“Thought he what?” Ghassan gave her a condescending smile. “In what world do men and women pay the same price for passion? You’ll be the one blamed. Indeed, people will assume you particularly . . . talented to have seduced such a religious man.”
Nahri shot to her feet. Ghassan seized her wrist.
The seal flashed on his cheek, and her powers vanished. He tightened his grip, and she gasped, unaccustomed to how sharp the feeling of pain was without her healing abilities.
“I welcomed you,” he said coldly, all jest gone. “I invited you into my family, and now my city is aflame and I will never look upon my youngest again. I am in no mood to suffer a foolish little girl. You will work with me to fix this, or I will make sure every Daeva man, woman, and child holds you responsible for Darayavahoush’s death. I will paint you as a whore and a traitor to your tribe.” He released her wrist. “And then I will give you over to that mob at my walls.”
She clutched her wrist. She had no doubt Ghassan spoke truthfully. Dara was dead, and Ali gone. There was no Afshin to fight for her, no prince to speak for her. Nahri was alone.
She dropped her gaze, for the first time finding it difficult to meet his eyes. “What do you want?”
They dressed her in the ceremonial garments of her family: a sky blue gown heavy with gold embroidery, white silk veiling her face. She was glad for the veil—she hoped it hid the shame burning in her cheeks.
Nahri barely looked at the contract as she signed it, the paper that bound her to the emir as soon as she reached her first quarter century. In another life, she might have eagerly devoured the detailed inventory, the dowry that made her one of the wealthiest women in the city, but today she didn’t care. Muntadhir’s signature below hers was an indecipherable scrawl—the king had literally forced his hand just before her future husband spat at her feet and stormed off.
They went to the massive audience hall next, the place in which she’d first laid eyes on the Qahtanis. Nahri could sense the size of the crowd before she entered, the anxious breathing and quickened heartbeats of thousands of pureblood djinn. She stared at her feet as she followed the king onto the green marble platform, stopping at the level just below him. Then she swallowed and lifted her gaze to a sea of stony faces.
Daeva faces. Ghassan had ordered a representative of every noble family, every trading company and craft guild, every priest and scholar—anyone of elite standing in the Daeva tribe—to come hear Nahri’s testimony. Despite dozens of arrests and public executions, her tribesmen continued to protest at the palace walls, demanding justice for Dara’s murder.
She was here to end that.
Nahri unfurled the scroll she’d been given. Her hands shook as she read out the charges she’d been ordered to say. She did not deviate from the script once nor did she allow herself to dwell on the words condemning the man she loved in the most vulgar of terms, the words destroying the reputation of the Afshin who’d sacrificed everything for his people. Her voice stayed flat. Nahri suspected her audience was savvy enough to realize what was going on, but she didn’t care. If Ghassan wanted a performance, he should have thought to ask for one.
Even so, there were tears in her eyes when she finished, and her voice was thick with emotion. Filled with shame, she dropped the scroll and forced herself to look at the crowd.
Nothing. There was no horror, no disbelief among the black-eyed Daevas before her. Indeed, the vast majority looked just as impassive as they had when she first walked in.
No, not impassive.
Defiant.
An old man stepped out from the crowd. Wearing the bright crimson robes of the Grand Temple, he made for a striking sight; an ash mark split his lined face and a tall, azure cap crowned his soot-covered head.
Kartir, Nahri recognized him, remembering the kindness he’d shown her back in the temple. She cringed now as he took another step toward her. Her stomach clenched; she expected some sort of denouncement.
But Kartir did nothing of the sort. Instead, he brought his fingertips together in the traditional Daeva show of respect, dropped his gaze, and bowed.
The priests behind him immediately followed suit, and the motion rippled out across the crowd as the entire audience of Daevas bowed in her direction. No one said a word. Nahri drew in her breath, and then from just behind her, she heard a heart begin to beat faster.
She stilled, certain she was imagining things and then glanced back. Ghassan al Qahtani met her gaze, an unreadable expression in his eyes. The sun brightened in the window behind him, reflecting off the dazzling gems in his throne, and she realized what he sat upon.
A shedu. The throne was carved in the shape of the winged lion that was her family’s symbol.
Ghassan sat upon a Nahid throne.
And he didn’t look pleased. She suspected the impromptu display of Daeva unity was not what he intended. She felt for him—truly. It was frustrating when someone upended your well-laid plans.
It’s why you never stopped plotting alternatives.
His face turned colder, and so Nahri smiled, the first time she’d done so since Dara’s death. It was the smile she’d given the basha, the smile she’d given to hundreds of arrogant men throughout the years just before she swindled them for all they were worth.
Nahri always smiled at her marks.
Epilogue
Kaveh e-Pramukh ran the last ten steps to the infirmary. He shoved open the heavy doors, his entire body shaking.
His son lay inside on a fiery bed of smoking cedar.
The sight stole the air from his lungs. Forbidden care until Kaveh—in the words of the king, “sorted out what was going on with your traitorous tribe of fire-worshipping fanatics”—Jamshid was still in the uniform he’d been wearing when he rushed out of their house that terrible night, his white waist-wrap now entirely black with blood. He lay twisted on his side, his body contorted and held up by pillows to avoid pressure on the arrow wounds in his back. A thin layer of ash covered his skin, dotting his black hair. Though his chest rose and fell in the flickering light of the infirmary’s wall torches, the rest of his body was still. Too still.
But not alone. Slumped in a chair at his bedside was Emir Muntadhir, his black robe rumpled and streaked with ash, his gray eyes heavy with grief. One of Jamshid’s unmoving hands was between his own.
Kaveh approached, and the emir startled. “Grand Wazir . . .” He dropped Jamshid’s hand, though not before Kaveh noticed how closely he’d laced their fingers together. “Forgive me, I—”
“Bizhan e-Oshrusan,” Kaveh breathed.
Muntadhir frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s the name your father wants. Bizhan e-Oshrusan. He was one of the Daeva soldiers on your expedition; it was he who left the supplies on the beach. I have evidence and a witness who will testify to such a thing.” Kaveh’s voice broke. “Now please . . . let me see my son.”
Muntadhir immediately stepped away, relief and guilt lighting his face. “Of course.”
Kaveh was at Jamshid’s side in a second. And then he was numb. Because it was impossible that he should be standing here while his child lay broken before him.
Muntadhir was still there. “He . . .” Kaveh heard Muntadhir’s voice catch. “He didn’t even hesitate. He jumped in front of me the moment the arrows started flying.”