It seemed a peaceful place, designed to encourage reflection and prayer—had a crowd of at least two hundred people not been excitedly swarming a single figure.
Dara.
Her Afshin stood at the heart of the garden, surrounded by a mob of admirers. Daeva children, many with imitations of his marks drawn on their cheeks, had dragged him to his knees and were pushing past each other to show the legendary warrior their skinny muscles and miniature fighting stances. Dara grinned as he replied to whatever it was they were saying. Though Nahri couldn’t hear his words over the buzz of the crowd, she watched as he tugged affectionately on a small girl’s braid, placing his cap on the head of the little boy standing next to her.
The adults looked just as mesmerized, awe on their faces as they pressed closer to the Afshin whose long-ago demise and defeated rebellion, Nahri realized, probably made him a rather romantic figure. And not just awe; as Dara smiled his all-too-charming grin, Nahri heard an audible—and distinctly female—sigh from the assembled crowd.
Dara glanced up, noticing Nahri before his admirers did. His smile grew more dazzling, which in turn sent her heart into an idiotic dance. A few of the other Daevas looked over, then more, their faces brightening at the sight of the palanquin.
Nahri cringed. “You said it would be only a few dozen people,” she whispered to Nisreen, fighting the urge to duck back inside.
Even Nisreen looked taken aback by the size of the crowd headed in their direction. “I suppose some of the priests had friends and family begging to tag along, and then they had friends and family . . .” She made a sweeping gesture at the Grand Temple complex. “You are somewhat important to all this, you know.”
Nahri muttered a curse in Arabic under her breath. Noticing the rest of the women had pulled their veils from their lower faces, she reached for hers.
Nisreen stopped her. “No, you keep yours on. Nahids—both men and women—always veil in the Grand Temple. The rest of us remove them.” She dropped her hand. “That’s the last I’ll touch you, as well. No one is to touch you here, so don’t reach out to your Afshin. In his day, a man would have gotten his hand lopped off for touching a Nahid in the Grand Temple.”
“I’d wish them luck trying to do that to Dara.”
Nisreen gave her a dark look. “He would have been the one doing the lopping, Nahri. He’s an Afshin; his family has served yours in such a manner since Suleiman’s curse.”
Nahri felt the blood leave her face at that. But she stepped out, Nisreen behind her.
Dara greeted her. He appeared to be in some sort of ceremonial dress, a finely stitched felt coat dyed in the shimmering colors of a smoldering fire, loose charcoal pants tucked into tall boots. His uncovered hair fell in glossy black curls to his shoulders, his hat still being passed among his small fans.
“Banu Nahida.” Dara’s tone was solemn and reverent, but he winked before abruptly falling to his knees and pressing his face to the ground as she approached. The rest of the Daevas bowed, bringing their hands together in a gesture of respect.
Nahri stopped before a still-prostrate Dara, a little bewildered.
“Tell him to rise,” Nisreen whispered. “He can’t do so without your permission.”
He can’t? Nahri arched an eyebrow. Had she and Dara been alone, she might have been tempted to take advantage of such information. But for now, she simply beckoned him up. “You know you don’t have to do that.”
He climbed back to his feet. “It’s my pleasure.” He brought his hands together. “Welcome, my lady.”
Two men had separated from the crowd to join them: the grand wazir, Kaveh e-Pramukh, and his son Jamshid. Kaveh looked like he was fighting back tears—Nisreen had told Nahri that he’d been very close to both Manizheh and Rustam.
Kaveh’s fingers trembled as he brought them together. “May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahida.”
Jamshid gave her a warm smile. The captain was out of his Royal Guard uniform and dressed in Daeva fashion today, a dark jade coat trimmed in velvet and striped pants. He bowed. “An honor to see you again, my lady.”
“Thank you.” Avoiding the curious eyes of the crowd, Nahri glanced up as a small flock of sparrows flew past the smoking tower, their wings dark against the bright noon sky. “So this is the Grand Temple?”
“Still standing.” Dara shook his head. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure it would be.”
“Our people don’t give up that easily,” Nisreen replied, a note of pride in her voice. “We’ve always fought back.”
“But only when necessary,” Jamshid reminded her. “We have a good king in Ghassan.”
An amused look crossed Dara’s face. “Ever the loyal one, aren’t you, Captain?” He nodded in Nahri’s direction. “Why don’t you escort the Banu Nahida inside? I need to speak with your father and Lady Nisreen a moment.”
Jamshid looked a little surprised—no, he looked a little concerned, his eyes darting between his father and Dara with a trace of worry—but he acquiesced with a small bow. “Of course.” He glanced at her, motioning toward the wide pathway that led to the Grand Temple. “Banu Nahida?”
Nahri threw Dara an irked look. She’d been looking forward to seeing him all morning. But she held her tongue, not intending to embarrass herself before the large Daeva crowd. Instead, she followed Jamshid down the path.
The Daeva captain waited and then matched his pace to hers. He walked with an unhurried air, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a little on the pale side, but he had a handsome face with an elegant, aquiline nose and winged black brows.
“So how are you finding life in Daevabad?” he asked politely.
Nahri considered the question. As she’d barely seen any of the city, she wasn’t sure what sort of answer she could give. “Busy,” she finally said. “Very beautiful, very bizarre, and very, very busy.”
He laughed. “I can’t begin to imagine what a shock this must be. Though from all sources, you are handling it with grace.”
I suspect your sources are being diplomatic. But Nahri said nothing, and they kept walking. There was a deep, almost solemn, stillness to the garden air. Something strange, like an absence of . . .
“Magic,” she said, realizing it aloud. When Jamshid gave her a confused frown, she explained, “There’s no magic here.” She made a sweeping gesture over the rather unassuming plant life surrounding her. There were no fiery floating globes, no jeweled flowers or fairy-tale creatures peering through the leaves. “Not that I can see anyway,” Nahri clarified.
Jamshid nodded. “No magic, no weapons, no jewelry; the Grand Temple’s meant to be a place of contemplation and prayer—no distractions allowed.” He gestured to the serene surroundings. “We design our gardens as a reflection of Paradise.”
“You mean Paradise isn’t filled with treasure and forbidden delights?”
He laughed. “I suppose everyone would have their own definition of such a place.”
Nahri kicked at the gravel path. It wasn’t quite gravel, but rather flat, perfectly polished stones the size of marbles, in a vast array of colors. Some were speckled with flecks of what looked like precious metals while others were streaked with quartz and topaz.