The king’s steely gaze finally left her face to fall upon Dara. “If she’s the daughter of Banu Manizheh, who exactly would that make you?”
Dara tapped the mark on his face. “Her Afshin.”
The king lifted his dark brows. “This should be an interesting story.”
“None of this makes any sense,” the prince declared when Dara and Nahri finally fell silent. “Ifrit conspiracies, rukh assassins, the Gozan rising from its banks to howl at the moon? A captivating tale, to be sure . . . perhaps it will earn you entrance to the actors’ guild.”
The king shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. The best tales always have at least a kernel of truth.”
Dara bristled. “Should you not have your own witnesses to the events at the Gozan? Surely you have scouts there. Otherwise an army could be assembling at your threshold with you none the wiser.”
“I’ll consider that professional advice,” the king replied, his tone light. He’d remained impassive as they spoke. “It is a remarkable story, however. There’s no denying the girl is under some sort of curse—that she should be plainly pureblooded to me while appearing shafit to the rest of you.” He studied her again. “And she does resemble Banu Manizheh,” he admitted, a hint of emotion stealing into his voice. “Strikingly so.”
“And what of it?” the prince countered. “Abba, you can’t really believe Manizheh had a secret daughter? Manizheh? The woman used to give plague sores to men who looked too long upon her face!”
Nahri would not have minded such an ability right now. She’d spent the last day being attacked by various creatures and had little patience for the Qahtani’s doubt. “Do you want proof that I’m a Nahid?” she demanded. She pointed at the curved dagger sheathed at the prince’s waist. “Toss that over, and I’ll heal before your eyes.”
Dara stepped in front of her, and the air smoked. “That would be extremely unwise.”
The young soldier, or prince, or whoever he was—the one with the scruffy beard and hostile expression—immediately edged closer to the prince. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his copper sword.
“Alizayd,” the king warned. “Enough. And calm yourself, Afshin. Believe it or not, Geziri hospitality does not involve stabbing our guests. At least, not before we’ve been properly introduced.” He gave Nahri a sardonic smile and touched his chest. “I am King Ghassan al Qahtani, as surely you know. These are my sons, Emir Muntadhir and Prince Alizayd.” He pointed to the seated prince and the scowling young swordsman before gesturing to the older Daeva man. “And this is my grand wazir, Kaveh e-Pramukh. It was his son Jamshid who escorted you to the palace.”
The familiarity of their Arabic names took her aback, as did the fact that two Daeva men served the royal family so prominently. Good signs, I suppose. “Peace be upon you,” she said cautiously.
“And upon you as well.” Ghassan spread his hands. “You’ll forgive our doubts, my lady. It’s only that my son Muntadhir speaks correctly. Banu Manizheh had no children and has been dead twenty years.”
Nahri frowned. She wasn’t one to share information easily, but she wanted answers more than anything else. “The ifrit said they were working with her.”
“Working with her?” For the first time, she saw a hint of anger in Ghassan’s face. “The ifrit were the ones who murdered her. A thing they apparently did with much glee.”
Nahri’s skin crawled. “What do you mean?”
It was the grand wazir who spoke up now. “Banu Manizheh and her brother Rustam were ambushed by the ifrit on their way to my estate in Zariaspa. I . . . I was among the ones who found what was left of their traveling party.” He cleared his throat. “Most of the bodies were impossible to identify, but the Nahids . . .” He trailed off, looking close to tears.
“The ifrit put their heads on spikes,” Ghassan finished grimly. “And stuffed their mouths with the relics of all the djinn they enslaved in the traveling party, as an added bit of mockery.” Smoke curled around his collar. “Working with her, indeed.”
Nahri recoiled. She saw no hint of deception from the men on the platform—not on this matter at least. The grand wazir looked ill, and barely checked grief and rage swirled in the king’s gray eyes.
And I came so close to falling into the hands of the demons who did that. Nahri was shaken, truly shaken. She considered herself skilled at detecting lies, but the ifrit had her almost convinced. She guessed Dara was right about them being talented liars.
Dara, of course, did not bother concealing his rage at the Nahid siblings’ grisly demise. An angry heat radiated from his skin. “Why were Banu Manizheh and her brother even allowed outside the city walls? Did you not see the danger in allowing the last two Nahids in the world to go traipsing about outer Daevastana?”
Emir Muntadhir’s eyes flashed. “They weren’t our prisoners,” he said heatedly. “And the ifrit hadn’t been heard from in over a century. We scarcely—”
“No . . . he is right to question me.” Ghassan’s voice, quiet and devastated, silenced his elder son. “God knows I’ve done so myself, every day since they died.” He leaned back against his throne, suddenly looking older. “It should have been Rustam alone. There was a blight in Zariaspa affecting their healing herbs, and he was the more skilled at botany. But Manizheh insisted on accompanying him. She was very dear to me—and very, very stubborn. A poor combination, I admit.” He shook his head. “At the time, she was so adamant that I . . . ah.”
Nahri narrowed her eyes. “What?”
Ghassan met her gaze, his expression simmering with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. He studied her for a long moment and then finally asked, “How old are you, Banu Nahri?”
“I can’t be sure. I think about twenty.”
He pressed his mouth in a thin line. “An interesting coincidence.” He did not sound pleased.
The grand wazir blushed, furious red spots blooming in his cheeks. “My king, surely you do not mean to suggest that Banu Manizheh—one of Suleiman’s blessed and a woman of unimpeachable morals—”
“Had sudden cause twenty years ago to flee Daevabad for a distant mountain estate where she’d be surrounded by discreet and utterly loyal fellow Daevas?” He arched an eyebrow. “Stranger things have happened.”
The meaning of their conversation suddenly became clear. A flicker of hope—stupid, naive hope—rose in Nahri’s chest before she could squash it down. “Then . . . my father . . . is he still alive? Does he live in Daevabad?” She couldn’t hide the desperation in her voice.
“Manizheh refused to marry,” Ghassan said flatly. “And she had no . . . attachments. None that I was aware of, at least.”
It was a curt answer that brooked no room for further discussion. But Nahri frowned, trying to puzzle things out. “But that doesn’t make sense. The ifrit knew of me. If she fled before anyone learned of her pregnancy, if she was murdered on her journey, then . . .”
I shouldn’t be alive. Nahri left the last part unspoken, but Ghassan looked equally stymied.