Ali could see his heartbreak mirrored in his father’s face. For all the jokes about how strongly he resembled his mother’s people, his eyes were Ghassan’s. They always had been.
“I can’t,” the king admitted. “I cannot give that order. And for that weakness, my son, I apologize.” He turned to leave.
“And Nahri?” Ali called out before his father reached the door, desperate for any bit of consolation. “You know I spoke the truth of her.”
“I don’t know that at all,” Ghassan countered. “I think Muntadhir is right; your word on that girl is unreliable. And it doesn’t change what happened.”
Ali had destroyed his future to tell the truth. It had better mean something. “Why not?”
“You slew Darayavahoush before her eyes, Alizayd. It took three men to drag her kicking and screaming from his ashes. She bit one of them so badly he needed stitches.” His father shook his head. “Whatever was between the two of you is gone. If she did not consider us enemies before, she most certainly does now.”
30
Nahri
“Oh, warrior of the djinn, I beseech thee . . .” Nahri closed her swollen eyes as she sang, drumming her fingers on an overturned bowl sticky with crusty bits of rice. She’d taken it from the pile of moldering dishes at the door, remnants of the meals she’d barely touched.
She picked up a wooden shard from a smashed chair and cut deeply into her wrist. The sight of her blood was disappointing. It would work better if she had a chicken. If she had her musicians. Zars were to be precise.
The blood dripped down her arm and onto the floor before the wound closed up. “Great guardian, I call to you. Darayavahoush e-Afshin,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “come to me.”
Nothing. Her bedchamber stayed as quiet as it had been a week ago when she was locked away still covered in his ashes. But Nahri didn’t let that dissuade her. She’d just try again, varying the song slightly. She couldn’t remember the exact words she’d sung in Cairo so long ago, but once she got them right, it had to work.
She shifted on the floor, getting a whiff of unwashed hair as she pulled the filthy bowl over. She was slashing her wrist for the umpteenth time when the door to her room opened. A woman’s dark silhouette was visible against the infirmary’s blinding light.
“Nisreen,” Nahri called, relieved. “Come. If you keep the beat on the drum, then I can use this plate as a tambourine, and—”
Nisreen rushed across the room and snatched the bloody shard away. “Oh, child . . . what is this?”
“I’m calling Dara back,” Nahri answered. Wasn’t it obvious? “I did it once. There’s no reason I can’t do it again. I just have to get everything right.”
“Banu Nahri.” Nisreen knelt on the floor and pushed the bowl away. “He’s gone, child. He’s not coming back.”
Nahri pulled her hands away. “You don’t know that,” she said fiercely. “You’re no Nahid. You know noth—”
“I know slaves,” Nisreen cut in. “I helped your mother and uncle free dozens. And, child . . . they cannot be separated from their vessels. Not for a moment. It’s all that binds their soul to this world.” Nisreen took Nahri’s face between her hands. “He’s gone, my lady. But you are not. And if you’d like to keep it that way, you need to pull yourself together.” Her eyes were dark with warning. “The king wants to speak to you.”
Nahri stilled. In her mind, she saw the arrow tearing through Ali’s throat and heard Muntadhir screaming as Dara scourged him. A cold sweat broke across her skin. She couldn’t face their father. “No.” She shook her head. “I can’t. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to give me over to that karkadann beast and—”
“He’s not going to kill you.” Nisreen pulled Nahri to her feet. “Because you’re going to say exactly what he wants to hear and do exactly as he orders, understand? That is how you survive this.” She pulled Nahri toward the hammam. “But we’re going to get you cleaned up first.”
The small bathhouse was steamy and warm when they entered, the wet tiles redolent of roses. Nisreen nodded at a small wooden stool in the misty shadows. “Sit.”
Nahri obeyed. Nisreen dragged over a bowl of hot water and then helped her out of her filthy tunic. She poured the bowl over her head, and the water streamed down her arms, turning gray as it rinsed the ashes from her skin.
Dara’s ashes. The sight nearly undid her. She choked back a sob. “I can’t do this. Not without him.”
Nisreen clucked her tongue. “Now where is the girl who killed ifrit with her blood and offered up fiery, blasphemous lectures on her ancestors?” She knelt and wiped Nahri’s dirty face with a damp cloth. “You’re going to survive this, Banu Nahri. You must. You are all we have left.”
Nahri swallowed back the lump in her throat, a thought occurring to her. “But his ring . . . maybe if we found it . . .”
“It’s gone.” A bitter edge crept into Nisreen’s voice as she rubbed a nub of soap into a lather. “There’s nothing left; the king had the boat burned and sunk.” She massaged the soap into Nahri’s long hair. “I’ve never seen Ghassan like this.”
Nahri tensed. “What do you mean?”
Nisreen lowered her voice. “Darayavahoush had help, Nahri. The king’s men found supplies on the beach. Not much—it might have been only one man, but . . .” She sighed. “Between that and the demonstrations . . . it’s chaos.” She poured a bucket of clean water over Nahri’s head.
“The demonstrations? What demonstrations?”
“There have been Daevas gathering at the wall every day, demanding justice for Darayavahoush’s death.” Nisreen handed her a towel. “To kill a slave is a great crime in our world, and the Afshin . . . well, I suspect you saw for yourself in the temple how people felt about him.”
Nahri flinched, remembering the sight of Dara playing with the Daeva children in the garden, the awed faces of the adults clustering around him.
But Nahri also remembered all too well who was to blame for the carnage on that boat—and the one death she didn’t imagine the king would ever forgive. “Nisreen . . . ,” she started as the other woman began to comb her hair. “Dara killed Ali. The only justice Ghassan’s going to—”
Nisreen drew back in surprise. “Dara didn’t kill Alizayd.” Her face darkened. “I should know; I was forced to treat him.”
“Treat him . . . Ali’s alive?” Nahri asked, incredulous. The prince had been shot, drowned, and then seemingly possessed by the marid; she hadn’t even considered the possibility that he still lived. “Is he okay?”
“‘Is he okay?’” Nisreen repeated, looking aghast at the question. “He murdered your Afshin!”
Nahri shook her head. “It wasn’t him.” There had been nothing of Ali in the oil-eyed wraith who climbed aboard the boat chanting in a language like the rush of the sea. “It was the marid. They probably forced him—”