“We could have tried to help. To fight—”
“How?” Dara glanced up. His eyes were dim with sorrow, but his expression was resolute. “You saw what the marid did to the river, how Khayzur fought back.” He pressed his mouth in a grim line. “Compared to the marid and peri, we are insects. And Khayzur was right—I had to get you to safety.”
Nahri leaned against a crooked tree, feeling ready to collapse herself. “What do you think happened to the ifrit?” she finally asked.
“If there’s any justice in this world, they were dashed upon the rocks and drowned.” Dara spat. “That . . . woman,” he said scornfully. “It was she who enslaved me. I remember her face from the memory you triggered.”
Nahri wrapped her arms around herself; she was still wet, and the dawn air was cool. “The one I killed said they were working with my mother, Dara.” Her voice choked on the word. “That Manizheh they kept talking about.” She reeled; Khayzur’s death, the mention of her mother, an entire damned river rising up to smash them to pieces . . . it was all too much.
Dara was at her side in a moment. He took her by the shoulders, bending to meet her gaze. “They’re lying, Nahri,” he said firmly. “They’re demons. You can’t trust anything they say. All they do is deceive and manipulate. They do it to humans, they do it to daevas. They will say anything to trick you. To break you.”
She managed a nod, and he briefly cupped her cheek with one hand. “Let’s just get into the city,” he said softly. “We should be able to find sanctuary at the Grand Temple. We’ll figure out our next step there.”
“All right.” The press of his palm on her skin made her think back to what they’d been doing before the ifrit attack, and she flushed. She glanced away, looking around them for the city. But she saw nothing but silvery trees and flashes of the sun-dappled water in the distance. “Where is Daevabad?”
Dara pointed through the trees. The forest descended sharply before them. “There’s a lake at the bottom of the mountain. Daevabad is on an island at its center. There should be a ferry down by the beach.”
“The djinn use ferries?” It was so unexpected and so human, she almost broke into laughter.
He raised an eyebrow. “Can you think of a better way to cross a lake?”
Movement drew her eye. Nahri glanced up, catching sight of a gray hawk perched in the trees opposite her. It stared back, shifting on its feet as it settled into a more comfortable position.
She turned back to Dara. “I suppose not. Lead the way.”
Nahri followed him through the trees as the sun climbed higher and filled the forest with a lovely, pale yellow light. Her bare feet crunched through the underbrush, and as she passed a thick bush with spindly dark green leaves, she let her hands drift out to briefly cradle a spray of salmon-colored buds. They warmed to her touch and began to blossom ever so slightly.
She glanced at Dara from the corner of her eye, watching as he gazed at the forest. Despite Khayzur’s death, there was a new light in his eyes. He’s home, Nahri realized. And it wasn’t just his eyes that were shining; as he reached to clear away a low-hanging branch, she caught a glimpse of his ring, the emerald glowing bright. Nahri frowned, but as she moved closer to him, the glow vanished.
The forest finally began to flatten, the trees thinning out to give way to a pebbly shore. The lake was enormous, ringed by mountains of green hardwood forests on the southern side and sheer cliffs in the distant north. The blue-green water was completely still, an unbroken sheet of glass. She saw no island, nothing even hinting at a village, let alone a massive city.
But there was a large boat beached not far from where they stood, similar in shape to the feluccas that sailed the Nile. The sun flashed off the dizzying black and gold designs painted on the hull, and a triangular black sail flapped uselessly in the breeze, reaching for the lake. A man stood on the sharply curved bow with his arms crossed, chewing the end of a skinny pipe. His clothing reminded Nahri of the Yemeni traders she’d seen in Cairo, a patterned waist-wrap and simple tunic. His skin was as brown as hers, and his trimmed black beard the length of a fist. A tasseled gray turban was tied around his head.
There were two other men on the beach below the boat, both dressed in voluminous robes of dark teal and matching head wraps. As Nahri watched, one gestured angrily at the man on the boat, shouting something she couldn’t hear and pointing behind him. From the trees on the other side of the forest, a few more men appeared, leading camels laden with bound white tablets.
“Are they daevas?” she asked in an eager hush, noting the way their robes shimmered and smoked and their black skin gleamed.
Dara didn’t look as excited. “Probably not their preferred term.”
She ignored his hostility. “Djinn then?” When he nodded, she returned to watching them. Even after the months she had spent with Dara, the sight before her still seemed unimaginable. Djinn, nearly a dozen of them. The stuff of legends and campfire tales in the flesh, haggling like old women.
“The men in the robes are Ayaanle,” Dara offered. “Probably salt traders, judging from their cargo. That other man is Geziri,” Dara said, looking at the ferryman with narrowed eyes. “Probably one of the king’s agents, although he certainly doesn’t look very official,” he added snobbishly. He glanced back at Nahri. “Pull your scarf—what remains of it anyway—across your face when we get closer.”
“Why?”
“Because no Daeva would travel with a shafit companion,” he said plainly. “At least not in my time. I don’t want to draw attention.” He plucked a bit of muck from his left sleeve and rubbed it carefully on his cheek to hide his tattoo. “Let me have my robe back. I need to cover the marks on my arms.”
Nahri pulled it off and handed it over. “Do you think you’ll be recognized?”
“Eventually. But apparently my choices are being arrested in Daevabad or returning to the Gozan to be murdered by marids and peris for some unknown offense.” He wrapped the tail end of his turban close around his jaw. “I’ll take my chance with the djinn.”
She pulled her scarf across her face. The men were still fighting when they reached the boat. Their language was raucous, sounding like a mismatch of every language Nahri had ever heard in the bazaars.
“The king will hear of this, he will!” one of the Ayaanle traders declared. He angrily shook a piece of parchment at the boatman’s feet. “We were given a fixed contract by the palace for transport!”
Nahri watched the men in awe. All the Ayaanle were at least two heads taller than she was, their brilliant teal robes flapping like birds. Their eyes were gold, but without the yellow harshness of the ifrit. She was utterly transfixed; she didn’t even have to touch them to feel the life and energy sparking just beneath their skin. She could hear their breathing, could sense enormous lungs filling and puffing like bellows. The beat of their hearts was like wedding drums.
The Geziri boatman was far less impressive, though his slouch and stained tunic might have been to blame. He exhaled a long stream of black smoke and orange sparks, dangling the pipe from his long fingers.
“A pretty piece of paper,” he drawled, gesturing at the traders’ contract. “Perhaps it shall serve as a raft if you don’t want to pay my price.”