“From Ali’s own mouth,” he replied, exaggerating the nickname. “Why do you think I broke his wrist?” Dara let out an annoyed huff and crossed his arms over his chest. He was dressed like a proper Daeva nobleman now, in a fitted dark gray coat that ended at his knees, wide embroidered belt, and baggy black pants. He cut a dashing figure, and as he shifted again, she caught a waft of the smoky cedar smell that always seemed to cling to his skin.
A low heat sparked in her chest even as he pressed his mouth in an irritated line. She remembered all too well the sensation of that mouth against hers and it was making her mind spin in reckless directions.
“What, nothing to say?” he challenged. “No thoughts on your impending nuptials?”
She had plenty of thoughts. Just not about Muntadhir. “You seem to object,” she said mildly.
“Of course I object! They have no right to interfere in your bloodline. Your heritage is already suspect. You should be marrying the most high-caste Daeva nobleman they can find.”
She gave him an even look. “Like you?”
“No,” he said, flustered. “I didn’t say that. I . . . it has nothing to do with me.”
She crossed her arms. “Perhaps if you felt so concerned about my future in Daevabad, you might have stayed in Daevabad instead of running after ifrit.” She threw up her hands. “So? What happened? You didn’t ride in triumphantly with their heads in a bloody bag, so I’m guessing you didn’t have much luck.”
Dara’s shoulders dropped—whether due to disappointing her or losing out on the chance to participate in the above scenario, she wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry, Nahri.” The anger had vanished from his voice. “They were long gone.”
A tiny hope Nahri hadn’t quite known she had been nursing snuffed out in her chest. But considering how dejected Dara sounded, she masked her own reaction. “It’s all right, Dara.” She reached for his good hand. “Come here.” She plucked a long pair of tweezers from the worktable that was still standing and then pulled him toward a pile of floor cushions. “Sit. We can talk while I remove the pieces of furniture stuck in your hand.”
They sank into the cushions, and he obediently held out his palm. It didn’t look as bad as she feared: there were only about a half-dozen fragments in his skin and all were fairly large. There was no blood, a fact she didn’t want to dwell on. Dara’s hot skin was real enough for her.
She pulled free one of the shards and dropped it into a tin pan at her side. “So we know nothing more?”
“Nothing,” he replied, his voice bitter. “And I have no idea where to turn next.”
Her mind went to Ali’s books—and to the millions crowding the library. There might be answers there, but Nahri couldn’t even imagine where to start without help. And it seemed too risky to involve anyone else, even someone like Nisreen, who would probably be willing to help.
He looked crushed, far more than she would have expected. “It’s all right, Dara, really,” she insisted. “Whatever happened in the past is just that: past.”
A dark look crossed his face. “It’s not,” he muttered. “Not at all.”
An aggrieved squawk suddenly sounded from behind the drawn curtain on the opposite side of the room. Dara jumped.
“Don’t worry.” Nahri sighed. “It’s a patient.”
Dara looked incredulous. “Are you treating birds?”
“By next week I might be. Some Agnivanshi scholar opened the wrong scroll, and now he has a beak. Every time I try to help, he sprouts more feathers.” Dara drew up in alarm, casting a glance behind him, and she quickly held up a hand. “He can’t hear us. He blew out his eardrums—and briefly mine—with all his carrying on.” Nahri dropped another shard in the pan. “As you see, I have enough to occupy my mind here without fretting over my origins.”
He shook his head but settled back down. “And how is that?” he asked, his voice gentler. “How are you doing here?”
Nahri started to toss off a flippant answer and then stopped. This was Dara, after all.
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “You know the life I lived before . . . in many ways this place is like a dream. The clothes, the jewels, the food. It’s like Paradise.”
He smiled. “I had a feeling you’d take a liking to royal luxury.”
“But I feel as though it’s an illusion, like I’m one mistake from having it all stripped away. And, Dara . . . I’m making so many of them,” she confessed. “I’m a terrible healer, I’m outmatched when it comes to all these political games, and I’m just so . . .” She took a deep breath, aware she was rambling. “I’m tired, Dara. My mind is being pulled in a thousand directions. And my training, by God—Nisreen is trying to condense what seems like twenty years of study into two months.”
“You’re not a terrible healer.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re not. You healed me after the rukh attack, didn’t you? You just need to focus. Scattered minds are the enemy of magic. And give yourself time. You’re in Daevabad now. Start thinking in terms of decades and centuries instead of months and years. Don’t worry yourself over these political games. Playing them is not your place. There are those of our tribe far more qualified to do so on your behalf. Focus on your training.”
“I suppose.” The answer was typical of Dara: practical advice with a side of condescension. She changed the subject. “I didn’t even know you were back; I take it you’re not staying at the palace?”
Dara snorted. “I would sleep on the street before sharing a roof with these people. I’m staying with the grand wazir. He was a companion of your mother’s; she and her brother spent much of their childhood on his family’s estates in Zariaspa.”
Nahri wasn’t sure what to make of that. There was an eagerness about Kaveh e-Pramukh that unsettled her. When she first arrived, he was constantly dropping by the infirmary, bringing gifts and staying for hours to watch her work. She finally asked Nisreen to discreetly intervene, and she hadn’t seen much of him since. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Dara. I don’t trust him.”
“Is that because your sand-fly prince told you not to?” Dara eyed her. “Because let me tell you, Kaveh has a great deal to say on the subject of Alizayd al Qahtani.”
“None of it good, I suppose.”
“Not in the slightest.” Dara lowered his voice. “You need to be careful, little thief,” he warned. “Palaces are dangerous places for second sons, and that one strikes me as a hothead. I don’t want you caught up in any political feuds if Alizayd al Qahtani ends up with a silk cord around his neck.”
That image bothered her more than she cared to admit. He’s not my friend, she reminded herself. He’s a mark. “I can take care of myself.”
“But you don’t need to,” Dara replied, sounding annoyed. “Nahri, did you not hear what I just said? Let others play politics. Stay away from these princes. They are beneath you anyway.”
Says the one whose political knowledge is a millennium outdated. “Fine,” she lied; she had no intention of turning away her best source of information, but she didn’t feel like fighting. She dropped a final shard in the pan. “That’s the last of the glass.”