds on fire. Her birdman shrieked, flapping his feathered arms from atop his bed of sticks. Nahri climbed to her feet, still a little dizzy from the fall.
Ali and Dara were fighting.
No, not fighting. Fighting was two drunks brawling in the street. Ali and Dara were dancing, the two warriors spinning around each other in a wild blur of fire and metal blades.