Dara burst into laughter as she swore. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to make much of a warrior out of you.” He opened his palm, and the dagger flew back to him.
Nahri gave him an envious look. “Can’t you teach me how to do that?”
He handed the knife back. “No. I’ve told you enough times . . .”
“. . . magic is unpredictable,” she finished. She threw the dagger again. She could have sworn it landed slightly closer to the tree, but that might have been her own wishful thinking. “So what if it is? Are you truly afraid of what I might do?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “For all I know, you’ll send fifty such knives flying back at us.”
Ah, well, perhaps he had a point. She waved the knife away when he tried to hand it back. “No. I’ve had enough for today. Can’t we just rest? We’ve been traveling as if—”
“As if a pack of ifrit are after us?” His raised his eyebrows.
“We’ll travel faster if we’re not exhausted,” she replied, taking his arm and pulling him in the direction of their small camp. “Come on.”
“We’d travel faster if we weren’t carting around a caravan of stolen goods,” Dara retorted, snapping off a twig from a dying tree and letting it burn to cinders in his hands. “How many clothes do you truly need? And you’re not even eating the oranges . . . to say nothing of that entirely useless flute.”
“That flute is ivory, Dara. It’s worth a fortune. Besides . . .” Nahri held out her arms, briefly admiring the embroidered tunic and brown leather boots she’d snatched off a stall they passed in one of the river towns. “I’m just trying to keep our supplies well stocked.”
They reached their camp, though “camp” might have been too kind a word for the little clearing where Nahri had stomped down the grass before dropping her bags. The horses were grazing in a distant field, eating any bit of greenery down to the roots. Dara knelt and rekindled their fire with a snap of his fingers. The flames jumped, illuminating the dark tattoo on his frowning face.
“Your ancestors would be horrified to see how easily you take to stealing.”
“According to you, my ancestors would be horrified to learn of my very existence.” She pulled out a well-wrapped heel of stale bread. “And it’s the way the world works. By now, people have certainly broken into my home in Cairo and stolen my things.”
He tossed a broken branch on the fire, sending up sparks. “How does that make it better?”
“Someone steals from me, I steal from others, and I’m sure the people I stole from will eventually take something that doesn’t belong to them. It’s a circle,” she added wisely, as she gnawed on the chewy bread.
Dara stared at her for a good few heartbeats before speaking. “There is something very wrong with you.”
“Probably comes from my daeva blood.”
He scowled. “It’s your turn to fetch the horses.”
Nahri groaned; she had little desire to leave the fire. “And what are you going to do?”
But Dara was already retrieving a battered pot from one of their bags. She’d stolen it along the way, hoping to find something to cook that wasn’t manna. And after listening to her complain about their food situation for days, Dara had taken it upon himself to try and figure out how to conjure up something different. But Nahri wasn’t hopeful. All he’d managed thus far was a vaguely warm gray soup that tasted like the ghouls smelled.
Night had fallen by the time Nahri returned with the horses. The darkness in this land fell quick and was thick enough to feel, a heavy, impenetrable blackness that would have made her nervous if she didn’t have their campfire to guide her. Even the thick canopy of stars above did little to alleviate it, their light captured by the white mountains surrounding them. They were covered in snow, Dara explained, a concept she could scarcely imagine. This country was completely foreign to her, and though it was novel and in some ways even beautiful, she found herself longing for Cairo’s busy streets, for the crowded bazaars and squabbling merchants. She missed the golden desert that embraced her city and the wide, brown Nile that twisted through it.
Nahri tied the horses to a skinny tree. The temperature had dropped dramatically with the sun, and her cold fingers fumbled the knot. She wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders and then took a seat as close to the fire as she dared.
Dara wasn’t even wearing his robe. She stared jealously at his bare arms. Must be nice to be made of fire. Whatever daeva blood she had clearly wasn’t enough to keep the chill away.
The pot steamed at his feet; he pushed it over with a triumphant smile. “Eat.”
She took a suspicious sniff. It smelled good, like buttery lentils and onions. Nahri ripped off a strip of bread from her bag and dipped it into the pot. She took a guarded bite and then another. It tasted as good as it smelled, like cream and lentils and some type of leafy green. She quickly reached for more bread.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice rising in hope.
After all the manna, anything edible would have been appetizing, but this was legitimately delicious. “I love it!” She scooped more into her mouth, savoring the warm stew. “How did you finally do it, then?”
Dara looked tremendously pleased with himself. “I tried to concentrate on the dish I knew best. I think the focus helped—a lot of magic has to do with your intentions.” He paused, and his smile faded. “It was something my mother used to make.”
Nahri almost choked; Dara had revealed nothing about his past and even now she could see a guarded look slip across his face. Hoping he wouldn’t change the subject, she quickly replied, “She must be a very good cook.”
“She was.” He drank back the rest of his wine, and the goblet immediately refilled.
“Was?” Nahri ventured.
Dara stared into the fire; his fingers twitched like he longed to touch it. “She’s dead.”
Nahri dropped her bread. “Oh. Dara, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“It is fine,” he interrupted, though the tone of his voice implied it was anything but. “It was a long time ago.”
Nahri hesitated but couldn’t contain her curiosity. “And the rest of your family?”
“Dead as well.” He gave her a sharp look, his emerald eyes bright. “There’s no one but me.”
“I can relate,” she said softly.
“Indeed. I suppose you can.” A goblet suddenly materialized in her hand. “Drink with me, then,” he commanded, raising his goblet in her direction. “You’ll choke if you don’t wash down that food. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat so quickly.”
He was changing the subject, and they both knew it. Nahri shrugged, taking a sip of the wine. “You’d do the same if you grew up like me. Sometimes I didn’t know when I’d eat next.”
“I could tell.” He snorted. “You didn’t look much thicker than the ghouls when I first found you. Curse the manna all you like, at least it filled you out some.”
Nahri lifted an eyebrow. “‘Filled me out some’?” she repeated.
Dara was immediately flustered. “I-I didn’t mean in a bad way. Just that, you know . . .” He made a vague sweeping motion toward her body and then blushed, perhaps realizing such a gesture didn’t help. “Never mind,” he muttered, dropping his embarrassed gaze.